A History of The Symphony

A History of the Symphony
A History of the Symphony: The Grand Genre identifies the underlying cultural factors
that have shaped the symphony over the past 300 years, presenting a unified view of the
entire history of the genre. The text goes beyond discussions of individual composers and
the stylistic evolution of the genre to address what constitutes a symphony within each
historical period, describing how such works fit into the lives of composers and audiences
of the time, recognizing that they do not exist in a vacuum but rather as the products of
numerous external forces spurring their creation.
The text proceeds chronologically in three parts, drawing connections between musical
examples across regions and eras:
• The Classical Symphony

• The Romantic Symphony
• The Symphony in the Modern Era
Within this broad chronology—from the earliest Italian symphonies of the 18th century to
the most experimental works of the 20th century—discussion of the development of the
genre often breaks down along national lines that outline divergent but parallel paths of
stylistic growth. In consideration of what is and is not a symphony, musical developments
in other genres are presented as they relate to the symphony, genres such as the serenade,
the tone poem, and the concert overture. Suitable for a one-semester course as well as
a full-year syllabus, and with illustrative musical examples throughout, A History of
the Symphony places composers and works in sociological and musical contexts while
confronting the fundamental question: What is a symphony?
Jeffrey Langford is Associate Dean for Doctoral Studies at the Manhattan School of Music
in New York, NY.
A History of the Symphony
The Grand Genre
Jeffrey Langford
Manhattan School of Music
First published 2020
by Routledge
52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017
and by Routledge
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Contents
Preface vii
PART I
The Classical Symphony1
1 Origins of the Genre: From Pergolesi to Early Haydn3

Pergolesi and the Italian Sinfonia 3
Stamitz and the Mannheim School; C.P.E. Bach
and the Empfindsamer Stil 14
Early Haydn 25
2 Maturation of the Genre: Haydn and Mozart 36

Haydn: From Servant to Entrepreneur 36
The Genius of Mozart 50
3 From Classicism to Romanticism 67

Beethoven and the Destruction of the Classical Style 67
Schubert and the First Signs of Romanticism 88
PART II
The Romantic Symphony97
4 The Romantic Generation: Tradition vs. the Avant-Garde 99

Berlioz and the Romantic Revolution 99
Mendelssohn’s Classical Romanticism 110
Tradition and Innovation in the Symphonies of Schumann 114
The Janus Face of Brahms 123
Liszt and the Symphonic Avant-garde 131
5 Musical Nationalism: Eastern Europe and Russia 139

The Politics of Nationalism in the Symphonies of Smetana and Dvořák 139
The “Mighty Five” and Tchaikovsky 149
6 The Late Romantic Symphony: Mahler and Strauss 158

Mahler as “Song-symphonist” 158
Strauss and the Tome Poem 172
vi Contents
PART III
The Symphony in the Modern Era181
7 The Early 20th Century 183

Debussy and the Transition to the Modern Era 183
The Unique Path of Sibelius 191
8 Masters of the 20th Century: From Ives to Shostakovich 197

Ives as Symphonic Iconoclast 197
Prokofiev and the Neoclassical Style 203
The Changing Symphonic Face of Stravinsky 209
Hindemith and the Nazis 217
The Enigma of Shostakovich 224
9 Contemporary Views of the Symphony 238

20th-Century Reinterpretations of the Symphony: Messiaen, Penderecki,
and Lutosławski 238
Postmodern Symphonies and Gender Issues 246
Index258
Preface
Overview
Why another book on the history of the symphony? Over the past 35 years this question
has perennially accompanied my teaching of a course on this subject at Manhattan School
of Music, where every year I struggle unsuccessfully with the question of what book to use
as the basic text to support such a course. The problem is certainly not a lack of books on
this subject, for even a cursory search through any school or public library will uncover
numerous books on the symphony. But due to the specific nature of these books, none
has ever seemed quite right for the one-semester course I teach. Some of books on the
symphony explore only a limited part of the repertoire (e.g., the 19th-century symphony),
others take up the works of composers in a limited geographical area (e.g., the symphony
in France) or by a single composer (e.g., the symphonies of Mahler), while still others
consist of a collection of essays written by several different scholars on specific parts of
the repertoire. Rarely do we find a book on the symphony written by one author with a
unified view of the entire history of this genre. Even rarer are books of this type that are
designed to support a classroom history of the symphony. And those that do exist, such
as Preston Stedman’s The Symphony (Prentice Hall, 1979), are by now somewhat dated.
This is the lacuna I hope to fill with this new history of the symphony.
Pedagogical Focus
1. It has been my goal not only to present representative symphonies from the past
300 years, but also to place each composer and each work in both a sociological
and musical context that will illuminate the artistic and political circumstances under
which these symphonies were written. Such a focus of attention is important because
students need to realize that works of art do not exist in a vacuum but are the product
of numerous external forces that spur their creation.
2. In addition, I have tried to keep the question of what constitutes a “symphony”
in continual focus as the history of this genre unfolds from one historical era to
the next. A useful exercise for any course on the history of the symphony is to try
to define, in as few words as possible, what a symphony is. I always confront this
fundamental question at the outset of every semester in which I offer my symphony
course, first as we examine the earliest works using that generic title, and then again
at the end of the course in order to see what, if anything, needs to be altered in our
original definition.
3. Given the vastness of the symphonic repertoire, I cannot claim that this book does
anything more than scratch the surface of the genre by examining the works of a
handful of composers who seem to me to have contributed most significantly to the
viii Preface
development of the genre. Additionally, because this is a textbook, I have tried to
select composers whose works demonstrate a variety of approaches to, and interpre-
tations of, the symphony.
To the Professor
I have organized this textbook in a mostly chronological manner. But within that chrono-
logical approach there lie several important themes that emerge as the history of the sym-
phony unfolds. As an instructor myself, I have always tried to keep these overriding issues
of symphonic development at the forefront of classroom discussions:
1. The role of the symphony in the lives of both composers and audiences.
2. The emergence and growth of concepts of symphonic form.
3. The difference in national styles of symphonic writing.
4. The continual conflict between an “avant-garde” and “traditional” interpretation of
the genre.
5. The effect of a weighty tradition of symphonic writing on the works of “modern”
composers.
This book contains enough material for a full-year course on the history of the sym-
phony. But for those who, like me, teach such a course in only one semester, many of the
chapters will have to be dropped. Alternatively, you could select only one representative
work in any chapter that covers multiple works of one composer. The book also contains
numerous musical examples designed to illustrate the points made in the text. These musi-
cal examples, of course, need recordings to make them come alive.
Regarding these musical examples, I have included dynamic markings only when
I thought they were important in communicating the proper affect of a particular theme.
In addition, the parts for all transposing instruments have been notated at concert pitch
unless otherwise indicated.
Lastly, one of the greatest problems in the teaching of survey courses such as this is try-
ing to engage students in meaningful discussions of important issues that will contribute to
their understanding of the subject. To that end, I have included a few “Study Questions”
at the end of each chapter that will help focus students on the major issues introduced in
each chapter.
Acknowledgments
It would be only a minor exaggeration to suggest that this book is the result of a team
effort. I therefore wish to thank my many colleagues at Manhattan School of Music and
beyond who generously gave their valuable time to read chapters of this book and make
suggestions for improvements. Special thanks go to Professors Peter Andreacchi, Edward
Green, and James Massol, all of whom read various chapters and made insightful sugges-
tions for ways of better organizing my material and making my points clearer. I am also
indebted to Joseph Mohan for his invaluable assistance with some of the thornier prob-
lems of producing the musical examples for this book. Much of the design of this book is
also the responsibility of my editor, Constance Ditzel, whose guidance on how to write a
textbook was of immense importance at every stage of its development. And to my wife,
Joanne Polk, I owe the largest “thank you” for her continual encouragement to undertake
this somewhat daunting project and to see it through to completion.
Part I
The Classical Symphony

1 Origins of the Genre
From Pergolesi to Early Haydn
Pergolesi and the Italian Sinfonia

The symphony has remained a vibrant part of concert life in Europe, Russia, and America
for over 250 years. Over that period of time, this genre has evolved from an ancillary
concert work that demanded little respect from audiences in the early 18th century to one
that commands the center of attention on many orchestral programs today. In the process,
nearly all of the major composers working in the Western musical tradition have contrib-
uted masterpieces to the symphonic repertoire that we enjoy today.
Like most genres, the symphony as we know it today did not spring fully formed from the
imagination of a single composer at a single point in time. Rather, it emerged around 1730
in Italy where this new instrumental genre began to appear on concert programs of ama-
teur music-making organizations known as “philharmonic societies,”1 and at royal courts
where symphonies soon became a part of the repertoire of music used to accompany such
mundane social events as dinner parties and card playing. Of these two primary venues, the
philharmonic societies made the greater contribution to the emergence of the symphony
through their production of public concerts. Not coincidentally, the concept of the public
concert and the popularity of groups of amateur players who sponsored them thrived in
Italy during the era of social revolution known as the Enlightenment (c. 1720–1800). The
importance of the Enlightenment to the expansion of amateur music making and the growth
of the symphony cannot be overestimated. Through the writings of influential philosophers
such as Voltaire, Rousseau, and John Locke, the Enlightenment promoted the concepts of
human liberty and social equality that led to the rise of the middle class to a new position
of political and economic power and influence. With the resultant improvement in lifestyle,
large numbers of the bourgeoisie now found the leisure time and financial resources to
actively pursue music (as had always been the practice of aristocrats) by learning to play an
instrument and joining a philharmonic society. As the repertoire of these societies began to
include various kinds of new instrumental music in the 18th century, there arose the need
for ensemble music that would allow the participation of large groups of amateur players
of string, woodwind, and brass instruments. The genre of the concert symphony filled this
need perfectly. In addition, as the concept of the public concert took hold in the early 18th
century, professional orchestras were also established in leading cultural centers to fill the
needs of a newly moneyed middle class: In London the Academy of Ancient Music (1710)
and the Bach-Abel Concerts (1764), and in Paris the Concert Spirituel (1725) and the Con-
cert des Amateurs (1769).
Early Orchestras
Given the appearance of groups of amateur music makers, the need arose for music
that could accommodate multiple players on a part, that is, some kind of music for a
4 The Classical Symphony
large ensemble. Today we call these large ensembles “orchestras,” but prior to the 18th
century such ensembles took many different forms before evolving into the standard
group of instruments that constitutes what we now understand as a “symphony orches-
tra.” Orchestras consisting of a fixed group of instruments existed at least as far back
as 1626, when the French King Louis XIII put together an ensemble of string players
at his royal court and gave them the name “24 Violins of the King” (Vingt-quatre vio-
lons du Roi). This all-string ensemble was one of the first specifically designed for the
performance of music in up to five separate parts with multiple players on each part. In
addition, Louis’s ensemble was frequently augmented by wind players, which created
an ensemble that looked even more like a modern orchestra. Large ensembles like this
were used to accompany the elaborate court ballets and operas that were popular in
17th-century France.
At about the same time in Italy, large groups of instruments provided the accompani-
ment for various kinds of semi-dramatic music such as the intermedio and the pastorale,
as well as early operas such as Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo of 1607. But the greatest difference
between these early ensembles and the orchestras of the 18th century is that prior to
about 1600 composers rarely specified which instruments were meant to play which parts,
leaving the distribution of the various parts to be determined in a somewhat haphazard
manner, depending on the availability of specific instruments and players. By the early
17th century, however, composers began the practice of assigning specific instruments to
each part in a composition intended for performance by a large ensemble, as did Giovanni
Gabrieli in and his Sonata pian’ e forte (part of his Symphoniae sacrae of 1597). This
practice of specifying which instruments were to play which parts in a large ensemble
piece gradually replaced the earlier free distribution of instruments in large ensembles, and
marked the birth of what might be called the modern orchestra.
By the time the symphony emerged on the musical scene around 1730, the basic con-
stitution of a concert orchestra was already well established in the arrangement of instru-
ments found in the opera orchestras of Italian theaters: Violins in two sections, violas,
cellos, basses, optional wind instruments such as oboes and French horns, and harpsi-
chord along with a bassoon serving as basso continuo. On occasion, flutes were substi-
tuted for oboes, and trumpets and timpani augmented the brass section. While the exact
makeup of an “orchestra” varied widely across Europe depending mostly on the function
such an ensemble might serve in church, a royal court, or a concert hall, this Italian opera
orchestra of the late 17th century gradually became the standard ensemble for the concert
symphony of the following century.
Of great importance in understanding orchestral performance in the early 18th cen-
tury is the fact that there were no stand-up, baton-waiving conductors at the helm of
any orchestra. Leadership fell either to the harpsichord player or to the concertmaster.
But in either case, their duties were limited to setting the tempo and starting the perfor-
mance. In addition, these early Italian orchestras varied in size from small ensembles of
only about 15 players at some royal courts, to larger groups of up to 40 players in major
opera houses. Amateur philharmonic societies might have fielded an orchestra anywhere
between these extremes, but in general most 18th-century orchestras were far smaller than
what we know today.
Musical Styles in the 18th Century

The point at which the concert symphony emerged in the first decades of the 18th cen-
tury coincided with the arrival of a new musical style, which, like the birth of the sym-
phony itself, arose at least in part from the growth of new middle-class audiences during
the Enlightenment. Because J.S. Bach died in 1750, we tend to think of that date as the
Origins of the Genre 5
end of the Baroque style. But in fact, the new, less sophisticated audiences that began
to shape musical styles associated with new genres such as the symphony, opera buffa,
and the string quartet, had already decided that the music of Bach was hopelessly old-
fashioned long before his death. That which today impresses us as the ultimate level of
musical complexity and sophistication in the keyboard and vocal music of Bach, seemed
to less well-educated audiences of the first half of the 18th century as needlessly artifi-
cial, cerebral, and abstract. In keeping with the Enlightenment ideals of naturalness and
simplicity, composers began catering to amateur audiences with music of a far simpler
style. This new style, which first appeared in Italian opera houses in the early 18th cen-
tury, is today referred to with the French term “galant,” meaning “fashionable.” From a
stylistic point of view, the new galant style marked a major departure from the complex-
ity of the Baroque. Gone was the intricate counterpoint that characterized the music of
Bach, replaced now with an extremely simple homophonic texture in which one melodic
line was supported by chordal harmonies. Equally simple was the harmonic vocabulary
of this new music, which reverted to severely diatonic progressions. In addition, the gal-
ant style featured melodies built with a new, more periodic design. Instead of the typical
Baroque fortspinnung (spun forth) melodies that present a single short motive treated
to continual expansion, the new instrumental music of the early 18th century offered
melodies built on contrasting two- or four-measure phrases, each of which was usually
repeated several times.
The overall aural impression of this new galant music was one of simplicity in tex-
ture, melody, and harmony. Equally important is the fact that the new periodic melo-
dies in this music had what might seem to us today an extremely low melodic profile.
This simply means that the melodic lines were not especially tuneful and memorable,
made up, as they were, mostly of scale passages and arpeggios. A comparison of two
keyboard works, one by J.S. Bach and one by Domenico Scarlatti, will help illustrate
the difference between the melodic structure of the aging Baroque style and the new
galant style.
In this example, the opening motive in the first half of m. 1 is twice repeated through the
first half of m. 2, whereupon Bach transforms it with the addition of the tie. That subtle
Ex. 1.1 J.S. Bach, Allemande From French Suite No. 4
Ex. 1.2 D. Scarlatti Harpsichord Sonata in D Major, K. 119

variation is then repeated through the first half of m. 3, where it is transformed into a
new motive by developing the major or minor second found between the second and third
16th notes of the original motive. Overall, the effect is of one long, unbroken phrase of
continually evolving 16th notes.
By contrast, Scarlatti’s melody consists of several repeated motives of two or four
measures each. After the opening arpeggiated idea, a new motive appears in m. 6 and
is repeated in m. 10. Another new figure is then presented in m. 14 and repeated in m.
16. These contrasting phrases lead to a new more periodic construction that replaced the
continual growth and transformation of motives characteristic of the music of J.S. Bach.
In general all of the earliest symphonies were written in the galant style, which can be
thought of as a bridge between the Baroque and Classical periods. Some aspects of this
new style look back to the century before, while other aspects look ahead to the high
Classical style of the late 18th century. Those elements of the galant style that were carried
forward into the Classical period include the homophonic texture, the periodic phrase
structure, and the slower, more regular harmonic rhythm. Aspects of the galant style that
look back to the Baroque period are its terraced dynamics, motoric rhythms, and lack of
tuneful melodic lines.
Early Use of the Term “Symphony”

Like the development of the orchestra, the history of the term “symphony” has a check-
ered past. The word “symphony” (or sinfonia in Italian) derives from the Greek syn
and phone, meaning “to sound together.” As such, the term was applied throughout the
17th century to a variety of genres that involved a large group of instruments often also
involving voices. Heinrich Schütz, for example, wrote a collection of Latin motets in 1619
titled Symphoniae sacrae. And Handel’s famous oratorio Messiah contains an instrumen-
tal interlude titled Pastoral Symphony. In Italy the term sinfonia was commonly used
throughout most of the 17th century to describe the opening instrumental introduction
to an opera. In Germany the same term was applied to the instrumental introductions to
the cantatas of J.S. Bach. Throughout the 18th century the title “Sinfonia” could also be
applied to multi-voiced instrumental works such as Torelli’s Sinfonie a 2, 3, e 4 istromenti
(1687) which are essentially large ensemble sonatas.
This kind of terminological interchange suggests a certain looseness or imprecision with
which generic labels were applied to music in the 17th and 18th centuries. Thus, multiple
copies of the same instrumental work can be found with completely different titles, includ-
ing sinfonia, divertimento, or partita.2 The difference between a symphony and a string
quartet was equally murky in the early 18th century, as both involved four string parts. In
fact, one of Haydn’s early symphonies (Symphony “A” in the Grove Dictionary list of his
works, also known as Symphony no. 107) reappeared without its non-essential wind parts
as no. 5 of his op. 1 string quartets.
In addition, Domenico Scarlatti wrote pieces under the title Sinfonie some of which
sound and look to us today far more like solo concertos. His father Alessandro had
already used the word “symphony” to describe a collection of works he titled 12 Sinfonie
di concerto grosso (1715), clearly revealing the common etymological use of this label to
indicate any piece for instruments (and sometimes also voices) “sounding together.” All of
this large ensemble music, whatever its title, served multiple functions in the musical life
of both commoners and aristocrats in the 18th century. Symphonies could be heard in per-
formance by resident professional musicians at royal courts and in churches (where such
music frequently accompanied parts of the service), or they could be heard at concerts of
mostly amateur players who belonged to local philharmonic societies and needed music
for large groups to play for general audiences of friends and family.
Symphonic Antecedents
Quite apart from the looseness with which the term “symphony” was applied to various
kinds of music in the 18th century, the creation of what we now know as the concert
symphony resulted from the adoption of characteristics found in several different Baroque
genres. These genres could all be thought of as antecedents of the modern symphony.
Italian Opera Overtures

Because the earliest symphonies were works for strings and perhaps some winds with basso
continuo, scholars have long pointed to the Italian opera overture as the most direct pre-
decessor of the concert symphony of the 18th century.3 These overtures were usually cast
in three sections of contrasting tempo (fast-slow-fast), meter, and key, as were many of the
early Italian symphonies. In fact, Italian opera overtures were frequently used as independ-
ent concert works by the various philharmonic societies in Italy early in the 18th century.
Ripieno Concerto
Another popular Baroque genre that featured a large string ensemble with basso continuo
was one of several varieties of the concerto grosso. Usually the concerto grosso featured
a small group of soloists called the concertino placed in opposition to a larger accompa-
nying ensemble called the ripieno. But a specific type of concerto grosso known as the
ripieno concerto had no solo group, and featured instead the contrast obtainable between
different sections of the full ensemble, or, in some cases, featured little or no contrast at
all. Ripieno concertos, written by composers such as Giuseppe Torelli, were popular in the
early 18th century, and were cast in the usual Italian concerto form of three movements
in the tempo sequence fast—slow—fast, exactly like the early Italian symphonies that
emerged shortly thereafter. This kind of large ensemble music could easily have provided
18th-century composers with a model for the composition of symphonies.
Trio Sonata
The texture of early symphonies was usually homophonic with only three real parts: Two
melody parts usually played by first and second violins underpinned by a bass part that was
distributed variously among violas, cellos, double basses, bassoon, and harpsichord. This
common arrangement of parts was clearly derived from the trio sonata of the Baroque era.
Baroque Dance Suite

The dance suite of the 17th and early 18th centuries provided the basic binary formal
structure found in the earliest Italian symphonies. This form consisted of two approxi-
mately equal halves in which the first begins in the tonic key and modulates to the domi-
nant, while the second begins in the dominant and modulates through a related key before
returning to the tonic key at the end. Composers modified this key scheme for pieces in the
minor mode so that the modulation moved from the tonic minor to the relative major key.
Such binary forms became the foundation for the development of Classical sonata form
used in nearly every movement of early 18th-century symphonies.
The Early Overture-Symphony

Before the emergence of newly composed concert symphonies, orchestral players who
wanted music to perform at concerts often chose to take the instrumental overture (usually
titled sinfonia) from a popular opera of the day and play it as an independent concert
work—that is, a symphony. Today, scholars engage in seemingly endless debate over the
question of whether these Italian opera overtures were significantly different from the first
freely composed concert symphonies of the early 18th century. This debate is one with
which we need not concern ourselves here. Instead, we should think of the birth of the
symphony as the result of a hunt for music that a philharmonic society could use in public
performances. In casting about for this kind of music, the instrumental sinfonia that pre-
cedes all Italian operas of the time would have made a logical choice. Once the opera over-
ture became a common vehicle for orchestral performance in concerts of amateur players,
the next logical step for composers was to stop borrowing such works and to start writing
new works in the same style, that is, to start composing independent concert symphonies
modeled on the Italian opera overture.
As an example of these early Italian overture-symphonies, we can look at an opera over-
ture by Giovanni Pergolesi (1710–36). This is exactly the kind of music that would have
been easily accessible to philharmonic societies wanting to find music for a large ensemble
to play. Pergolesi is today most famous for his opera buffa La serva padrona (1733), but
he was equally well known in his day for his opere serie, such as L’Olimpiade (1735), from
which the following excerpt of the overture is drawn as an example of the early Italian
symphonic style.
In examining this score, we discover a few important facts about Italian opera overtures
that were used as independent pieces in concerts of the early 18th century.
1. The score: Because the earliest symphonies were performed without a conductor,
scores were rarely printed throughout most of the 18th century. In most instances, we
have only manuscript copies, like this one, that were used by copyists to make individual
instrumental parts. After the parts were copied, the scores were often lost or discarded,
Ex. 1.3 Giovanni Pergolesi, Overture to L’Olimpiade (1735)

leaving many 18th-century symphonies to be found later only as sets of individual instru-
mental parts.
A quick look at this score of Pergolesi’s opera reveals an interesting departure from
what we think of today as typical symphonic score order. Modern orchestral scores pre-
sent a standard order of the instruments in the orchestra arranged from highest to lowest
in each of the families, beginning with the woodwinds at the top of the score, followed by
the brass, percussion, and finally the strings at the bottom of each page. Pergolesi’s score,
however, is arranged in a different order, with the trumpets at the top and the oboes,
horns, and strings below. Such “non-standard” arrangements of the instruments in an
orchestra score continued through the first half of the 18th century.
2. Role of the different instruments: Brass instruments of the time (see Illustration 1.1)
had no valves and consequently could only play notes from the fundamental overtone
series on which each instrument was pitched. Their role in the orchestra was therefore
extremely limited in the early 18th century. They could play fanfare-like themes (see the
opening of Pergolesi’s overture) or they could fill in the harmony with notes drawn from
the tonic chord of the key of the piece.
Woodwinds were less limited than the brass, and were able to play real melodies,
even including some chromatic notes. However, in symphonies of the early 18th century
these woodwind parts usually did not consist of independent melodies, but rather simple
doublings of the melody in the violin parts. Often the indication “col primo violino,”
(with the first violin) appears in a woodwind part when that instrument is simply dou-
bling the strings. In addition, the second oboe usually doubles the first, instead of hav-
ing a separate part of its own (see Ex. 1.3). Both flutes and oboes were often played by
the same musicians, resulting in the use of one or the other instrument in a symphony,
but not both simultaneously. Bassoons were also regular members of the woodwind
section, playing the bass part along with the cellos and double basses. Because they
functioned as part of the basso continuo, separate parts for bassoons never appeared in
early symphony scores. The one woodwind instrument conspicuously absent from early
18th-century orchestras was the clarinet, which first made its appearance in orchestras
outside Italy at a later date. All of these woodwinds were essentially diatonic instru-
ments consisting of a hollow wooden tube into which several holes were drilled and a
couple of “keys” added. Their sound was generally far softer than what we associate
with today’s versions of the same instruments.
Illustration 1.1 A Valveless Trumpet of the 18th Century

String instruments of the 18th century were somewhat different from those we know
today. Most importantly, they were fitted with strings made from animal gut. These gut
strings had a warmer, mellower tone with less projection than that of the powerful, steel-
wound strings used on modern instruments. And because string players of the early 18th
century did not use a chin or shoulder rest, they had to use their left hand to partially sup-
port the instrument while playing, thus cutting down on the mobility of that hand in pro-
ducing very high notes. This partially accounts for the somewhat restricted range of the
violin parts in these early scores. Although there were five different instrumental groups in
most 18th-century string sections (vln I, vln II, vla, vc, cb,) there were usually only three
real parts (because of the connection between the symphony and the trio sonata), result-
ing in the violas playing the bass line an octave higher than the cellos. This explains why
the viola part in Ex. 1.3 is empty after the first measure—composers, even then, needed to
save time and ink when making a score like this.
Related to this subject of instruments of the 18th century is the matter of concert pitch.
As in the 17th century, the actual pitch of a concert A in the early 18th century varied
considerably from one city to another, but in general was considerably lower than the
440 cycles per second we take to be standard today. An A of 428 cps makes a fairly good
approximation of pitch in the 18th century, placing it about a half step lower than mod-
ern pitch. This lower pitch allowed for less string tension over the bridge in all the string
instruments, none of which had any of the internal bracing we find in modern instruments.
In effect, everything worked in concert: the weaker construction of the string instruments,
the gut strings, and the lower pitch were all interrelated factors in the smaller sound
production of 18th-century string instruments. This in turn was related to the size of the
concert halls in which these instruments were expected to perform, all of which were far
smaller than any orchestral hall in common use today.
The issue of key is also worth a brief mention here. Woodwind instruments were
limited by their construction to playing in only a few keys, usually those with not more
than three sharps or flats. This restriction was the result of the fact that the paucity of
mechanical keys on these instruments meant that they were basically diatonic instru-
ments with limited ability to produce more than a handful of notes outside of a funda-
mental seven-note scale.
3. Musical form: Italian opera overtures were commonly written in three attacca sec-
tions that moved from a fast tempo in the opening section, to a slow tempo for the middle
section, followed by a concluding fast section in a dance-like style. Within each of these
sections, the music was structured along principles borrowed from Baroque binary form,
but usually with the omission of the standard double bar and full close in the dominant
key at the end of the first half. Within this overall binary form, we can sometimes find
two or three contrasting musical ideas that might best be called “motives,” because the
concept of contrasting themes had not yet emerged as a defining principle in these early
binary forms. Instead, their structure was determined primarily by the modulatory scheme
of the tonality of the piece. In this particular overture, we can pick out three somewhat
distinct melodic ideas (Ex. 1.4).
Notice that in typical galant fashion, these motives are not really “themes” as we might
use that word to describe a Mozart symphony, but are instead simple melodic ideas with a
low quotient of tunefulness. In this overture, the first two of these ideas appear in the tonic
key, while the third is in the dominant key. Taken together, these melodic ideas make what
looks like the opening section of a simple Baroque binary form, but in this particular piece
there is no double bar to mark the end of this opening section. Instead, the music moves
on to a section of modulating material before returning to the tonic key with a restatement
of motive 2, motive 3, and finally motive 1 as a closing gesture.
Ex. 1.4 Motives in G. Pergolesi, Overture to L’Olimpiade
The form of this opening section (movement) might therefore be diagramed as in

Figure 1.1.
Figure 1.1 Form of the Overture to Pergolesi’s L’Olimpiade
As is usual in Italian opera overtures, the sections of contrasting tempo, that look like
separate movements, are connected attacca. Later, in independent concert symphonies,
these connected sections will be separated into independent movements with pauses
between each of them. But for the purpose of historical simplicity, we will consider opera
overtures like this one by Pergolesi to be synonymous with a symphony.
The Early Concert Symphony

It was not long before composers, looking for orchestral music that could be performed in
public concerts, decided that writing new independent symphonies might be more practi-
cal than borrowing overtures from popular operas of the time. One of the most important
composers of these new concert symphonies was Giovanni Sammartini (1700–75), who
was born and spent his entire adult life in Milan, Italy. He was educated by his father, a
professional oboist, and at the age of 28 took the position of maestro di cappella in the
church of Sant’Ambrogio. As a church musician for many years, Sammartini made his
reputation primarily as a composer of sacred music. He was, however, also very active in
the world of orchestral music, where he composed approximately 70 symphonies over the
course of his career.
Many of Sammartini’s early symphonies were composed for strings alone, causing them to
look something like string quartets.4 Later in his career (after c. 1740), his symphonies tended
to include parts for oboes and horns, as was common in Italy at that time. Like Pergolesi’s
opera overture, Sammartini’s symphonies consist of three separate movements in the tempo
sequence fast—slow—fast, with the final movement often cast in a dance-like triple meter.
Ex. 1.5 G. Sammartini, Symphony in F Major, J-C 32, First Movement
Example 1.5 presents the opening of Sammartini’s Symphony in F major (J-C 32). The
structure of this movement is still simple binary form. Here, as in the Pergolesi overture,
the first half of the movement is extremely short, lasting only 14 measures. In that space of
time, Sammartini presents two different melodic ideas in rapid succession (motives 1 and 2
in Ex. 1.5). Unlike most Italian opera overtures, however, Sammartini’s binary forms usu-
ally retain the repeat sign and the double bar at the end of both the first and second halves
of the movement. The second half of the movement begins with a repetition of the open-
ing melodic material and moves quickly through an area of modulation before returning
to a repetition of both motives from the first half of the movement, now in the tonic key.
Most scholars of early 18th-century music see these binary forms as incipient sonata
forms, even though there is often no real second theme in the “exposition,” and the area
of modulation at the beginning of the second half does not really “develop” themes from
the opening section. Nevertheless, we can easily see the roots of Classical sonata form in
these binary form movements of Sammartini’s early symphonies.
In terms of its instrumental texture, an important observation to make is that in his
symphonies for strings “a quattro” (in four parts), Sammartini makes a distinction, albeit
often a fairly subtle one, between the parts for viola, cello, and double bass, resulting in
a limited independence of these lower string parts. There are, however, many of Sam-
martini’s early string symphonies that are written for only three parts: two violin lines
and a bass part, in which case the lower strings (viola, cello, and double bass) presumably
all played the same part in different octaves. Others of his symphonies are also written in
only three parts, but are actually scored only for violin, viola, and bass, in which case all
the violins play the same part.5
Simple as they are, these early 18th-century Italian symphonies mark a point of depar-
ture for the growth of this genre toward a much more sophisticated style throughout the
remainder of the century. The importance of Sammartini lies not so much in the quality
of his music, but rather in the fact that he was a pioneer in the history of the independent
concert symphony.
Study Questions
1. What are the principal Baroque genres that led to the invention of the symphony?
2. What is a philharmonic society?
3. How many movements does an Italian opera overture contain?
4. What is binary form?
5. What instruments made up an early 18th-century symphony orchestra?
6. What is the “galant” style?
Further Reading
Mary Sue Morrow, “Eighteenth-Century Viewpoints,” in The Symphonic Repertoire, Vol. 1, The
Eighteenth-Century Symphony, ed. Mary Sue Morrow and Bathia Churgin (Bloomington, IN:
Indiana University Press, 2012).
Recordings
Recordings of Pergolesi’s Overture to L’Olimpiade can be found on YouTube.
A recording of the Sammartini Symphony in F Major is included in Giovanni Sam-
martini: The Complete Early Symphonies. Conducted by Danielle Ferrari on Nuova Era
7206/08.
Stamitz and the Mannheim School; C.P.E. Bach and the

Empfindsamer Stil
South Germany: Mannheim
While the symphony was born in Italy early in the 18th century, its growth and devel-
opment took place further north in several cities located in what is now Germany and
Austria. Chief among these cities of importance in the history of the symphony is Man-
nheim. The reason for the pre-eminence of this particular city has to do with the fact that
the emergence of particular centers of great musical activity was often the result of the
personal devotion of one or another member of Europe’s aristocracy to the art of music.
While much of the early history of the symphony in Italy was connected to the emergence
of a new upwardly mobile middle class of amateur musicians, the so-called philharmonic
societies that spurred the growth of the symphony in that country were also populated
by aristocrats. And the libraries of most royal courts housed the instrumental parts for
numerous symphonies that served as royal entertainment during dinners and other social
occasions. In Mannheim, it was exactly this kind of aristocratic patronage that brought
the city to a position of musical prominence between about 1750 and 1780.
The political map of Europe in the 18th century was dominated by what had been known
since the days of the French King Charlemagne (c. 800) as the Holy Roman Empire. By the
18th century, this political entity, which at one time covered most of modern Europe, had
been geographically reconfigured, but continued to be governed by an emperor situated in
Vienna. This position of ultimate authority was for much of the century occupied by Maria
Theresa, who served as Empress from 1740 until her death in 1780, at which point her
son, Joseph II, succeeded to the throne. This position of Emperor was not automatically
inherited like a kingship, but rather was voted on by several aristocrats from different parts
of Europe who were known as “electors.” One of these electors was Karl Theodor, Elector
of the Rhine Palatinate from 1742–77. His palace was located in Mannheim, which auto-
matically made this city one of political importance. But more important for the develop-
ment of the symphony was the elector’s love of music. His active support of the singers,
instrumentalists, and composers at the royal court turned Mannheim into a cultural center
famous throughout all of Europe. As in Italy, symphonies could be heard supporting vari-
ous kinds of official ceremonies at court and in church, but also in private performances
for the Elector. In addition, Karl Theodor presented selected instrumental virtuosos in
regular concerts at the royal palace, all of which were open to the public. In these concerts
the court orchestra played symphonies at the beginning and at the end of the programs.
The importance of music, especially orchestral music, in Mannheim was signaled by
the appointment of nothing but the best professional players and composers to positions
in the musical establishment of the royal court. Chief among these important musicians
was the Bohemian born violinist/composer Johann Stamitz (1717–57), who came to Man-
nheim in 1742 as a violinist hired to play in the court orchestra. He quickly rose to the
position of concertmaster in 1744 and then Director of Instrumental Music by 1750.
Along the way he also became an accomplished composer of orchestral music. Today we
remember Stamitz for several innovations he brought to the genre of the symphony. These
innovations fall mostly into the areas of form and instrumentation.
1. The orchestra: Johann Stamitz vastly expanded the size of the court orchestra in Man-
nheim from about 20 players when he arrived (10 vln/vla players, 2 vc, 2 cb, 2 fl, 2 ob,
and a few horns) to about 40 players by the time he died in 1757 (11 vln I, 9 vln II, 4 vla,
4 vc, 2 cb, 2 fl, 2 ob, 2 bn, and 4 hn).6 Under his direction this orchestra became famous
throughout Europe for its virtuosity and precision of playing. The British historian Dr.
Charles Burney wrote in his General History of Music (1776) that the Mannheim orches-
tra was the best in all of Europe, a virtual “army of generals.” It was Stamitz’s insistence
on this high level of playing in the Mannheim orchestra that allowed him and other court
composers (e.g., Christian Cannabich and Ignaz Holzbauer) to develop an advanced style
of composition that later became known as the “Mannheim Style.” Of primary impor-
tance in the development of this style was Stamitz’s expansion of both the constituent
instruments of the orchestra and the manner in which they were employed. The year after
Stamitz died, the court appointed the first clarinetists to positions in the orchestra. This
became the first regular use of clarinets in a symphony orchestra, and marked one of the
fundamental characteristics of the Mannheim Style. Although Stamitz himself was not
directly responsible for this expansion of the orchestra, it was surely his interest in the
clarinet that led to its inclusion in the woodwind family. His fondness for this relatively
new instrument (invented in the early 18th century) had already found expression in his
writing of a concerto for clarinet. When clarinets first appeared in symphony scores, how-
ever, they often replaced, rather than augmented, the usual oboes or flutes.
Perhaps even more important than the inclusion of clarinets in the orchestra was Sta-
mitz’s new use of woodwinds in the overall musical texture of his symphonies. Where
oboes or flutes in Italian orchestras usually doubled the violin parts, Stamitz’s woodwinds
are frequently employed in an independent soloistic fashion that makes an effective color
contrast with the strings in many of his symphonies. Example 1.6 illustrates the solo flute
(or oboe) parts in the second movement of his Symphony op. 2, no. 3, where these instru-
ments repeat the main theme without doubling the strings. Some of Stamitz’s symphonies
employ both flutes and oboes simultaneously, while others have only oboe parts for which
flutes or clarinets could have been substituted.
The same is true of the use of brass instruments, which in earlier symphonies did lit-
tle more than fill in the harmony with notes drawn from the overtone series of the key
in which a horn or trumpet might be pitched. In Stamitz’s Symphony op. 2, no. 3, this
older approach to brass writing is expanded to include the use of the horns to play fully
independent melodic parts. Melodic writing of this type necessarily involved the produc-
tion of notes that fell outside the overtone series; and these notes, not available on natural
horns, could only be produced by a technique known as “hand stopping.” This somewhat
complicated procedure for playing diatonic notes required a player to tightly insert his
right hand into the bell of the instrument, thus cutting off the vibration of the last few
inches of tubing, thereby raising the pitch of an “open” note to provide an extra note not
usually available in the overtone series. This particular horn playing technique, which was
eventually phased out with the invention of valves for brass instruments, can be heard on
any recordings of these early symphonies made by orchestras that specialize in the use of
original 18th-century instruments.
Ex. 1.6 Solo Wind Parts (Oboes or Flutes) in Symphony Op. 2, No. 3, Second Movement, m. 14
2. Symphonic form: One of the popular “facts” about Stamitz and his significance in the
growth of the symphony is the claim that he added the minuet to the usual three-move-
ment Italian symphony to produce what we think of today as the standard four-movement
Classical form: fast—slow—minuet—fast. Like so many other aspects of the Mannheim
Style, the four-movement symphony was not completely new with the works of Stamitz.
Isolated examples appear in the works of some less well-known Italian and Viennese sym-
phonists of the time. But these isolated exceptions to the usual three-movement form of
the Italian symphony do not detract from the importance of Stamitz in standardizing this
new four-movement structure as the symphonic norm going forward for the remainder of
the century.7
Like the Italian symphonists before him, Stamitz employed some variant of what we
would call sonata form in the first movements of his symphonies. The transformation of
binary form, as seen in the earliest Italian symphonies, into what is usually called mature
sonata form or “textbook” sonata form took place over a period of several decades from
about 1720–70. The symphonies of Johann Stamitz represent an important advancement
in this process, and make his works seem more familiar in terms of our modern expecta-
tions of how a Classical symphony is structured.
Any discussion of the evolution of sonata form must begin with the recognition that
none of the Classical composers of symphonies being considered here would have had
even the slightest idea of what that term meant. To them the term “sonata” would have
meant a composition in multiple movements of contrasting tempo, meter, and key. But
the concept of “sonata form” as we understand it today did not begin to emerge until
theorists of the late 18th century began to formulate definitions of the characteristics
found in the first movements of sonatas, symphonies, and string quartets, and to label
this collection of characteristics a “sonata form.” Such theoretical definitions of sonata
form first appeared in Heinrich Christoph Koch’s Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composi-
tion (1793), and were later refined in several 19th-century treatises such as Anton Rei-
cha’s Traité de haute composition musicale (1826), Adolf Bernhard Marx’s Die Lehre
von der musikalischen Komposition (1837–47), and in Carl Czerny’s School of Practical
Composition (1848–49). It was in these 19th-century treatises that the modern concept
of “sonata form” first appeared fully formed as a two-part structure in which the first
half of the movement presents two or three contrasting themes in two different keys,
followed in the second half by a “development” section that modulates before returning
to a “recapitulation” of the main themes of the movement in the tonic key. In reality,
of course, sonata forms are like snowflakes—no two are exactly alike. The “textbook”
idea of the form has actually misled students ever since it was first proposed by over-
simplifying the structural variations found in nearly all symphonic compositions of the
Classical era.
Stamitz’s role in the gradual evolution of sonata form as a basic symphonic structure
consisted of his beginning to differentiate the thematic material of the exposition into
clearly contrasting melodic types. In this and other aspects of the Mannheim Style, Sta-
mitz may have been borrowing from some of the latest opera overtures written in the
1740s by the expatriate Italian composer Niccolò Jommelli (1714–74), who worked
mostly in the German city of Stuttgart, and whose use of clearly differentiated themes
in sonata-form pieces predates that of Stamitz. These overtures were familiar to Stamitz
from performances of Jommelli’s operas at the Mannheim court. In this new approach
to the writing of sonata forms, the galant practice of building the opening of a binary
form from a series of repeated, short motives was replaced by the writing of a clearly
contrasting second and third theme in what came to be known as the “exposition.”
Stamitz’s symphonies were remarkable at that time in their reliance on this three-theme
model that was described by A.B. Marx nearly a hundred years later. In this new stage of
sonata-form development, thematic ideas can now be assigned a specific function within
the exposition. The opening theme clearly lays out the tonic key and can be designated
as the Primary theme (P). This is followed by melodic material of a less distinctive
nature, whose purpose is to effect the modulation to the dominant. This material, which
is really not thematic in nature, often consists of scalar and/or arpeggiated material, and
can be labeled the Transition (T). Once the dominant key is reached, a new contrast-
ing theme, usually of a simple lyrical nature, arrives as the Secondary theme (S). The
exposition might then go on to finish with one last theme supported by clearly cadential
harmonies (I-V-I). This is the Closing theme (K).8
Stamitz’s Symphony in D Major, op. 2, no. 3 is a fine example of this new sonata design.
Example 1.7 illustrates the four thematic elements that make up the “exposition”: the Pri-
mary theme, Transition, Secondary theme, and Closing theme, each of which has a unique
melodic character. This thematic differentiation is one of the most important advances in
the gradual emergence of Classical sonata form.
While these themes might seem to suggest a movement cast in a form close to what we
understand as a sonata, the manner in which Stamitz presents this material after the dou-
ble bar (which, by the way, he omits in this movement) clearly indicates that we are not
looking at a symphonic structure similar to what we will see later in the music of Haydn
and Mozart. Stamitz begins the second half of his movement with the usual repeat of
the P theme now in the dominant. But there is no real development of any of the themes
from the “exposition.” Instead, Stamitz uses the transitional material between the first
and second themes as a point of departure for some modulations. This then leads to a
“recapitulation” of the Secondary theme now back in the tonic key of D major, and a final
Ex. 1.7a Stamitz, Symphony in D Major, Op. 2 No. 3, First Movement Primary Theme, and Transition
Ex. 1.7b Secondary Theme and Closing Theme

restatement of the Primary theme to close out the movement. A diagram illustrates the
formal layout in Figure 1.2.
Figure 1.2 Formal Plan of the First Movement
This is not far removed from the simple binary forms we saw in Italian galant sympho-
nies. See Figure 1.3.
Figure 1.3 Common Italian Binary First Movement Form
The last three movements of this symphony by Stamitz are all cast in a binary form
that is even simpler than what we find in his first movement. The slow second movement,
for example, is written in a contrasting key (here the subdominant) and consists of two
themes in each half, without an extended section of modulation after the double bar—a
form that duplicates the binary structure of early Italian symphonies.
The third movement of any Stamitz symphony is nearly always a minuet. This move-
ment is new to the symphony and turns the old three-movement Italian symphony into
a four-movement work. Some scholars have suggested that because the last movements
of many Italian symphonies are in triple meter and occasionally have a style similar to
that of a minuet, such movements actually predate Stamitz’s use of this form for his
third movements. However, the last movements of Italian symphonies that sometimes
look and sound like minuets, never have the requisite trio section that defines the minuet
form. For that reason alone we can safely continue to think of Stamitz as the composer
who regularly employed the minuet as the third movement in a new four-movement
symphonic form. The symphonic minuet with trio is actually a double rounded binary
form, usually in the tonic key of the piece. After the trio, a da capo indicates the requi-
site repeat of the minuet (taking all repeats), creating an overall ABA form. This can be
diagramed as follows:
Figure 1.4 Minuet-Trio Form
Last movements again adopt the simplified binary form seen in Stamitz’s second move-
ments: two themes in each half without developmental modulation in the second half.
These last movements are often (but not always) in fast triple meter, and produce a light,
energetic close to the symphony. The overall trajectory of the four-movement symphony
can thus be understood to encompass a somewhat serious, fairly complex first movement
in a fast tempo, a slow contrasting second movement in a simpler form, a minuet-trio third
movement, and a fast finale in simple binary form. This model became the norm for the
remainder of the Classical period, including (with some modification) most of the mature
symphonies of Haydn and Mozart.
Other aspects of the Mannheim Style include Stamitz’s dramatic use of dynamic effects,
especially the long, gradual crescendo, colloquially known today as the “steamroller.” Despite
the fact that this too was probably familiar to Stamitz from performances of the operas of
Jommelli at Mannheim, its use in the concert symphony became a recognizable characteristic
of the new symphonic style of several Mannheim composers. Equally famous in marking this
new style was Stamitz’s use of what we now refer to as the “rocket” theme, a rapidly rising
arpeggiated (or sometimes scalar) opening theme, which, when combined with the crescendo
effect, created a most exciting and dramatic gesture at the outset of a symphonic first move-
ment. (See Ex. 1.7a.) These “rocket” themes attracted the attention of the young Mozart, who
visited Mannheim on several occasions, and who borrowed the technique for use in his own
symphonies, as for instance, in the last movement of his G Minor Symphony, no. 40 (Ex. 1.8).
Ex. 1.8 Rocket Theme Opening of Mozart, Symphony No. 40, Finale
One last mannerism of the Stamitz style was a melodic idiosyncrasy known as the
Seufzer—literally a melodic “sigh” that consisted of an upward resolving appoggiatura.
(See mm. 1, 4, and 5 of the Secondary theme in Ex. 1.7b.) This device seems often to have
been reserved for use in Secondary themes, and is part of what gives these themes a unique
character in this particular symphony. In the finale of Stamitz’s Symphony op. 2, no. 3 we
find the same use of the seufzer that we found in the first movement (Ex. 1.9).
Ex. 1.9 Seuffzers in the Finale of Op. 2, No. 3, Secondary Theme
Mozart, who visited Mannheim on multiple occasions, knew the various elements of the
Mannheim Style and adopted many of them in his own symphonies, including the use of
the Seufzer (Ex. 1.10).
Ex. 1.10 Seufzer in Mozart, Symphony No. 29 in A Major, K. 201, First Movement, Primary Theme
North Germany (Prussia): Berlin

Italian influences were prominent in the symphonies of Mannheim composers. But as one
moves further north in Germany, away from Italy, the strength of that influence dimin-
ishes, and different musical priorities assume prominence. The most important center of
symphonic activity in north Germany (then known as Prussia) was the city of Berlin, home
of another aristocratic music lover, King Frederick II “The Great.” Like the Elector Carl
Theodore in Mannheim, Frederick was an active amateur musician who played the flute
and loved to join his professional court musicians in making music on a regular basis. One
of these court musicians was his harpsichordist/accompanist, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach
(1714–88).
C.P.E. Bach was the second son of Johann Sebastian Bach, and had been trained in
music by his father. Carl Philipp was appointed to the royal court of Frederick the Great in
1741 and remained in that position until his departure for Hamburg in 1768. During this
time he composed symphonies presumably for use in various kinds of musical events that
took place at the royal court, including concerts given there that were open to the public.
In addition, copies of Bach’s symphonies made their way into the libraries of some of the
public music societies (Gesellschaften) that presented concerts in Berlin. While only eight
symphonies of Bach have survived from his years in Berlin, scholars suspect he may have
written more that have since been lost or destroyed.
The early symphonies from Bach’s Berlin years are all three-movement works for four-
part string orchestra (although he later added wind parts to some of them). More than
any of his later symphonies, these early works show some influence of the Italian style of
symphonic composition, and seem to have been designed for easy public consumption.
While their texture may look like four parts (two violins, viola, and bass) the viola and
bass lines are similar enough to qualify as the same part. Therefore the general texture of
these symphonies duplicates the three-part sound of Italian symphonies of the 1730s and
1740s in which the violas, cellos, and double basses all played essentially the same bass
line along with a harpsichord and bassoon.
After leaving the service of Frederick the Great in 1768, Bach moved to Hamburg where
he became a church music director and participated in the concert life of his new city
and continued to compose symphonies. Unlike his Berlin symphonies, these Hamburg
symphonies were composed on commission from individual private patrons. The first col-
lection of six new works grew out of a commission from Baron Gottfried van Swieten, an
amateur composer and Austrian Ambassador to Prussia from 1770–77. These symphonies
too are written for string orchestra, but differ from the earlier Berlin symphonies in that
van Swieten specifically told Bach to let his creative inspiration run free and to compose
without any concern for the possible difficulties of performance. And that is exactly what
Bach seems to have done, producing interesting, three-movement symphonies for string
orchestra, in which all the movements run attacca from one to the next. In addition, Bach
used these symphonies to experiment with some of the most unusual key relationships
between movements yet seen in an 18th century symphony. Among these symphonies, the
key relationships between first and second movements include the following unusual com-
binations: G major−E major, B-flat major–D major, C major–E minor, A major–F major,
and E major–F-sharp minor. Given that the usual tonal relationship in symphonies of this
time produced slow movements in either the subdominant, relative minor, or tonic minor,
the Hamburg symphonies of Bach look like wildly adventurous tonal experiments from a
later century.
The last symphonies of C.P.E. Bach were the result of another commission, this time
from an unknown patron in 1775. These are Bach’s most ambitious works—four “orches-
tral symphonies with 12 obbligato parts.” The title suggests a much larger orchestra that
included “obbligato” woodwind and brass parts. The term “obbligato” indicated that
the wind parts were independent of the string parts and were thus essential (i.e., obliga-
tory) in performance. The full complement of instruments in these symphonies includes:
two flutes, two oboes, bassoon, two horns, violins I and II, violas, cellos, double basses,
and continuo. In these extraordinary works we see one of the earliest instances of a
composer writing separate parts for cellos and double basses, which marks an important
development in the emergence of a true five-part string texture in the symphony. All four
symphonies were performed in concerts in Hamburg in 1776, and were enthusiastically
received, with critics specifically mentioning the unusually large 40-person orchestra as
well as the precision with which they played.9 The company of C.F. Peters published
the four symphonies in 1780, using, interestingly enough, yet another score order that
we would today consider non-traditional. From top to bottom the instruments were
arranged in the following order: Horns, flutes, oboes, violin I, violin II, violas, cellos,
bassoon, and double basses.
In these, Bach’s most ambitious symphonies, there emerges a new symphonic style,
referred to as the Empfindsamer Stil (expressive or sensitive style). This style of musical
expression, as its name suggests, tried to capture emotions in sound. Bach claimed in
his Versuch über die wahre Art das Clavier zu spielen (Essay on the True Art of Key-
board Playing, 1753), as well as in many of his letters, that the goal of good music and
good performance was “to sway the heart rather than tickle the ear.” His music was
intentionally different from the Italian galant style by virtue of its greater emotional
content, achieved through higher levels of internal musical contrast. Surprising changes
of texture and instrumentation, a generally more contrapuntal style of writing, the use
of more chromatic harmony, and a reliance on unpredictable formal structures based
on the development of initial thematic materials, all make Bach’s style seem far more
advanced, modern, and dramatic than that of any of his contemporaries in symphonic
composition. His was a style that kept listeners off balance with what one reviewer
called “novelty and originality that astonishes one so greatly,”10 and which separates
his music from that of any of the Italian symphonists working in the middle of the 18th
century. These last four symphonies are all cast in three attacca movements with the
usual tempo sequence of fast—slow—fast. Second movements are usually very short,
and function as a bridge between the first and last movements. The last movements are
binary form pieces with a double bar in the middle. Most interesting are the first move-
ments of these symphonies, in which Bach reveals imaginative solutions to the problem
of creating new symphonic forms. The third symphony from this last Hamburg set (Wq
183/3) in F major makes a fine example of Bach’s unique style and the new Empfind-
samer Stil in general.
On the most general level, the form of its first movement is still binary, but the amount
of thematic material in the exposition is both remarkable and confusing: the opening
theme is a bold unison statement for the string section (Ex. 1.11a). This is followed by a
transition in running sixteenth notes (Ex. 1.11b), leading to another theme in the tonic,
P2, which prominently features solo woodwinds (Ex. 1.11c). The tonic section closes with
a second transition (Ex. 1.11d), now leading to a Secondary theme (Ex. 1.11e), which
is remarkably unstable harmonically. A few additional measures related to Transition 2
finally bring the “exposition” to a close in the dominant key.
Ex. 1.11a Bach, Symphony Wq. 183/3., First Movement Primary Theme 1
Ex. 1.11b Transition 1, m. 8
Ex. 1.11c Primary Theme 2, m. 23
Ex. 1.11d Transition 2, m. 41
Ex. 1.11e Secondary Theme, m. 49
This multiplicity of thematic material upsets our formal expectations by creating a sense
of surprise that is further compounded by Bach’s use of modulation in areas of the move-
ment where we least expect it. (See theme S in Ex. 1.11e.)
The general reaction of any listener to one of these Hamburg symphonies of C.P. E.
Bach is today likely to be a feeling of confusion and consternation on multiple levels. Bach
does not relegate tonal instability to the second half of the sonata form, where one would
expect it, but includes this process in the exposition by creating themes whose harmonic
underpinning is unclear. Adding to this uncertainly, he continually changes the texture and
instrumentation of the movement, writing significant solo sections for winds. The unpre-
dictability of these symphonies must have been the method through which Bach hoped to
produce the strongly emotional aspect that he so prized. The unusual form of this move-
ment is diagramed in Figure 1.5.
The three movements of this symphony are connected attacca. In the last two move-
ments Bach again surprises his audience with unusual musical ideas. The opening of the
Figure 1.5 First Movement Form

slow second movement, for example, consists of a duet for violas and cellos (without
double basses) in the key of the relative minor. This movement is fairly short and serves as
a bridge between the outer movements.
The last movement arrives back in the tonic key of F major, also via an attacca connec-
tion from the preceding movement. Unlike the overabundance of thematic material in the
first movement, this finale introduces the usual two themes in the first half of the binary
form (Ex. 1.12).
Ex. 1.12a Primary Theme, Third Movement
Ex. 1.12b Secondary Theme
Further surprises lie ahead when the modulatory second half of the movement
begins not in the usual dominant key, but in E-flat major, and more importantly, uses
thematic material from the fist theme to create a real development section in this
movement—something that was just beginning to appear in symphonic writing in
the 1770s. The “recapitulation,” however, brings back only the second theme in the
tonic key (omitting the restatement of P), following the fashion of a usual binary form
movement.
The symphonies of both Stamitz and C.P.E. Bach represent an alternative to the
galant style of early 18th-century Italian composers like Sammartini. The Germans
brought several important new developments to the evolution of this genre, all of
which were to be built upon by the next generation of great composers led by both
Haydn and Mozart.
Study Questions
1. Be able to define: “Mannheim rocket” and “Seufzer.”
2. What new instrument appeared in the Mannheim orchestra?
3. What distinguishes the binary forms in Stamitz’s symphonies from those of earlier
Italian symphonists?
4. Define Empfindsamer Stil.
5. What makes C.P.E. Bach’s symphonic style different from that of Sammartini?
Further Reading
Eugene K. Wolf, “The Mannheim Court,” in The Classical Era, ed. Neal Zaslaw (Englewood Cliffs,
NJ: Prentice Hall, 1989), 213–89.
Recordings
Stamitz, Symphony in D Major, op. 2, no. 3, New Zealand Chamber Orchestra, Donald
Armstrong, cond. Naxos 8.553194
C.P.E. Bach: The Berlin Symphonies. C.P.E. Bach Chamber Symphony Orchestra, con-
ducted by Hartmut Haenchen, Berlin Classics 0010962BC
C.P.E. Bach: Hamburg Symphonies. C.P.E. Bach Chamber Symphony Orchestra, con-
ducted by Hartmut Haenchen, Brilliant Classics 94821
Early Haydn
Joseph Haydn (1732–1809) has long been known anecdotally as the “father of the sym-
phony,” but this historical misrepresentation most likely resulted from the fact that his
symphonies are the earliest that still remain in the today’s orchestral repertoire, thus mak-
ing him seem to be the inventor of the genre. As we have already seen, Haydn was not by
any means the first composer of symphonies. However, one may argue that he deserves the
title of “first significant composer of symphonies” for a few reasons:
1. The symphony remained central to Haydn’s compositional activity throughout his

long career. His work in this genre spanned a period of approximately 35 years and
resulted in the production of at least 106 symphonies.
2. He transformed the symphony from a simple galant style overture into a sophisticated
genre of concert music.
3. During the course of Haydn’s career, the musical world saw a dramatic change not
only in the style of symphonic writing, but also in the very nature, meaning, and func-
tion of the genre in the musical life of European society.
Haydn’s father was an amateur musician who recognized his young son’s proclivity
for music at a very early age, and encouraged his learning to sing, and to play both
harpsichord and violin. By the age of eight, Haydn found himself accepted into the choir
school of St. Stephen’s Church in Vienna, where he spent the next ten years learning the
rudiments of music, which did not, however, include the study of composition. In fact,
Haydn seems never to have had any formal training in composition while at the choir
school. By the age of 17, his boy-soprano voice broke, and the church released him from
service.
Left on his own in Vienna, Haydn worked as a teacher and free-lance musician, studied
composition with Nicola Porpora (with whom he probably learned species counterpoint
from the famous treatise Gradus ad Parnassum by J.J. Fux), and met important people
who were able to further his career as a composer.
By 1757, Haydn procured his first full-time position as music director for Count Ferdi-
nand Morzin, for whom he wrote his first symphonies. But within only a couple of years,
a far more prestigious position opened up as assistant Kapellmeister for the Esterházys, a
wealthy and powerful family of Hungarian aristocrats. It was Prince Paul Anton, an avid
amateur musician, who first hired Haydn. But the prince died within a year of Haydn’s
appointment, and his brother Prince Nikolaus took over as head of the royal court. Prince
Nikolaus was an even greater lover of music than was his brother, and regularly per-
formed chamber music as an accomplished player of the baryton, a cello-like instrument
related to the viol family. As assistant Kapellmeister, Haydn was put in charge primarily
of instrumental music at the royal court, where one of his first responsibilities became the
writing of baryton trios for the prince’s enjoyment. In 1766 Haydn rose to the position of
Kapellmeister upon the death of his predecessor, Gregor Joseph Werner. He remained in
that position until his retirement in 1790.
During the decade of the 1760s Haydn composed approximately 25 symphonies, mostly
as a result of the fact that his responsibility as a court composer in these early years lay
primarily in the area of writing instrumental music. While some of Haydn’s earliest sym-
phonies fall into the few years in which he worked for Count Morzin, the correct dating
of those symphonies is not reflected in the traditional numbering of Haydn’s symphonies,
which was arrived at in the first critical edition of his works published by Breitkopf and
Härtel in the late 19th century. In that edition the early works belonging to the Morzin
years now appear to include symphonies 1, 4, 5, 11, and 32 among others. The first works
for the Esterházys were the three symphonies numbered 6–8, all with programmatic titles,
“Le matin,” “Le midi,” and “Le soir” (morning, afternoon, and night).11 One of these,
“Le matin,” will serve to represent Haydn’s earliest work as a symphonist.
When Haydn began working for the Esterházys, he was entrusted with the direction
of the small court orchestra. This group consisted of about six violins, a viola, a cello, a
double bass, a flute, two oboes, a bassoon, and two horns. Such a group could have been
augmented when necessary by other members of the Esterházy staff who played instru-
ments as amateurs, and by members of the local professional guilds of instrumentalists
who worked outside the royal court. Regardless of how the orchestra might have swelled
on special occasions, the core group was clearly very small, as was common for 18th-
century court orchestras in general. Some of the regular string players in the orchestra
probably also doubled on other instruments, so that a violinist might also have played the
viola on occasion. Despite its small size, the Esterázy orchestra comprised some of the best
instrumentalists in all of Europe, and Haydn’s early symphonies show how keenly aware
of this fact the young composer was as he started his new career.
As was the case with music at the court of Elector Karl Theodore in Mannheim or at the
court of Frederick the Great in Berlin, the symphony likely played multiple roles in the life
of the Esterházy family. As had always been the case with symphonies in Italy, such works
provided introductions to concerts, support for official ceremonies, filler for quiet moments
in church services, and background music for banquets and receptions. So Haydn must have
understood the importance of his role as a composer of symphonies for Princes Anton and
Nikolaus when he set out to write the first such works for his new employer.
Today we know the symphonies of Haydn only from his greatest works at the end of
his career in the 1780s and 1790s. Few modern concertgoers have ever heard one of his
early symphonies. In looking at his entire career as a symphonist, we come to understand
the tremendous change that Haydn brought to this genre over the several decades in which
he was actively writing such works, c. 1757–95. Symphony no. 6, “Le matin,” is a fine
example of the style of symphonic writing we find at the outset of his career. Following the
tradition established by Stamitz, Haydn chose to write this symphony in four movements,
although throughout his early years as a symphonist, he continued occasionally to write
symphonies with only three movements. The first movement of Symphony no. 6 is cast in
what might be called “rudimentary” sonata form with a short, six-measure slow intro-
duction. The allegro that follows the introduction uses the formal model established in
the first movements of Stamitz’s symphonies, with a clearly differentiated Primary theme,
a clear cadence on the dominant followed by a contrasting Secondary theme, and some
closing material, as seen in Ex. 1.13. Such clear differentiation of thematic function, how-
ever, falls short of making a real Classical sonata form (as we know that form in the later
works of Haydn and Mozart) because the “development” section does not manipulate the
themes of the exposition as we might expect to see in one of Haydn’s later symphonies.
Ex. 1.13a Primary Theme, Symphony No. 6, First Movement

Ex. 1.13c Closing Theme
The overall style of this symphony is not far removed from the galant symphonies of
Sammartini, which is to say it has a simple homophonic texture, simple diatonic harmo-
nies, and presents themes of a low melodic profile. But two remarkable aspects of this
symphony set it apart from the symphonies of Haydn’s Italian predecessors. The first is
that we can see from the title “Morning” that this symphony carries programmatic impli-
cations—the first such program symphony in the history of this genre. The descriptive
element in this symphony appears exclusively in the opening slow introduction to the first
movement.12 Here Haydn was surely trying to depict a sunrise. One might think such a
compositional task would be difficult, because a rising sun makes no noise that could be
imitated in music. But Haydn cleverly resorted to the technique of musical analogy—that
is, finding sounds that are somehow equivalent to the characteristics one might associate
with a sunrise. In this case, he chose the key of D major, which in the Classical era was
thought to be a bright key, to symbolize the brightness of the sun. He then combined
this with a crescendo and a rising melodic line, thus illustrating a rising sun whose light
becomes stronger as it ascends in the morning sky.
The second outstanding aspect of this symphony is Haydn’s use of soloistic writing for
most of the instruments, examples of which appear in the opening allegro section of the first
movement. The Primary theme of the movement is introduced by solo flute and followed
in the very next phrase by two solo oboes. In fact, nowhere in the opening tonic section of
this sonata form exposition do the strings ever play the main theme. It is not until the arrival
of the dominant key that the strings are finally entrusted with the announcement of a main
theme. Haydn then closes the first half of this movement with some simple cadential mate-
rial that is again entrusted mostly to solo woodwind instruments (Ex. 1.13c).
This soloistic writing continues throughout the entire symphony. In the slow second
movement, both a solo violin and a solo cello line are marked in the score as “concer-
tante” parts. But the most extraordinary example of this soloistic treatment of the sym-
phony occurs in the trio of the minuet, the entirety of which takes the form of a duet for
solo bassoon and solo double bass. Given that both of these instruments never function
as anything other than the basso continuo in symphonies of this era, Haydn’s players
must have been astonished upon first seeing these concerto-like parts. The explanation for
these unusual solo parts in a symphony lies perhaps partly in the young Haydn’s situation
at court, where he may have wanted to ingratiate himself with the veteran professional
players he was now directing by giving some of them interesting solo parts. He could also
simply have been taking the opportunity to show off the virtuosity of these unusually
gifted players whom the prince had hired for his orchestra.
The last movement of Symphony no. 6 also utilizes solo flute, solo violin, and solo cello
in a movement cast in the same rudimentary sonata form we found in the first movement.
But in this movement, the “development” section is given over to a large cadenza-like sec-
tion for solo violin. Otherwise the rush of rhythmic energy is the only characteristic that
separates this movement from the first in terms of style (Ex. 1.14).
Ex. 1.14 Primary Theme, Symphony No. 6, Movement iv
Another aspect of Haydn’s style, for which he has become famous over the years,
is his sense of musical humor. This does not mean his symphonies are full of side-
splittingly funny musical gestures or compositional techniques. Rather, Haydn’s sense
of humor lies in an exaggerated use of musical surprises. He seems to have reveled in
the opportunity to trick his listeners’ expectations. In the first movement of this sym-
phony, for example, Haydn wrote the Primary theme for solo flute, as was mentioned
earlier. That theme begins with a simple arpeggio followed by a rapid scale passage (see
Ex. 1.13a). The musical joke occurs in the recapitulation, where Haydn dared to place
that Primary theme in the horn. Because the theme begins with an arpeggio, a valveless
horn was completely capable of playing the first few measures of the theme. But anyone
who understands the mechanics of brass instruments of the 18th century knows that a
horn without valves could never play the scale passage with which the theme concludes.
So upon hearing the horn start the recapitulation, any attentive listener would be filled
with a sense of horror, knowing that a performance disaster lay immediately ahead if
the horn player were to try to play the final part of the opening theme. The trick that
Haydn had in store for his listeners occurs just at the point where the horn arrives at that
impossible scale passage. In the nick of time, the recapitulation is started over again,
now with the flute playing the theme, as it should have all along. This kind of humor, of
course, depends on an audience having an understanding of musical styles, forms, and
the capabilities of specific orchestral instruments. It is, in essence, a very sophisticated
sense of humor, designed for an informed listener like Prince Nikolaus, not for an audi-
ence of amateur music lovers.
The Esterházys’ main winter residence was in the Hungarian city of Eisenstadt, but
the Prince lived there for only a couple of months each year. During the remainder of the
year, he moved the entire court, including all his musicians, to a country palace called
Esterháza.13
Working between these two locations, Haydn found himself somewhat cut off from
the large musical capitals of Europe, and consequently from the latest stylistic develop-
ments in the world of music. He was not a frequent visitor to Vienna, nor did he visit
Paris, Mannheim, or London during these early years. On the other hand, as he himself
admitted, this enforced isolation gave him the luxury of finding his own way in the world
of composition and of being able to try out his various compositional experiments on his
own personal orchestra. At this first stage of Haydn’s employment with the Esterházys,
his contract specified that his music would remain the exclusive property of the royal
family, and was not to be disseminated outside the court. Haydn’s position as a servant
Illustration 1.2 Esterháza Palace
of the Prince was also made clear in the requirement that he wear servants’ clothing, use
the servants’ entrance to the palace, and eat with the servants. This is important because
it demonstrates that musicians of Haydn’s era were thought of as servant craftsmen, not
unlike the cook or the blacksmith. Composers like Haydn produced something useful for
their aristocratic masters, no more, no less. There was no sense yet that musicians were
artists who should be treated with any special respect.
As his career moved into the decade of the 1770s, Haydn found himself in a position
to break new ground as a symphonist. The late 1760s and early 1770s were years in
which he began experimenting with a new style of symphonic composition that came
to be known as Sturm und Drang (storm and stress). This new style arose first as a
literary phenomenon in which writers began to revolt against the compositional rules,
objectivity, and highly rational style of French Classical drama found in the plays of
writers such as Jean Racine (1639–99) and Pierre Corneille (1606–84). As a result,
the Sturm und Drang emphasized compositional individuality, extreme emotionalism,
and other elements of shocking novelty, all of which are stylistic characteristics of
the earliest stage of literary Romanticism as already seen in a work such as Goethe’s
novel The Sorrows of Young Werther (1774, later turned into an opera by Massenet).
In music, the Sturm und Drang ran parallel to and duplicated many of the character-
istics already seen in the Empfindsamer Stil of C.P.E. Bach. Ironically, however, the
term Sturm und Drang that we use to describe some of the symphonies of Haydn (and
others) written in the early 1770s derives from the title of a play written in 1776 by
Friedrich Klinger, thus making this designation of the musical style ex post facto, as
is often the case with modern labels for historical styles and periods. Obviously, any
composer writing an emotionally dramatic symphony in the early 1770s could not
have known to call this style Sturm und Drang.
In music, the Sturm und Drang included the use of a few special characteristics:
1. The minor mode: Heretofore, all symphonies, whether Italian or German, had nearly
always been in the major mode. Similar to C.P.E. Bach’s expressive use of minor modes in
some of his symphonies, Haydn discovered a rich new expressive resource in this modal
deviation from standard galant compositional practice. Several of Haydn’s symphonies
from these years explore this new symphonic sound, including Symphonies no. 44 “The
Trauer” in E minor (1772), no. 45 “The Farewell” in F-sharp minor (1772), and no. 49
“The Passion” in F minor (1768). In the sonata form first movements of these minor
mode symphonies, the modulation from the Primary theme places the Secondary theme in
the key of the relative major, thereby creating a rather dramatic emotional effect.
2. The use of contrapuntal textures: Again taking a cue from the Empfindsamer Stil of
C.P.E. Bach, Haydn’s Sturm und Drang symphonies rely more heavily on the use of
counterpoint and dramatic changes of dynamics than do most galant symphonies
from early in the century.
3. The use of syncopation to create an intense rhythmic drive: This procedure produces
a sense of urgency and agitation that brings Haydn’s music close to the literary ideals
of this period.
Symphony no. 44 in E minor, known as the Trauersymphonie (symphony of mourning)

represents most of the symphonic characteristics of the Sturm und Drang style. This is a
four-movement work for two horns, two oboes, and four-part strings (because the cellos
still double the basses).
The opening movement is cast in a special type of sonata form that Haydn cultivated
almost exclusively: The “monothematic” sonata form. As the name implies, this kind of
sonata form contains only one theme in the exposition. This therefore produces a sonata
form in which the second theme in the new key is simply a repeat of the opening theme.
Such a monothematic sonata begins with a statement of the Primary theme in the tonic
(usually minor) key, proceeds through some transitional material that modulates to the
new key (relative major) and then arrives at the same Primary theme now restated in the
new key and functioning as the Secondary theme. The exposition might end with a con-
trasting Closing theme. See Figure 1.6.
Figure 1.6 Exposition of a Monothematic Sonata Form—Type A

In the case of Symphony no. 44 the essential thematic elements can be seen in Ex. 1.15.
Ex. 1.15 Thematic Material in the Exposition of Symphony No. 44, First Movement
a. Primary Theme
b. Transition
c. Secondary Theme (Repeat of P in the Relative Major)
In addition to the monothematic structure of this movement, one of the fundamental

characteristics of the Sturm und Drang appears in the greater use of counterpoint in this
symphony, seen here in a section of the transition between the Primary and Secondary
themes (Ex. 1.16).
By the early 1770s the modulatory area immediately after the double bar in a binary
form movement like this one began to assume a new identity based on the adoption of the
technique of thematic fragmentation and sequencing. In other words, we finally see the
emergence of what might be called a “real” development section that takes thematic mate-
rial from the exposition and manipulates it through the area of modulation that follows
the double bar at the end of the first half of the movement.
Ex. 1.16 Contrapuntal Transition
In Haydn’s Symphony no. 44, the development section begins by restating the main
theme in the dominant; but a sequence of the first phrase leads the completion of
the theme into the new key of A minor. The remainder of the development section is
then based on modulating sequences of a short one-measure excerpt drawn from the
transitional material in the exposition (Ex. 1.17). This sequence is unfolded through
changing pairs of instruments in order to add the element of color modulation to the
usual harmonic modulation.
While the recapitulation of this particular symphony is a fairly literal repeat of the
exposition, with all the original material now back in the tonic key, such literal recapitu-
lations are fairly rare in Haydn’s symphonies. The beauty of most of Haydn’s recapitula-
tions lies in the numerous ways in which he manages to alter the tonic restatement of the
thematic materials found in the exposition. For Haydn, a recapitulation is almost never
a simple rehearing of the exposition with the original modulation realigned to lead the
end of the movement back to the tonic key. Especially in monothematic sonata forms,
Ex. 1.17 Transition Fragment Sequenced in Development, m. 84
where the listener has already heard the opening theme twice in the exposition, Haydn
seems to have been eager to introduce a new view of his thematic material by including
modulations and development where one would least expect them—in the area of the
movement (the recapitulation) whose purpose is to reestablish the tonic key.
In Symphony no. 44, Haydn included a new section in his sonata form: a coda. At the
point in the recapitulation equivalent to where the exposition ended, the music comes
to a fermata on a vii diminished chord, and then continues with yet another 17-measure
restatement of the Primary theme in the tonic key. In sonata form parlance, we label such
added-on sections a “coda.” In Italian this word means a “tail,” which perfectly reflects
what these last few extra measures do—they form a tail that closes off the movement with
one last hearing of the main theme couched in clearly cadential harmony.
The middle movements in most Classical symphonies appear in an order that places
the slow movement before the minuet. But on occasion composers experimented with
the variations of the normal order of the four movements. This symphony is one of
those in which Haydn reversed the usual order of the middle movements, placing the
minuet immediately after the opening movement. On the one hand, this minuet carries
on the traditional formal design inherited from Stamitz. But Haydn’s minuet exhibits a
far greater level of musical sophistication than previously seen in this otherwise simple
dance form. Most minuets unfold in rounded binary form, with one theme in the first
half, a contrasting theme in the dominant key (or relative major) at the beginning of
the second half, followed by a return of the opening theme in the tonic key at the end
of the movement. Instead of using this common arrangement of musical materials in
his minuet, Haydn chose to start the second half of the movement with a repeat of the
opening theme now in the relative major—exactly as one would see in a sonata form
movement. That statement of the main theme in the major mode is then followed by
development of bits of the theme, which takes up nearly all of the second half of the
movement. Only in the last five measures does Haydn return to a partial restatement of
the opening theme in the tonic key.
The trio achieves some contrast with the minuet by changing to the tonic major key (E
major). Its form, however, is far simpler than that of the minuet: two halves with a differ-
ent theme in each half and without a repetition of the first of these at the end.
As evidence of the greater reliance on counterpoint in Sturm und Drang symphonies,
we can point to the fact that Haydn composed this minuet as a strict canon at the octave
between the violins and the bass part (Ex. 1.18). The incorporation of
Ex. 1.18 Canonic Opening of the Minuet
counterpoint in symphonies of this decade establishes a new stylistic direction, away from
the ultra-simplicity of the galant style with which this genre began some thirty years
earlier. Both the use of extensive development and the canonic structure in the minuet
point to a growing sophistication of this movement in the hands of Haydn and other
composers of the 1770s.
In the decade of the 1770s, the slow movements of symphonies often fall into simple
binary patterns in contrast to the more complex sonata forms seen in first movements.
The third movement of Symphony no. 44 is an adagio in the tonic major (E major). As
was common in slow movements, the composer creates contrast not only with the new
key, but also by reducing the instrumentation. Often that reduction takes the form of the
elimination of the wind parts, but in this symphony, Haydn merely used those instruments
far less than he did in the first movement. This binary form adagio features two themes
in the first half, both of which appear in the tonic key, only making the modulation to the
dominant shortly before the double bar (Ex. 1.19a and b).
Ex. 1.19a First Theme of the Adagio
Ex. 1.19b Second Theme

The second half of the movement then begins with the first theme, now in B major,
moving into some simple modulations via new thematic material that starts in B minor
(Ex. 1.20).
Ex. 1.20 Developmental Material in the Second Half of the Movement
Having arrived back at the tonic, the movement closes with a repeat of the second theme,
as one might expect. As is nearly always the case with symphonies of this decade, slow
movements are far simpler in their structure than are the opening movements. This particu-
lar movement mirrors the simple binary form seen in nearly all Italian galant symphonies.
The last movement of Symphony no. 44 returns to E minor to close the piece in a presto
tempo. This movement exemplifies an alternate type of monothematic sonata form in
which the main theme is spun out to the double bar without its repetition in the new key
midway through the exposition (Figure 1.7).
Figure 1.7 Alternate Monothematic Sonata Form Exposition
After a fairly regular development section, Haydn resorts to his usual technique of
modifying the recapitulation, in this case by never stating the opening theme at the point
where the tonic key is reestablished in m. 119. Instead Haydn brings back the tonic key
with material we originally heard well into the exposition, in m. 29. This bit of musical
legerdemain effectively disguises the arrival of the recapitulation and adds to the surprises
attentive listeners to Haydn’s music probably came to expect.
Ex. 1.21 Primary Theme, Finale
Haydn’s contribution to the development of the symphony in the early years of his
career consists of his introduction of occasional programmatic elements into the genre, his
adoption of monothematic sonata forms, his growing use of more complex contrapuntal
textures, and his reliance on a sophisticated sense of musical humor. His adoption of the
popular Sturm und Drang style in the 1770s is also noteworthy. The question about this
new style is how it relates to the Empfindsamer Stil of C.P.E. Bach. Both Empfindsamkeit
and Sturm und Drang were movements that grew out of a reaction against the rational
and intellectual styles of literature and drama of the 17th and early 18th centuries. Their
goal was to substitute feelings and emotions for rational thinking. In this sense, the Emp-
findsamer Stil of Bach is closely tied to the Sturm und Drang style of Haydn, as both
achieve this goal through the use of elements of musical contrast and surprise. Much of
Haydn’s correspondence makes clear reference to his indebtedness to the music of C.P.E.
Bach. But most scholars see Sturm und Drang as a more violent and dramatic version of
Empfindsamer sentimentality, leaving us with the impression that Sturm und Drang aes-
thetics grew out of the Empfindsamer Stil but are not exactly the same.
Study Questions
1. For whom did Haydn work for approximately 30 years?
2. What are the programmatic titles of Haydn’s three early symphonies (nos. 6–8)?
3. What are the characteristics of the Sturm und Drang style?
4. What is a monothematic sonata form?
Further Reading
The largest study of the symphonies of Haydn is that by H. C. Robbins Landon, Haydn Symphonies
(Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 1969).
For a more compact study see A. Peter Brown, The First Golden Age of the Viennese Symphony:
Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2002).
Notes
1. In Germany similar groups formed under the name “collegium musicum.”
2. See Mary Sue Morrow, “Eighteenth-Century Viewpoints,” in The Symphonic Repertoire, Vol. 1,
The Eighteenth-Century Symphony, ed. Mary Sue Morrow and Bathia Churgin (Bloomington,
IN: Indiana University Press, 2012), 40.
3. This contention has recently been questioned by modern scholars. See Jan Larue and Eugene K.
Wolf, “Symphony, the Eighteenth Century,” Grove Music Online.
4. This similarity is mostly restricted to the instrumentation involved, because in reality the string
quartets of Sammartini are characterized by a greater independence of part writing than what is
common in his symphonies.
5. See Bathia Churgin, The Symphonies of G. B. Sammartini, Vol. I, The Early Symphonies, ed.
Bathia Churgin (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1968).
6. See John Spitzer and Neal Zaslaw, The Birth of the Orchestra: History of an Institution, 1650–
1815 (New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 2004), 256–62.
7. Some prominent exceptions to the new four-movement structure will be discussed in later
chapters.
8. The use of the letters P T S and K as designations of the different thematic functions in a sonata
form are borrowed from Jan LaRue, Guidelines for Style Analysis, 2nd ed. (Sterling Heights,
MI: Harmonie Park Press, 2011).
9. See David Kidger, “Introduction,” in Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach: The Complete Works, Series
III, 3, Orchester-Sinfonien mit zwölf obligaten Stimmen (Los Altos, CA: Packard Humanities
Institute, 2005) XI–XVI.
10. Ibid., XV.
11. The French titles, which are original with Haydn, reflect the German preoccupation with French
culture and manners in the 18th century.
12. This marks one of the earliest appearances of a slow introduction preceding the opening allegro
of a first movement. The slow introduction may have been inspired by the French opera overture
of the 17th century, which always began with a slow introduction featuring dotted rhythms,
before proceeding to an allegro in a contrapuntal style.
13. The palace of Esterháza, modeled on the design of Versailles in France, was far larger and
grander than that in Eisenstadt.
2 Maturation of the Genre
Haydn and Mozart
Haydn: From Servant to Entrepreneur

Overview
The symphonic career of Haydn covered approximately 35 years, and in that time the
change of style from his earliest works to the last never fails to astonish attentive listen-
ers. The old Breitkopf edition of Haydn’s complete works published and numbered 104
symphonies dating from somewhere around 1758 to 1795. Since that publication, schol-
ars have discovered and authenticated two additional early symphonies, usually labeled
simply A and B (listed in Grove Dictionary as Nos. 107 and 108). The issue of authenticity
has plagued Haydn research for many years, mostly because of the extraordinary number
of spurious symphonies printed with Haydn’s name on them that circulated throughout
Europe later in his life. Sorting out which Haydn symphonies are authentic and which are
forgeries was an immense task that occupied musicologists for decades. Some idea of the
magnitude of this problem can be gleaned from H.C. Robins Landon’s seminal study of
the symphonies of Haydn, in which he listed 134 works in an appendix titled “Doubtful
or Spurious Symphonies.”1
In the first decade of his career Haydn composed both three- and four-movement sym-
phonies without any apparent pattern. Among the first 30 numbered symphonies that rep-
resent Haydn’s work through the 1760s, there are ten symphonies in three movements,
the last of which, no. 26, dates from 1768.2 All the rest of his symphonies, but one, are in
four movements, most in the usual tempo pattern of Fast—Slow—Minuet—Fast. But seven
symphonies scattered throughout the 1760s and 1770s feature the unusual reversal of the
first two movements, making an opening arrangement of Slow—Fast that recalls the old
Baroque sonata da chiesa. Also reminiscent of a related genre is Symphony no. 60, which
has a unique formal design of six movements, somewhat like a serenade or divertimento,
although the work originated as incidental music for a play produced at the Esterházy court.
Haydn’s orchestration expanded gradually through the years and became more sophis-
ticated. Always one to revel in the virtuosity of his orchestra at the Esterházy court, Haydn
had begun his career there with the trilogy of programmatic Symphonies 6–8, all of which
featured solo writing for instruments as diverse as violin, cello, flute, bassoon and double
bass. This penchant for infusing the symphony with elements of the concerto continued
to hold Haydn’s interest even in later years. In the 1760s he wrote symphonies most often
for two oboes, two horns, and four-part strings, with the cellos doubling the basses an
octave higher. This general formula, however, was occasionally altered with the addition
of a flute, or in the unusual case of Symphony no. 22 (1764) the substitution of English
horns for the oboes. Other interesting experiments with orchestration include the use in
four of these early symphonies (nos. 13, 31, 39, and 72) of four horns, usually including
solo parts that exploit the very highest range of the instrument.
Maturation of the Genre 37
The story of Haydn’s changing approach to the orchestra is one at least partly of the
gradual independence granted to the bassoons and the cellos. In the early years of his
career, Haydn used these instruments as all symphonists before him had—to play the low-
est string part along with the double basses and harpsichord. Because bassoonists simply
played from a double bass part, a line for their instrument rarely appeared in symphony
scores until much later, which misleads us to thinking that bassoons had no role in early
symphonies. During the Sturm und Drang period of the 1770s, however, Haydn made his
first change in this old formula by writing an independent part for a bassoon in Sympho-
nies 52 and 53. Then in Symphony 54, he extended this new idea to include two independ-
ent bassoon parts, only to return to the old habit of having the bassoon double the bass
part in Symphony 55 (1774). The complete separation of bassoons from double basses
came a few years later in 1778, when the bassoons are consistently given their own parts
in Symphonies 61 and 68, and then in every symphony written thereafter.
The cello parts tell a different story regarding their role in the orchestra. The first sym-
phony in which the cello part is written on a separate line in the score is no. 84 (1785), but
this practice is only sporadic all the way to the end of Haydn’s career, where even among
his last group of six London symphonies, only two (nos. 99 and 103) have cello parts that
are significantly different from the bass part.
The final extension of the orchestra in Haydn’s hands took the form of the creation of a
full woodwind section. At first Haydn added an additional flute in Symphony 54 (1774),
making the woodwind section into a group of two flutes, two oboes, and two bassoons.
But this configuration was not standardized with any regularity until the writing of the
first group of London symphonies (nos. 93–98) when Haydn finally settled on the regular
use of a pair of flutes. Then in the last set of London symphonies (nos. 99–104) he com-
pleted the expansion of the Classical orchestra with the addition of a pair of clarinets to
bring the full complement of woodwinds to a pair of all four instruments: Flutes, oboes,
clarinets, and bassoons.
Biographical Background
As Haydn entered the third decade of his employment with the Esterházys, he found
his career taking new directions and undergoing unexpected changes. Prior to the 1780s
Haydn was bound by restrictions in his contract regarding ownership of his music, which
lay exclusively in the hands of Prince Nikolaus. He was prohibited from accepting com-
missions from any private parties, from promoting performances of his music outside the
royal court, and from selling his music to publishers. These restrictions, however, proved
ineffective in preventing Haydn’s music from leaking out to the public during the first
20 years of his tenure with Esterházy. During that time, pirated copies of some of his
music made their way into the catalogues of several publishers throughout Europe, and
performances of this music could be heard in numerous concert halls in major European
cities. By 1779 Prince Nikolaus, perhaps acceding to the inevitable, finally renegotiated
Haydn’s contract to lift the restrictions on outside commissions, performances, and publi-
cation. At that point Haydn entered into an agreement with the Viennese publishing house
of Artaria, which soon became his most important publisher.
Haydn’s new contract with Esterházy came at a time when his responsibilities at court
were shifting away from symphonic music and toward the composition and production of
opera (both his own and others). We can see this shift of compositional activity reflected
in the number of symphonies written between 1774–84, which shows a general decrease
from eight symphonies in 1774 to an average of about half that number in every year
thereafter. Because Esterházy had less use for symphonies during these years when his
musical interests shifted to opera, Haydn was happy to find new venues for his work as a
symphonist. It was thus in the decade of the 1780s that his career became an international
success, with performances of symphonies in public concert halls in Paris, London, and
Vienna, and with publishers everywhere wanting to buy his music. In the early years of
the decade, foreign publishers bought all of Haydn’s symphonies today numbered 76–81.
Then in 1784, Haydn received a commission from a mixed amateur-professional ensemble
called the Concert de la loge Olympique, a Masonic-based organization under the spon-
sorship of Count D’Ogny in Paris. Symphonies Nos. 82–87 fall into this group, and are
now known as the “Paris Symphonies.” The next two symphonies, 88–89, are known as
the “Tost” symphonies, because Haydn sold them to the Esterházy violinist Johann Tost,
who took them to Paris to resell to publishers there.
The last three symphonies of this decade, nos. 90–92, were also commissioned by the
Concert de la loge Olympique. In this set, the last (no. 92) is now known as the “Oxford”
Symphony, because Haydn conducted it in England in 1791 when he was awarded a
doctoral degree in music from Oxford University. This is the work to which we will now
direct our attention as we begin an examination of some of Haydn’s last symphonic
masterpieces.
Symphony No. 92 in G Major, “Oxford”

Haydn continued his penchant for monothematic sonata forms in this symphony.
After a slow introduction, the Primary theme (Ex. 2.1) is stated twice in the tonic key.
Ex. 2.1 Primary Theme, First Movement
A repeat of this theme leads to the transition as the key of the movement moves toward
the dominant. Once the new key is reached, the Primary theme reappears (m. 57), making
the usual design of a monothematic sonata form. Another transitional passage, similar to
the first, then brings the exposition to a close with the only contrasting theme heard thus
far (Ex. 2.2).
Ex. 2.2 Closing Theme
This Closing theme does not just form a contrast with the main theme, it seems to occupy
an entirely different world of melodic material. One way to think of the unusual melodic
change of style here at the end of the exposition is as a reflection of Haydn’s new aware-
ness of the need to adopt a more “popular” style—a melodic style that sounds folk-like in
its simplicity. This kind of writing is new in the symphonies of the 1780s, and results, at
least partly, from external stimuli arising out of the circumstances under which these sym-
phonies were produced. That is to say, Haydn had spent his entire career catering to the
musical needs of his aristocratic employer. Like most European aristocrats, Prince Nikolaus
was well read, well educated, and steeped in fine art and culture of all kinds. As Haydn’s
music leached out from the encapsulated world of the royal court and began appearing on
concerts attended by the public, the composer undoubtedly realized that his music was now
communicating with a new kind of audience—one with more middle-class tastes and less
exposure to sophisticated musical standards. If he was to succeed in this new marketplace,
Haydn was going to have to adapt his musical style to the expectations of his new “blue-
collar” audience. And this must have meant to him the need to adopt a more popular style
in his symphonic writing. The infusion of folk-like themes into symphonies of this time may
also have been related to a growing sense of the importance of folk songs as an expression
of an emerging German nationalism. Philosophers such as Johann Gottfried von Herder
(1744–1803) maintained that folk songs expressed a Volksgeist (spirit of the people) that
was the source of national purity and strength. Understandably, melodies like the one that
closes the exposition of the first movement of Symphony no. 92 became common in Haydn’s
symphonic repertoire of the 1780s. They appear most often either as Closing themes in
sonata-form expositions, or as the Primary themes in rondo-like last movements.
The development sections in Haydn’s symphonies of the 1780s manifest those compo-
sitional techniques we have come to associate with mature Classical sonatas—thematic
fragmentation (excising a measure or two from one of the themes in the exposition),
sequencing and modulation. In other words, the development sections of these new sym-
phonies actually reuse and manipulate the material of the exposition. But beyond that,
Haydn brought to his development sections some very sophisticated contrapuntal tech-
niques, as he did in this symphony at m. 99, where we are treated to a fragment of the
opening theme stated in canon with the voices separated by only half a beat (Ex. 2.3).
Ex. 2.3 Canonic Imitation in the Development, m. 99
The recapitulation of this movement brings us back to another familiar Haydn compo-
sitional technique—the recomposition of the thematic return. Especially in monothematic
sonata forms where the main theme gets an inordinate amount of exposure, adding some
variety in the recapitulation prevents the potential monotony caused by so many repeti-
tions of the Primary theme. Here, Haydn’s recapitulation proceeds like the exposition up
to the point where the Primary theme reappears in place of a contrasting Secondary theme.
Haydn used this moment to upset the predictability of his monothematic sonata-form
movement by restating the Primary theme in the key of G minor (instead of the expected
G major) and then expanding upon the large skip of a tenth with which the original ends
(see Ex. 2.1). He further altered this point in the recapitulation by sequencing a fragment
of the Closing theme through the key of A major before finally hiding a tonic restatement
of the Primary theme under some very prominent flute parts that are still developing
bits of the Closing theme. All of this adds up to a texture that sounds like it belongs in
the development section of the movement, not in the recapitulation. Finally this mini-
development section comes to a close with a contrapuntal statement of the Primary theme
with its own inversion (Ex. 2.4).
Ex. 2.4 End of Altered Section of the Recapitulation
Such clever alterations of a recapitulation effectively add variety to what would other-
wise be a long section of tonic harmony, but also tend to obscure the structure of a sonata
form by infusing its recapitulation with elements of development. Because the develop-
ment of thematic materials in this particular recapitulation does not come to a close until
the arrival of the Closing theme, the final reestablishment of the tonic key and the sense of
a full recapitulation occur fairly late in the movement. But even after Haydn reestablishes
the tonic key with the return of the Closing theme, more surprises await. At the point
where an authentic cadence seems to bring the movement to a close, Haydn suddenly
appends an entirely unexpected section in which he returns to the Primary theme one more
time. This final section functions as a coda of 33 measures (mm. 200–32) that serves two
purposes: to further develop thematic material, and to close off the movement with a final
restatement of the Primary theme. Because this last statement of the Primary theme in the
tonic key follows the tonic statement of the Closing theme heard earlier, the recapitulation
now sounds as though it has been reversed—K followed by P. Such reinterpretations of
basic sonata form make listening to Haydn’s later symphonies an adventure in thwarted
expectations. From a structural point of view, the movement can be diagramed as follows:
Figure 2.1 Unusual Sonata Form in Symphony no. 92, First Movement
In the Italian symphonies of the early 18th century, all movements exhibited the same
binary formal design. Even the addition of the minuet in the Mannheim symphonies of Sta-
mitz simply brought a movement in double binary form into the overall symphonic structure.
It is not until the Paris symphonies of Haydn that we begin to see an awareness of the pos-
sibility of unique forms for all the different movements of a symphony. Just as Stamitz was
able to differentiate the thematic elements in his first movements, now Haydn was starting
to use form to differentiate the different movements in a four-movement symphonic design.
This differentiation begins in the “Oxford” Symphony with the second movement,
which instead of using the usual binary form, is now an adagio in three-part ABA form.
The opening section of this movement also brings another new element into play in the
symphony: songful lyricism. The theme on which the A section is based (Ex. 2.5) is a
lovely eight-measure phrase employing a simple folk-like style. After its initial statement,
Haydn repeated it three more times with some slight variations before interrupting this
tuneful opening with a stormy contrasting section in the tonic minor mode (Ex. 2.6), remi-
niscent of the old Sturm und Drang style of the decade before.
Ex. 2.5 Theme of Section A (Major Mode), Second Movement
Ex. 2.6 Minor Mode Theme, B Section, m. 40
This middle part of the movement is itself a miniature ABA form in which the opening
phrase in D minor is repeated and then contrasted with a new section featuring wood-
winds in D major. This section serves as modulatory relief from the generally diatonic
nature of the rest of the movement. It leads eventually back to a repeat of the D minor
material to round out the middle section of the work. The movement then closes with a
repeat of the A section in the tonic key of D major. The importance of this movement in
the general development of Haydn’s symphonies in the 1780s is that it represents a new
style that emphasizes melody and its repetition in order to create contrast with the sym-
phonic process of theme and development found in most first movements.
As the third movement of emerging Classical symphonies, minuets were nothing more
than simple musical contrast modeled after a popular courtly dance. But as the symphony
developed in its overall sophistication, composers like Haydn seemed to find the simple
dance style of the minuet out of place in a collection of movements of growing complex-
ity. This may explain why minuets written in the 1780s begin to show signs of composers’
attempts to make significant changes in the style of these old courtly dance movements.
This concern with bringing the minuet up to the level of complexity found in surrounding
movements took many forms. We already saw how Haydn used canonic imitation in the
minuet in Symphony no. 44 to achieve this greater stylistic sophistication. In Symphony
no. 92, he accomplished the same goal by playing with the listener’s sense of rhythmic/
metric expectation in the trio section of the movement. Because the rhythm that opens
the movement sounds like a half note followed by a quarter note, the ear wants to hear
this half note as falling on the downbeat of the measure. But as Ex. 2.7 illustrates, what
sounds like a half note is actually two quarter notes tied over the bar line.
Ex. 2.7 Opening of the Trio, Third Movement
The entire movement, however, can be heard with the bar line in the wrong place. Even
the harmony supports a different location of the bar line with changes taking place after
each group of three beats. Haydn thus successfully infused this trio section with musical
conflict of a very sophisticated nature. Example 2.8 presents the trio rewritten as one
might hear it in performance.
Ex. 2.8 Trio Re-Barred as It Might Be Heard
The finale of Symphony no. 92 demonstrates how last movements changed from the
early years of Haydn’s career. Most last movements had always been cast in a sonata form
that was very similar to that found in first movements. In the Paris symphonies of the
1780s, however, Haydn discovered a new form that combines the lightness of a Classical
rondo with the more traditional sonata structure of a first movement. Today we call this a
“rondo-sonata,” a form that usually has seven sections: A B A C A B A.
A simple rondo form would look a little different: A B A B A B A, where A = the rondo
theme always stated in the tonic key, and B is an episode of contrasting material stated
in different keys. In the seven-part rondo-sonata of the Classical period, A is equivalent
to the Primary theme in the tonic key, B (the episode) includes both the Secondary and
Closing themes in the dominant key, and C functions like a development section. Thus
the pattern A B is equivalent to the exposition, C is equivalent to the modulatory devel-
opment section of a sonata form, and the repeat of A B is equivalent to a sonata form
recapitulation. (See themes in Ex. 2.9) The reason this formal pattern is not a genuine
sonata form is that there are two extra appearances of the A theme in a rondo-sonata:
after the first statement of the B (Secondary) theme and again at the end of the movement.
Another important difference between these two forms is that the opening section of a
rondo-sonata cadences before the development (C) section in the tonic key instead of the
dominant key found in a pure sonata form. The relationship between the rondo aspects
and the sonata form design of the movement are diagrammed in Figure 2.2. Two anoma-
lies need to be flagged here, however: First, because the A-B section of Haydn’s rondo
is actually a monothematic exposition, the only contrast in the B section of the rondo
comes with the Closing theme. Second, Haydn’s realization of this rondo-sonata form
leans more heavily than usual in the direction of a pure sonata form because he placed
a double bar in the middle of the movement, and the final statement of the P theme at
the end of the “exposition” appears in the dominant key, thus ending the first half of the
movement as though it were a sonata form.
Figure 2.2 Structure of a Typical Haydn Rondo-sonata Finale
Ex. 2.9a Primary (A) Theme of the Rondo-Sonata, Finale

Ex. 2.9b Closing Theme in the B Section
In the second half of his career, Haydn continued to write symphonies marked by a
witty sense of humor. As usual, this sense of humor involved tricking the expectations of
his audiences. In Symphony no. 92, his musical wit sparkles in the development section
of the last movement, where Haydn begins with a repetition of the Primary theme (which
is not unexpected), but in place of the full eight-measure phrase that any listener would
expect, he abruptly cuts off the phrase after only five measures and replaces the rest of the
phrase with a GP (grand pause). He then starts the phrase again, only to cut it off after
just two measures with another GP. A third statement of the opening of the theme leads
the listener to expect a full statement, only to be thwarted yet again by two measures
leading to a GP. The humor here lies in guessing how many times Haydn is going to tease
his audience with these interrupted statements of the theme before he actually relents and
fulfills that expectation.
The London Symphonies: An Overview

Prince Nikolaus died in 1790, passing the position of head of the family to his son Anton,
who was not as great a lover of music as had been his father. As a result, Anton disbanded
most of the elaborate musical establishment Nikolaus had built over the years. Haydn
was kept on as Kapellmeister, but without any specific duties. In essence he was dismissed
with pay and allowed to leave the court to settle wherever he wanted. Vienna thus became
Haydn’s new home. But Prince Anton lived only four years beyond his father, making
way for his son, Nikolaus II to take over in 1794. Nikolaus II wanted his grandfather’s
famous Kapellmeister to return to work at the royal court, but Haydn would only agree
to make occasional guest appearances in Eisenstadt and to write Masses for the princess’s
birthdays.
Shortly after his release from service, Haydn received offers of similar employment
from other European aristocrats, but turned them all down in favor of keeping his new
independence. By this time Haydn had become the most famous and most popular com-
poser in all of Europe, and he wanted to capitalize on this happy situation by accepting
commissions for new works and publishing his music. The most important of his new
commissions came from the English impresario Peter Salomon, who made the trip to
Vienna specifically to make Haydn an extraordinary offer: A year-long engagement
as composer-in-residence for a public concert series that Salomon ran in London. The
terms of the contract called for Haydn to write six symphonies, one opera, and some
shorter works to be presented in a series of 12 concerts, and all for an extravagant sal-
ary many times greater than that which Esterházy had ever paid him.
Salomon bragged to Haydn that his London orchestra was better than anything the
composer had ever heard in Europe, and that London audiences were more sophisticated
than any on the continent. In making these claims, Salomon was implying that Haydn
should therefore feel free to write anything he was inspired to imagine, without concern
for limitations of any kind. Before this offer from Salomon, Haydn’s association with Lon-
don had been sporadic and indirect. Almost ten years earlier he had made arrangements
with the London publishing house of Forster to print and sell his music, and at about the
same time (1783) Haydn was invited to direct some concerts in London. This proposed
trip never materialized, however, because Haydn was unable to secure a release from his
duties at Esterházy’s court.
Haydn’s first trip to London took place in 1791–92, during which he wrote Sym-
phonies no. 93–98. All of these works received an enthusiastic response from English
audiences, who took it upon themselves to treat Haydn like some kind of foreign
dignitary. The change in his social status from that of a servant at a royal court to an
esteemed guest artist made this year in London one of the happiest in his entire career.
The symphonies written for this visit are the culmination of Haydn’s long career as a
symphonist. In them, he expanded the size of the orchestra from that seen in his Paris
symphonies by adding a second flute. This resulted in a woodwind section consisting
of pairs of flutes, oboes, and bassoons. The brass section of the orchestra included the
usual pair of horns and occasional trumpets. Also of significance in understanding the
growth of the symphony is the manner in which these new works were programmed
in London. Instead of the usual practice of playing the symphony (or more often only
a part of it) at the beginning of a concert in order to quiet the audience and announce
the start of the program, Salomon placed Haydn’s symphonies at the beginning of
the second half of the program, thus assuring that even late-comers to the concert
would get to hear the featured work on the program. This new respect with which
the symphony was now treated marked a change of thinking about public concerts
and the works that were programmed. Prior to this date, public concerts consisted
mostly of instrumental and vocal solos performed by major virtuosos. The orchestra
accompanied these solo performances and was responsible for the performance of the
symphony that always opened and closed the program. Clearly the symphony was
generally not the center of attention at these public concerts for many years. With
Haydn’s visit to London, we find the composer treated with new respect, and his music
placed in a featured location on these concerts.
Haydn’s visit to London was such a success that Salomon immediately offered him
a return engagement for 1794–95. The contract for that visit stipulated another six
symphonies, an opera, and some smaller works. These were the last symphonies Haydn
composed, numbers 99–104, thus bringing the total of his London symphonies to 12.
In this second set he expanded the orchestra even further by adding two clarinets to the
ensemble and making the trumpets a regular, rather than occasional, addition to the
brass section. This instrumentation marks the final expansion of the Classical orchestra,
and makes what is often described in history books as the “standard” Classical orches-
tra. Ironically, an orchestra of this size, with pairs of all the woodwinds, pairs of horns
and trumpets, timpani and strings, became “standard” only very late in the evolution of
the 18th century orchestra. Symphonies written for such a large orchestra were actually
quite rare before 1795, and the regular use of clarinets (other than in Mannheim) was
seen only in some of the largest professional orchestras, such as those found in Paris,
resulting in their almost complete absence in 18th-century symphony scores.
Among these 12 London symphonies, no. 100 “The Military,” is an example of a spe-
cial category of 18th-century music that features what we call the “Turkish” style, which
had been gaining popularity in Europe throughout most of the 18th century. The fad for
everything Turkish—from food, to clothing, to music—resulted from conflicts between
the armies of Western Europe and those of the Ottoman Empire in the 17th century.
Turkish armies were accompanied into battle by military bands known as Jannisaries.
These Jannisary bands included a variety of instruments, some of which were not seen or
heard in European orchestras, including several types of large drums, shawms, and cym-
bals. Some Turkish bands also included the Turkish crescent, a percussion instrument
made of a long pole topped with a head-piece decorated with metallic jangles. These
exotic bands became especially popular in Europe in the middle of the 18th century,
leading major composers to try to imitate their sound in both opera and instrumental
music using special Western instruments not usually part of a standard 18th century
orchestra. These extra “Turkish” instruments included three heretofore never-used per-
cussion instruments: bass drum, cymbals, and triangle. Among the London symphonies,
the second movement of Symphony no. 100 utilizes the popular sound of Turkish music
in the second movement, which must have delighted Haydn’s audience at the time.
Symphony No. 104

Like so many of the Paris and London symphonies, this one begins with a slow intro-
duction, but one that is unusual in a very important way: Its principle motives are
linked to the following allegro section of the sonata form. Prior to this, slow introduc-
tions in first movements served as a means to achieve a weighty tone that suggested an
extra level of seriousness. Ironically, this serious tone was then frequently contradicted
by the opening theme of the following allegro. But composers gave little thought to
whether their slow introductions should be connected in some way to the music that
unfolded after the change of tempo. Haydn seems to have been at the forefront of
establishing a new compositional principle that brought greater structural integrity to
the first movement by thematically linking the slow introduction to the allegro that
followed. In the case of Symphony no. 104, the introduction consists of a simple state-
ment of two important intervals: the opening perfect fifth (and its inversion) and the
major/minor second in m. 3. These intervals are then expanded to occupy a position
of importance in the Primary theme of the exposition. (See Ex. 2.10.)
Ex. 2.10a Introduction, First Movement
Ex. 2.10b Primary Theme
The transition that leads to the dominant key is also built out of these same intervals—the
downward perfect fourth found in m. 2 of the intro, and the major second of m. 3 (Ex. 2.11).
Ex. 2.11 Transition Material
Because Haydn again chose to cast his first movement in a monothematic sonata form,
the opening theme repeats in the dominant key (m. 49), but is fully reorchestrated with a
flute and an oboe added to the violin melody to create a new color that beautifully sets off
the repetition of the theme with a fresh sound.
The Closing theme itself is constructed of the same intervallic material, as mm. 88–89
consist of both the minor and major second found in the slow introduction, and mm. 91–94
outline the same melodic pattern as does the Primary theme of the exposition (Ex. 2.12).
Ex. 2.12 Closing Theme, m. 88
The extraordinary thematic connections between all elements of the exposition bespeaks
a new concern on the part of Haydn regarding the creation of increased unity within the
diversity of the different themes in a sonata form. This process of creating unity by build-
ing new themes out of the intervallic patterns of an original theme will later overtake the
compositional procedures of later composers and become a hallmark of the avant-garde
movement in 19th century music. The technique itself will come to be known as “thematic
transformation,” or as Arnold Schoenberg termed it, “developing variation.”
The development section of the movement explores the motive of the major second (Ex. 2.13).
Ex. 2.13 Development Motive, m. 108

This same motive (the major or minor second in the pattern of four quarter notes and two
half notes) then becomes the most important element in Haydn’s rewriting of the reca-
pitulation, where it occupies a prominent position in the horns as part of the transition
between the Primary and Secondary theme, and again at the opening of the coda. Haydn
obviously used this thematic element as a continual, reappearing melodic unifier through-
out the entire first movement.
In these last years of his career, Haydn continued to search for new forms that
offered some contrast with those he used in the opening movements of his symphonies.
In Symphony no. 104 this contrast takes the form of a second movement that features
aspects of both variation form and three-part (ABA) form. The opening section of the
movement, in G major, is based on a theme that itself is cast as a rounded binary form
(Ex. 2.14).
Ex. 2.14 Opening Theme, Second Movement
It takes only a quick look at this theme to notice that its intervallic structure dupli-
cates, except for one note (the D), the makeup of the Primary theme from the first move-
ment. This close motivic relationship, in which this new theme is derived from an earlier
theme, again demonstrates Haydn’s new interest in long-range continuity within and even
between the movements of a symphony. One could accurately observe that throughout
most of the 18th century the term “symphony” implied a collection of orchestral move-
ments in contrasting tempos, meters, and keys. But there was nothing about such a col-
lection of movements that guaranteed they all belonged together. In other words, there
is really no reason why someone couldn’t take a movement from one symphony and
substitute it for the corresponding movement in a different symphony, as long as both
were in the same key. This situation suggests that there was essentially nothing in an 18th-
century symphony that forged its individual movements into a unified whole. But Haydn’s
derivation of the thematic material of movement II from the main theme of movement
I produces a new solution to this old formal problem.
The opening major-mode section of movement II is followed immediately by a contrast-
ing middle section that begins with a restatement of the movement’s opening theme, now
in G minor. This is followed immediately by new material in D minor that features some
extraordinary contrasts of tessitura (Ex. 2.15).
Ex. 2.15 Middle (B) Section Theme
A sudden pause of one full measure (m. 56) brings back the main theme again, now lead-
ing directly to a second contrasting idea (Ex. 2.16).
Ex. 2.16 Second Contrasting Theme in the B Section
The movement closes with a decorated return of the main theme back in the major mode,
followed by a lengthy coda.
The minuet movement of Haydn’s last symphony is special for three reasons. First,
Haydn continued the process of thematic transformation that brought the second
movement into close relation with the first. Here, the main theme of the minuet is
molded out of the same intervallic material as the Primary theme in the first movement,
thus guaranteeing a familial relationship between all the movements heard to this
point (Ex. 2.17).
Ex. 2.17 Minuet Main Theme
Here again Haydn added some musical sophistication to his minuet by playing with lis-
tener’s perception of the metrical position of the barline. The reiterated sforzandos on the
third beat of most measures cause those beats to sound like the downbeat of the measure.
When heard this way, the phrase will seem to end with a measure of four beats that throws
the usual minuet meter completely off track. Example 2.18 presents the theme the way one
might hear it in performance.
Ex. 2.18 Minuet Theme Re-Barred as a Listener Might Hear It
In addition, Haydn dropped the usual rounded binary form in favor of a second half that
consists completely of development of the opening material. Like the ambiguous metrical
organization of the main theme, such developmental processes in the second half of the
binary form tend also to make the minuet into a more sophisticated movement, because
simple dance forms do not rely on musical development to project their overall design.
Lastly, the trio of this minuet brings the tonality of the movement to the unusual key of
B-flat major (the flat-submediant), suggesting that some of the strange key relationships of
Haydn’s Sturm und Drang symphonies may have taken root in his last works.
The Primary theme in Haydn’s monothematic finale is a Croatian folksong, but not
unexpectedly, it is built on the same interval arrangement seen in the introduction to
movement I—the perfect fifth and the major/minor second (Ex. 2.19).
Ex. 2.19 Primary Theme of the Exposition, Finale
As in the first movement, a transition made up of the motif of the major/minor second
leads into a repetition of the Primary theme, here functioning as the Secondary theme in
the dominant key. The Closing theme (Ex. 2.20) is the only bit of thematic material not
related to the shape of all the other themes in this symphony.
Ex. 2.20 Closing Theme, m. 84
From the double bar to the end of the movement there are fewer surprises, as the devel-
opment section leads to a fairly straight-forward recapitulation. Only the expanded length
of the coda signals Haydn’s interest in the making the finale of the symphony into a move-
ment whose musical style is less “frothy” and more like that of the first movement in terms
of its weight and seriousness. This change in last movements from a light-weight tag at the
end of a symphony to a movement more like the first begins here at the end of the Classi-
cal period, and becomes more evident as the 19th century wears on. As we will see later,
symphonic last movements eventually become the emotional center and musical climax of
the design of many later Romantic symphonies.
Study Questions
1. What was the deal that Peter Salomon offered Haydn to get him to come to London?
2. How many London symphonies are there?
3. What is the instrumentation of the “full” Classical orchestra as seen in Haydn’s last
six London symphonies?
Further Reading
Daniel Heartz, Haydn, Mozart, and the Viennese School, 1740–1780 (New York, NY: W.W. Nor-
ton, 1995). A useful collection of essays on both Haydn and Mozart, with an interesting chapter
on the contemporaries of Haydn.
The Genius of Mozart

Overview of the Symphonies
In the late 19th century, the German firm of Breitkopf and Härtel published the first criti-
cal edition of the “Complete Works of W. A. Mozart,” including all of his symphonies.
That publication is the source of the numbering of Mozart’s symphonies that we still use
today, a total of 41. But the actual number of Mozart’s symphonies is far more difficult
to accurately assess. As with the works of Haydn, there are several Mozart symphonies
of doubtful authenticity, even though they were assigned numbers by Ludwig Köchel in
the first edition of his giant thematic catalogue of Mozart’s complete works, published in
1862.3 Many of these doubtful works were published by Breitkopf with numbers running
from 42 to 56. In addition, Mozart frequently created symphonies either by composing a
finale movement to add to one of his opera overtures, or by taking four movements out of
one of his multi-movement serenades. Some of these works were also placed by Breitkopf
among the “extra” symphonies with numbers beyond 41. As a result, the actual number
of symphonies by Mozart is closer to 60, but may never be established with certainty.
In newer editions of the Köchel Catalogue, some important modifications of the original
list of 41 symphonies have been made. Symphony no. 2, K. 17 was discovered not to be
by Mozart, and is now thought to have been composed by his father Leopold. Likewise,
Symphony no. 3, K. 18 was later found to have been a copy made by Mozart of a work by
Karl Friedrich Abel, whose symphonies Mozart probably heard at one of the Bach-Abel
concerts in London in 1764. Lastly, Symphony no. 37, K. 444 was eventually discovered
to be a work by Michael Haydn (Joseph’s brother) to which Mozart added a slow intro-
duction in the first movement.
Additionally, the chronology established by Köchel in 1862 was somewhat inaccurate.
To correct this problem, later editors of the catalogue decided not to completely renum-
ber Mozart’s works, but rather to insert misdated works in their proper chronological
position by adding lower-case letters to a K. number that already existed. Therefore, if
Symphony no. 29, K. 201 was actually written in the same year as K. 186, the inaccurate
number (201) was dropped from the catalogue and the work in question was given a new
number, which in this case was K. 186a.
Mozart’s Background
Professional musicians of the 18th century faced a life of somewhat circumscribed oppor-
tunities. Two of the most common career paths included serving as a director of music in
a large church, or working as an employee in the musical establishment of a royal court.
Additionally, some musicians made their livelihood as opera composers or as players in
an opera orchestra, and a rare few survived as travelling virtuosos. A freelance career as a
composer who accepted commissions and sold music to publishers was rare until the last
years of the century.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756–91) followed in the footsteps of his famous predeces-
sor, Joseph Haydn, by starting his career as a court musician and ending it as a freelance
composer. But the lives and careers of Haydn and Mozart diverged from each other in
many fascinating ways. Unlike Haydn, Mozart was born into a family that was already in
the music business. His father, Leopold, was hired in 1742 as fourth violinist in the court
orchestra of the Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg, eventually rising to the position of assis-
tant Kapellmeister. Leopold was also a respected author, who, in the year of Wolfgang’s
birth, published a treatise on violin playing, the Versuch einer gründlichen Violinschule.
The importance of this work can be gauged from the fact that it was eventually translated
into several different languages and sold all over Europe.
Illustration 2.1 Portrait of the Young Mozart
The fact that Leopold Mozart was himself a professional musician led to the discovery
of his son’s remarkable musical gifts at the very early age of 3, when, with no prior music
lessons of any kind, the boy played by ear all the harpsichord pieces Leopold had taught his
older sister, Nannerl. Shortly thereafter, harpsichord lessons with his father helped Wolfgang
become an uncannily facile keyboard player by the age of 6. Those who heard him play
regularly commented on his astonishing technique and his amazing ability to sight-read any-
thing placed in front of him. It was at this age that Leopold made the bold decision to share
this Wunderkind with the rest of the world by taking him on tour to some of the major musi-
cal centers of Europe, where, with Nannerl, he played for important aristocrats, including
the Austrian Emperor, Joseph II. In return for these performances Leopold collected large
fees, and expensive gifts, and basked in the growing fame of his genius son.
The success of these early trips, which consisted mostly of short visits to one important city
or another, led Leopold to request a leave of absence from his position at the Salzburg court
in order to take Wolfgang and Nannerl on an extended European tour, with stops in Munich,
Paris, London, and the Hague. In each of these musical centers, little Mozart dazzled his royal
audiences, but also presented himself to the general public in concerts with a paid admission.
Between 1763 and 1773, Leopold and Wolfgang (sometimes with the rest of the family, some-
times not) were on the road more than they were at home in Salzburg. But the Archbishop
was (at least at first) happy with this arrangement, as it reflected well on the state of music at
the Salzburg court and spread the Archbishop’s reputation as a generous patron of the arts.
It was in London, in 1764, that 8-year-old Wolfgang first experimented with the genre
of the symphony, when Leopold took his children to hear concerts produced by Johann
Christian Bach and his business partner, Karl Friedrich Abel. These two German compos-
ers had settled in London and started a public concert series known as the Bach-Abel con-
certs. As was standard practice at the time, such public concerts began and ended with a
symphony. It was through his exposure to these symphonies that the young Mozart drew
inspiration for his own earliest works in this genre, the first few of which all appeared dur-
ing this visit to London. In these earliest years of his career Mozart assumed the character
of a musical chameleon, adapting his compositional style to whatever was popular in the
cities he visited. Whether copying scores of other symphonists, or just imitating the sound
of works he heard in concerts, Mozart easily duplicated the symphonic styles to which he
was exposed. It was through this process of imitation (with some help from his father) that
little Mozart learned to compose symphonies. This learning process resulted in Köchel’s
confusion about the provenance of Mozart’s second and third symphonies, both of which
were first discovered as manuscripts in Mozart’s handwriting and thus were long thought
to be original works. Only later did the fact finally emerge that these works were copies
made by Mozart of symphonies by K.F. Abel and probably also Leopold Mozart.
For Mozart the composition of such symphonies was a necessity that grew out of
arrangements Leopold made for his son to appear in public concerts in addition to his
private performances for small groups of aristocrats in London. These public concerts
featured Mozart playing solo works with orchestral accompaniment (i.e., concertos),
improvising (fugues, sonatas or opera arias on themes and texts handed to him on the
spot), and sight-reading (on both harpsichord and violin), as well as appearances of local
virtuosi (usually singers) performing solos of various kinds. In such a program, the orches-
tra accompanied the soloists and played the first couple of movements of a symphony at
the beginning in order to quiet the audience and gain their attention, while the last move-
ment of the same symphony usually closed the program. Of course, the astonishment with
which audiences greeted symphonic compositions by a boy who was only 8 years old fur-
ther enhanced Mozart’s reputation as a child prodigy and made his concerts wildly popu-
lar with audiences of both aristocrats and commoners. The years spent traveling, giving
concerts, and meeting important people in the music business continued until Mozart was
about 17 years old. In addition to the early trip that took him to Paris, London, and the
Hague, Leopold took his talented son to both Italy and Vienna, on three different occa-
sions. It was on the last of these trips to Vienna in 1773, that Mozart first encountered the
mature music of Haydn, whose op. 20 and op. 33 string quartets had just been published
there. Thus opened one of the most fruitful musical relationships in the history of music.
Prior to this date, Mozart had been happy imitating the styles of lesser composers active
in the 1760s. Now suddenly he confronted some truly great music by the only other living
composer of immense talent. The music Haydn wrote in the early 1770s was on a much
higher level of sophistication than most of what Mozart had been used to hearing in those
years. Haydn therefore became Mozart’s inspiration to achieve greatness—a challenge to
match the older master measure for measure in the pursuit of musical greatness.
While Mozart’s earliest symphonies are clearly written in the Italian galant style that
he heard in the symphonies of J.C. Bach, two symphonies from the early 1770s deserve a
brief mention as demonstrations of the new musical maturity Mozart had acquired in only
a few short years. Symphony no. 25, K. 183 in G minor, is one of only two minor mode
symphonies Mozart ever wrote. As such, it has many of the earmarks of a typical Sturm
und Drang symphony: Driving rhythms, syncopation, and sharp contrasts of dynamics,
texture, and orchestration, (Ex. 2.21).
Ex. 2.21 Symphony No. 25, Primary Theme, First Movement

Another outstanding work from the early 1770s is Symphony no. 29, K. 201 (186a) in
A major. Its opening theme (Ex. 2.22) illustrates Mozart’s indebtedness to the Mannheim
style of Johann Stamitz. Mozart had visited Mannheim at the beginning of his “grand
journey” at the age of 7, and had admired the court orchestra of Elector Karl Theodore.
Therefore we should not be surprised to find in the first theme of this symphony an abun-
dant use of the common Mannheim gesture of the Seufzer, essentially an upward resolving
appoggiatura. These symphonies of the early 1770s mark what might be termed Mozart’s
first maturity, in which he, like Haydn, began to develop a first movement form that looks
more like a fully evolved sonata form. The exposition comprises three distinctly different
themes (Ex. 2.22).
Ex. 2.22a Symphony No. 29, First Movement Primary Theme
The development section begins with a working out of the opening octave skip in the
Primary theme, but then introduces a new theme not heard in the exposition. For a com-
poser like Mozart, whose entire style embraces the importance of lyrical melody, the addi-
tion of a new theme in the development section allowed him to indulge the vocal/operatic
tendencies of his compositional technique (Ex. 2.23).
Ex. 2.23 New Theme in the Development Section
As of 1773 Mozart was back at work as the concertmaster of the orchestra in Salz-
burg, a city and a job he had grown to hate. In reading his letters, we can deduce that
his chief complaints revolved around several specific issues: A lack of respect from
the Archbishop, low pay, a dissatisfaction with the players in the orchestra, the large
number of concerts needed at court, and the lack of any opportunity to write opera.
Essentially Mozart had become, through his many travels and interaction with people
who admired his work, keenly aware of the enormity of his talent, and of the fact that
Salzburg was not big enough to contain that talent. It thus became Leopold’s goal to
do more traveling in the hope of finding Wolfgang a court position more compatible
with his (or at least his father’s) aspirations. While Wolfgang accepted this plan for
his future, he was equally as eager to consider an alternative goal: to start a freelance
career in a city like Mannheim, where his music had always been greeted with enthu-
siastic applause.
So in 1778, in the hope of finding Wolfgang a court position worthy of his talent, Leo-
pold applied for permission to travel yet again. But by now the Archbishop had caught
on to the fact that these trips were designed to find the Mozarts a new court position, and
he forbade any further traveling. In an ensuing argument with the Archbishop over this
matter, both Leopold and Wolfgang found themselves dismissed from his royal service.
Frightened by his sudden lack of employment, Leopold apologized to the Archbishop and
was quickly reinstated in his former position; but Wolfgang delighted in his dismissal and
the chance to prove himself in a new city. Thus, at the age of 22, Mozart set off on an
exploratory trip to Paris, accompanied by his mother, who was acting as a chaperone to
make sure her son didn’t become distracted along the way by either opportunities to start
a freelance career, or by women who might pose a threat to the unity of the Mozart family
by seducing Wolfgang into marriage.
In actuality, the watchful eye of his mother was not enough to prevent Mozart from
being tempted by exactly what his father feared most: Freelance work and an attractive
woman. The trip to Paris took Mozart through the city of Mannheim, where he and his
mother stayed for five months, because it looked as though the Elector might offer Mozart
a position in his court. When this appointment failed to materialize, Mozart wrote to his
father saying that he could easily remain in Mannheim and make a successful career giving
concerts and accepting commissions. Partly his desire to remain in Mannheim, however,
was fueled by his having met and fallen in love with a singer, Aloysia Weber, who saw
in Mozart a potential aid to her own career. This little romantic escapade, however, was
quickly squashed by Leopold, who insisted that Wolfgang keep his eye on the larger goal
of obtaining a position in Paris. So the ever-obedient son packed up and moved on to Paris
as planned. But once in Paris, Mozart found it difficult to get commissions, publishers, or
a position at some royal court. Even worse, while he was trying to make his way in the
local musical establishment, his mother was taken ill and died.
Out of this tragic trip to Paris came only one major commission, a request for a sym-
phony from the Concert Spirituel, a long-standing public concert series. The orchestra
assembled by this concert society was both large and excellent. In Salzburg Mozart had
grown familiar with an average size court orchestra of approximately five first violins,
five second violins, two violas, two cellos, two double basses, two oboes, two bassoons,
and two horns. This collection of players could have been, and surely was, augmented on
special occasions by other members of the royal court who also played orchestral instru-
ments. But the orchestra of the Concert Spirituel in Paris was far larger, with about 40
players, including both two flutes and two clarinets in the woodwind section. Given these
vastly more abundant resources, Mozart wanted to take advantage of this large orchestra
to write something impressive. The resulting symphony, no. 31, K. 297 (300a), is scored
for a full woodwind section of pairs of flutes, oboes, clarinets, and bassoons, a brass sec-
tion of two horns and two trumpets, and a full complement of strings. Strangely, however,
this large work took shape with only three movements, suggesting that Mozart might
have thought that Parisians were accustomed to hearing symphonies without minuets.
The performance of the symphony led Mozart to write to his father with a description of
the event, in which he reveals the fact that audiences of the 18th century were not afraid
to comment on what they heard while they were hearing it. Mozart specifically describes
the enthusiastic applause that accompanied sections of the piece that the audience espe-
cially liked.4 This description of an active audience participation in the performance of
the symphony stands in sharp contrast to the concert decorum we have come to accept as
normal in concert halls today.
The Vienna Years

Following the death of his mother in Paris and the general lack of success growing out of
that disastrous trip, Mozart allowed himself to be cajoled by Leopold into returning to
Salzburg to take back his old job in the court orchestra. Nothing could have been worse
for someone like Mozart, who was desperately trying to find a way of making a living as a
composer/performer outside the usual constraints of a royal court, where musicians were
always treated like house servants. In looking at Mozart’s output of symphonies immedi-
ately after his return to Salzburg, we can see that his heart was not in his work. Over the
next two years (1779–80), he wrote only three symphonies: Nos. 32–34. Of these, the first
is a simple one-movement Italian opera overture in the usual three contrasting sections.
Symphony no. 33 was originally conceived as a small three-movement work for oboes,
horns and strings only, to which Mozart later added a minuet. The last of these Salzburg
symphonies is also a three-movement work that has no minuet. After his experience in
Paris, Mozart was clearly not expending a significant amount of creative energy on his
reclaimed position at the Salzburg court.
From the drudgery of this court position, Mozart found relief in a commission for the
opera, Idomeneo, from Karl Theodore, who had moved from Mannheim to Munich to
become the Elector of Bavaria in 1779. Work on this opera took Mozart out of Salzburg
in early 1781, when he was needed to supervise the production in Munich. While still in
Munich, he suddenly found himself being called to Vienna, where the Archbishop of Salz-
burg was going to visit his father. In order to impress his Viennese relatives and friends, the
Archbishop took with him most of his court musicians to present concerts. As the crown
jewel among the Salzburg musicians, Mozart was desperately needed to assure the suc-
cess of this Viennese visit. As soon as he arrived in the capital city, however, Mozart tried
to do what he always did when away from Salzburg: give concerts for his own benefit.
But the Archbishop, not wanting to dilute the effect Mozart would have made playing
under the auspices of the Salzburg court, forbade any concerts exclusively for the benefit
of the composer. This prohibition so angered Mozart that he confronted the Archbishop
and demanded to be released from his service. After a heated argument, the Archbishop
must have become exasperated and said to Mozart, “Be off with you,” which Mozart
interpreted as his permission to leave and finally begin the freelance career he had so long
wanted to pursue.
Needing to earn an income sufficient to survive on his own in Vienna, Mozart found
himself having to accept every kind of musical opportunity that came his way: teach-
ing piano students, accepting commissions, publishing, giving public performances as a
pianist, and writing operas. Soon enough he settled on a formula that he hoped would
provide a steady stream of income—he offered subscription concerts in which he played
his own piano concertos, and included a number of smaller works performed by guest
artists. For all these Viennese concerts and others outside Vienna, Mozart needed sym-
phonies to open and close the programs. Ironically, however, he wrote only six new
symphonies in the last years of his life, suggesting that for many of these concerts he
made use of symphonies written earlier in his career. A quick overview of Mozart’s last
symphonies follows:
1783: No. 35, K. 385. “Haffner” symphony adapted from a serenade originally
commissioned by Sigmund Haffner in Salzburg for a ceremony celebrating his
ennoblement.
1783: No. 36, K. 425. “Linz” symphony, written for a concert given in Linz, Austria,
during a trip home from Salzburg where Mozart and his new wife had been visiting
Leopold.
1784: No. 37, K. 444 (425a). A symphony by Michael Haydn, to which Mozart
added a slow introduction. Köchel mistakenly thought this entire symphony was
by Mozart. It was probably “borrowed” from Haydn in order to produce a concert
symphony that Mozart had no time to compose himself.
1787: No. 38, K. 504. “Prague” symphony, written for concerts in Prague shortly
after the successful production there of The Marriage of Figaro. This is the only late
Mozart symphony with three movements.
1788: No. 39–41, K. 543, 550, 551. A set of three symphonies written in the sum-
mer of 1788 probably intended for a series of concerts that were planned for Ger-
many the following year.
These were the years when Mozart’s friendship with Haydn deepened and when
he came to know the music of J.S. Bach, both of which events influenced the style of
nearly all of his late symphonies and led to the creation of some remarkably sophisti-
cated music. What follows here is an examination of selected movements from these
last symphonies, through which the story of Mozart’s significance in the history of this
genre can be told.
Symphony No. 35 “Haffner”

In 1776 Sigmund Haffner, a wealthy middle-class businessman and long-time Salzburg
friend of Mozart, commissioned the composer to write some music for his sister’s wed-
ding. For this occasion Mozart wrote what has come to be known as the “Haffner”
Serenade, K. 250. Then in 1782, shortly after Mozart had moved to Vienna, he received
another request from his friend for music to accompany a ceremony in which Haffner
was to be elevated to the status of a nobleman. Although he was furiously busy with his
new opera, The Abduction from the Seraglio, Mozart nevertheless found time to write
a seven-movement work for the occasion, calling it his “Haffner Symphony.” That title
was somewhat misleading, since the form of the finished work was clearly that of a ser-
enade, similar to K. 250, written six years earlier. Perhaps Mozart recognized that his
new Haffner music was more complex (i.e., more symphonic) than the average serenade,
and therefore deserved the title “symphony” despite its having too many movements.
In any case, a year later (1783) Mozart found himself in need of a new symphony for
one of his own concerts in Vienna, and wrote to Leopold asking him to return the score
to the Haffner music he had just sent to Salzburg. Leopold’s ire over what he saw as
his son’s ill-advised choice of a freelance career and his choice of Constanze Weber as
his new wife, led him to respond to Mozart’s request with something less than alacrity.
In fact Mozart had to write five times asking for the return of the music, which finally
arrived in Vienna just a couple of weeks before the planned concert.
An analysis of the first movement of this symphony reveals it to be, as expected, a rather
sophisticated piece that was clearly meant not as background music for a party or recep-
tion, but as the center of a concert that demanded careful listening. One sign of this seri-
ousness of tone is the fully worked out sonata form in the opening movement, including
a development section (albeit a short one) that actually manipulates the thematic material
of the exposition (Ex. 2.24).
Counterbalancing the complexity of the first movement, however, is the simplic-
ity of the finale, a simple rondo (instead of a rondo-sonata) that takes the form:
ABABABA, where the contrasting B theme (the episode) appears in the dominant,
Ex. 2.24a Symphony No. 35, Primary Theme, First Movement
Ex. 2.24b Development of the Primary Theme
Ex. 2.25a Last Movement, Rondo Theme A
Ex. 2.25b Rondo Theme B (Episode)
the submediant, and the tonic in its three respective statements. In other words, the
movement is missing the kind of development of themes that characterized the first
movement, and thus sounds more like what audiences would have expected from a
serenade (Ex. 2.25).
Symphony No. 38 K. 504 “Prague”
After the enthusiastic reception of The Marriage of Figaro in Prague in December of 1786,
Mozart planned a return visit to the city where his music had been so well received. He
attended a performance of his opera, and gave a concert on which Symphony no. 38 first
appeared. In the first movement of this work, we can see evidence of a dawning change in
attitude about what a symphony could or should be. The work is far more complex than
any of Mozart’s earlier symphonies; and this new complexity seems to suggest that com-
posers had begun to realize that a symphony can be more than a concert opener whose
function was simply to quiet an audience and announce the beginning of the program. The
new style seen in the Prague Symphony (as well as in some of Haydn’s Paris symphonies)
creates a position of far greater importance for the symphony as a piece of concert music
that deserved and even required attentive listening on the part of the audience. This is the
beginning of the Romantic concept of the symphony as a weighty, serious genre in which
composers invested considerable time and emotional energy.
The Prague Symphony also allows us to witness the significant influence of Haydn on
Mozart’s late symphonies. The first evidence of Mozart’s veneration for his older col-
league appears right at the beginning of the first movement, which, unlike the majority
of Mozart’s symphonies, starts with a slow introduction. Such introductions had become
common in Haydn’s Paris symphonies, and were to continue as an important aspect of
his style in the London symphonies of the 1790s. In the case of the Prague Symphony,
Mozart’s slow introduction is remarkably long (three minutes), and explores the key of D
minor in order to set up the contrast with the exposition in D major.
Once we arrive at the Primary theme in the exposition, we notice another anomaly: The
theme is, for Mozart at least, remarkably untuneful, substituting instrumental gestures in
the style of Haydn for the usual lyrical themes for which Mozart is most noted (Ex. 2.26).
This theme contains two motives, the first in the violins, the second played by the flute,
both of which will become important as the movement unfolds.
Yet another classic Haydn device in this symphony is the replacement of the usual
contrasting Secondary theme in the exposition with a repeat of the Primary theme in
the dominant key, thus producing a monothematic sonata form of the kind Haydn so
loved. But try as he might to emulate Haydn in this regard, Mozart could not escape
the fact that he was a completely different kind of composer, one more fully steeped
in opera and vocal lyricism. As such, his instrumental music tends generally to have a
more tuneful, singing quality than Haydn’s. Mozart’s gift for lyricism simply couldn’t
be suppressed forever in a symphony like this; and as a result, immediately following
the second statement of the Primary theme in the dominant (functioning as S) in the
exposition, Mozart drops all pretense of writing a monothematic sonata form and
introduces a contrasting second Secondary theme full of graceful Mozartian lyricism
(Ex. 2.27).
Ex. 2.26 Symphony No. 38, First Movement Primary Theme

Ex. 2.27 Second Secondary Theme
One last influence Mozart drew from the works of Haydn turns up in the manner in
which he recomposed the recapitulations of his sonata form movements. The recapitula-
tions of Mozart’s earlier symphonies regularly repeat the sequence of musical materials
heard in the exposition, while making minor adjustments to bring the tonality of the Sec-
ondary theme back to the tonic key. Haydn, on the other hand, more often used the area
of tonal readjustment in a recapitulation as an avenue to the further development of his
basic thematic material, even allowing some rather astonishing modulations to take place
in what was otherwise an area of tonal stability. Suddenly Mozart’s Viennese symphonies
do the same, with the most interesting results. Not only does the recapitulation offer a
refreshing new look at the principal thematic material, but a section of the recapitula-
tion now functions like a second development, replete with modulations that undermine
the tonal function of a recapitulation. It could be that Haydn arrived at this practice of
rewriting his recapitulations as a way of introducing some needed variety and surprise
in a monothematic sonata, where the continual repetition of the Primary theme risked
creating musical boredom. Mozart may have found the process useful just because a long
unrelieved stretch of tonic restatement that made sense when sonata forms were extremely
compact, no longer worked when the size of the movement expanded to larger propor-
tions. Mozart’s Prague Symphony is just one example of this new Haydnesque technique.
The music of J.S. Bach also looms large on Mozart’s compositional radar in these Vien-
nese symphonies. One of Mozart’s most enthusiastic supporters in Vienna was Baron Got-
tfried van Swieten, an Austrian civil servant and career diplomat who was also an avid
amateur composer. From 1770–77 he held the post of Austrian ambassador to Prussia,
and was stationed in Berlin, where he made the acquaintance of C.P.E. Bach, the second
son of J.S. Bach, and a court musician in the service of King Frederick “the Great.” It
was through C.P.E. that van Swieten came to know and admire the music of J.S. Bach
and Handel. After his return to Vienna, van Swieten actively promoted the music of both
Bachs and of Handel in house concerts that were attended by Mozart in 1782–83. This
exposure to the Baroque masters changed the course of Mozart’s compositional work in
his remaining years, and is everywhere apparent in his growing use of contrapuntal tex-
tures in his late symphonies.
The Prague Symphony illustrates Mozart’s concern with creating textural complex-
ity in his late symphonies. The Primary theme (Ex. 2.26) leads to a contrapuntal
transition (Ex. 2.28), which in turn leads to a restatement of the Primary theme in the
dominant key.
At this point Mozart develops the Primary theme in contrapuntal imitation until he
finally arrives at a real contrasting Secondary theme (see Ex. 2.27).
By far the most spectacular demonstration of contrapuntal craftsmanship appears in the
development section of this movement, where Mozart superimposes motives 1 and 2 from
the Primary theme (Ex. 2.29).
Ex. 2.28 Transitional Motive in Counterpoint
Ex. 2.29 Contrapuntal Superimposition in the Development Section
Everyone knows how facile a composer Mozart was—how he could write out whole
symphonies after only one hearing—but the level of musical complexity in this first move-
ment defeated even his genius, resulting in the need to make sketches of his ideas before
fully committing them to the final score. The fact that there are sketches for the Prague
Symphony, when we have none for so many of Mozart’s other symphonies, testifies in part
to the difficulties in this music. These difficulties lie in the multiple processes of composing,
performing, and listening. In terms of performance, composers of the 18th century well
understood that symphonies had to be simple enough to sight-read, because there was rarely
enough time at a rehearsal to do more than read once through a new symphony. This prob-
lem had plagued Mozart in the rehearsal for his Paris Symphony (no. 31) in 1778, when the
orchestra made such a mess of the piece on first reading, that Mozart actually thought about
not attending the performance.5 A far more difficult symphony, such as no. 38, would surely
have upended the orchestra and produced a complete breakdown in performance. The other
difficulty with regard to the complexity of this symphony lay with the audience, which was
clearly not expecting a work that required such close, attentive listening. It is likely that this
symphony, like all of Mozart’s others, was performed in parts both before and after the main
body of the program. Such a placement would have signaled the audience to expect nothing
out of the ordinary in this symphony. What a surprise then when they were treated to this
musical challenge! Mozart was known in his Viennese years as a composer of difficult music
whose style was decipherable and appreciated only by connoisseurs and learned listeners.
And Leopold continually admonished his son to write easier music that all audiences would
understand. In fact, one suspects that some of the failure of Mozart’s last years and his
ultimate decline into poverty can be traced to this very issue of the complexity of his music.
This issue of musical complexity had a further impact on the overall design of the
Prague Symphony, which for some unknown reason has only three movements. Mozart
wrote three-movement symphonies throughout his career, usually because they were
popular in whatever city he was visiting at the time. As we have already seen, even as
late as 1778, he created a three-movement symphony for the Concert Spirituel in Paris,
probably because he thought that was what Parisian audiences wanted. Therefore, the
fact that the Prague Symphony has no minuet may also be the result of Mozart’s taking
the measure of popular symphonies played in that city, and deciding that audiences in
Prague, like those in Paris, preferred three-movement works. But a closer look at the
general progress of the genre of the symphony from c. 1730 to 1785 may suggest an
alternative explanation for the absence of the minuet in the Prague Symphony. If we
look back at the early part of the 18th century, we remember that the symphony first
emerged as a work in three separate binary-form movements. These movements were
all fairly similar in style, and differed from one another only in terms of tempo and key.
But as the years passed, composers from Stamitz to Haydn brought to the symphony
a growing formal sophistication, in which the simple binary forms of the early Ital-
ian symphony evolved into what we would call “mature” sonata forms. This change
involved the incorporation of thematic development and an increased use of sophisti-
cated contrapuntal textures. The only symphonic movement in which this evolution did
not take place was the minuet, which remained throughout the century a simple binary
dance form with virtually no musical development and the simplest homophonic tex-
ture. As early as the 1770s, when symphonic composition suddenly leapt forward to a
more complex and expressive style, composers like Haydn seemed to become aware of
the fact that the minuet, with its dance-like nature, was not keeping pace with the grow-
ing sophistication of the other movements. This may explain the various experiments
employed in Haydn’s minuets, such as the canonic structure found in Symphony no. 44
“Trauer,” all of which seem to have been designed to add musical interest to an other-
wise simple dance movement. Mozart too, in his last years in Vienna, seemed to realize
that the minuet posed a problem in the modern symphonies of the 1780s. The minuet
in his Symphony no. 40, K. 550, for example, employs an interesting hemiola effect in
which the violins upset the notated triple meter with three initial measures of 2/4, while
the lower strings continue to insist on the triple meter one would expect in a minuet. Ex.
2.30 illustrates the opening of this minuet with the implied meter changes between two
and three beats per measure as one might hear it in performance.
Ex. 2.30 Opening of the Minuet in Symphony No. 40, K. 550

Such metric ambiguity essentially destroys the dance-like quality of a traditional minuet,
which may well have been the goal for composers of this era.
Another technique used by composers at this time to loosen the association of the
minuet with courtly dances of the past, was to rework the traditional formal structure of
these movements. Minuets had always been written in rounded binary form, in which the
beginning of the second half of the movement (after the double bar) featured a contrast-
ing thematic idea before returning to the main theme at the end of that half (Figure 2.3).
Figure 2.3 Rounded Binary Form
Again in the minuet from Mozart’s 40th Symphony, we find the composer replacing the
contrasting B material with development of the A theme, thus creating some compositional
complexity in a form that heretofore had never allowed anything but the statement of con-
trasting themes at the beginning of the second half of the binary structure (Figure 2.4).
Figure 2.4 Minuet form in Mozart, Symphony No. 40
Clearly the traditional minuet was in a state of flux in the 1780s, as composers sought
new compositional methods with which to bring that simple dance form more in line
with the growing sophistication of the surrounding movements of a symphony. These
attempts might be seen as ways of avoiding the immanent death of the minuet as an effec-
tive symphonic movement. But while composers worked to move the minuet away from
its roots in dance music of the aristocracy, one further non-musical factor undermined
their ultimate ability to continue using minuets in any form whatsoever, and that was the
sociological change brought about by the Enlightenment. Theories of human equality
and liberty gained momentum throughout Europe in the 18th century and produced a
restructuring of society marked by the ascendance of the common man to a new position
of economic and political authority. For this emerging middle-class society, the minuet
became a symbol of the ancien regime, and a reminder of the bad old world of aristocratic
privilege. Under those circumstances, the lack of musical sophistication in the minuet
was perhaps the least of the problems facing composers accustomed to including such
movements in their symphonies, sonatas, and string quartets. The absence of the minuet
in the Prague Symphony remains something of a mystery because this three-movement
work appeared at a time when Mozart had otherwise fully embraced the four-movement
symphonic form in his Viennese years. It may therefore not be a coincidence that this,
the only three-movement symphony among this group of late works, is also the first of
Mozart’s symphonies to exhibit a level of compositional complexity not seen in his earlier
works. The possibility remains then, that as a result of the difficulty bringing the minuet
into alignment with the more sophisticated movements around it, Mozart may well have
looked at the overall sophistication of this symphony and simply decided that a tradi-
tional minuet would have been completely out of place among the other movements. As
one German critic of the time suggested in an essay on to the subject of the minuet, this
movement had no place in contemporary symphonies because it destroyed the unity of
“affect” in such works, and could only be used if it did not sound like a dance.6
Symphony No. 41 “Jupiter”

Perhaps the best example of the influence of J.S. Bach on the late symphonies of Mozart
appears in the finale of his last symphony, no. 41, K. 551, “Jupiter.” Here we find a
sonata-form movement in which the Primary theme makes clear reference to several of
the fugue subjects from Bach’s Well Tempered Clavier. Ex. 2.31 illustrates the remarkable
similarity between Mozart’s opening theme in this last movement and the subjects of the
C major fugue, the D major fugue, and the D minor fugue of the WTC, Book I. Each of
these subjects includes the sequence of scale steps 1, 2, 4, 3, 6, 5 in prominent rhythmic
positions.
Ex. 2.31a Symphony No. 41, Finale Primary Theme
Ex. 2.31b Subject of Bach C-Major Fugue, Bk. I of WTC
Ex. 2.31c Subject of Bach D-Major Fugue, Bk. I of WTC
Ex. 2.31d Subject of Bach D-Minor Fugue, Bk. I of WTC
In addition to these allusions to some of the fugues from Bach’s WTC, the first four
notes of Mozart’s theme (the whole notes) are part of the history of contrapuntal music
dating back to Josquin des Prez (1450?–1521), whose Miss Pange Lingua borrowed
those same pitches from the medieval Latin Hymn by the same name. This motive con-
tinued to appear in the works of composers for hundreds of years thereafter, including
its use by Franz Liszt in the first of his Two Episodes from Lenau’s Faust. Especially
interesting in this matter of historical allusion in Mozart’s last symphony is the fact that
the C major cantus firmus from the famous species counterpoint treatise Gradus ad Par-
nassum (1725) by Johann Joachim Fux takes these same four notes and extends them
with a pattern of pitches that is duplicated in the continuation of Mozart’s main theme.
(Compare Ex. 2.32 with 2.31a.) This particular treatise found its way into the hands of
nearly every young student of composition in the 18th century, including both Haydn
and Mozart. Suffice it to say that this last movement of Symphony no. 41 is steeped in
a deliberate referentialism that pays homage to a centuries-old tradition of contrapuntal
writing.
Ex. 2.32 C Major Cantus Firmus From Fux’s Gradus ad Parnassum
From a structural point of view, the exposition of this movement is like nothing Mozart
ever wrote before. It consists of the usual collection of contrasting themes—Primary,
Transition, Secondary, and Closing—that one would expect to find in a Classical sonata
form. But in a most unusual departure from standard compositional practice, Mozart
constructed all three themes from a collection of five short interrelated motives that are
arranged in varying permutations. Ex. 2.33 illustrates all three themes with the various
motives numbered in each.
Ex. 2.33a Thematic Material in the Exposition; Primary Theme, Motives 1 and 2
Ex. 2.33b Transition, Motive 3
Ex. 2.33c Fugue Subject With Motive 4, m. 53
Ex. 2.33d Secondary Theme, Motive 5, m. 80

Ex. 2.33e Closing Theme, Motive 2, m. 115
Most interesting in this sonata exposition is Mozart’s inclusion of a fugue-like section

between the transition and the Secondary theme. This fugal section (actually a canon) is
built from a combination of motive no. 1 and a new motive, no. 4 (Ex. 2.33c). There fol-
lows the expected Secondary theme, here built by combining a new motive, no. 5, with the
return of two old motives, nos. 3 and 4. The exposition then closes with a theme based
on the second motive of the Primary theme (no. 2). The final tour de force of contrapun-
tal ingenuity appears in the coda of this movement, where Mozart manages to combine
motives 1, 3, 4, and 5 in a section of five-voice invertible counterpoint the likes of which
hadn’t been seen since the era of J.S. Bach (Ex. 2.34).
Ex. 2.34 Invertible Counterpoint in the Coda
The continual recycling of a fixed collection of motives for the purpose of creating the
contrasting themes of the sonata-form exposition constitutes a bold new approach to sym-
phonic writing in the 18th century—one that could only have emerged through Mozart’s
newly acquired and intimate knowledge of the music of J.S. Bach. One can only imagine
what the reaction of audiences to this symphony might have been. While there is no evi-
dence that this piece ever had a public performance in Mozart’s lifetime, the reaction of
any audience of the 1780s would most surely have been one of surprise, confusion, and a
lack of understanding about what Mozart was trying to do in this music. While audiences
of the 21st century appreciate the unique complexity and difficulty of Mozart’s late music,
that very complexity was not likely to have pleased his contemporaries. Throughout his
life, Mozart received continual warnings from his father that if he continued to write such
difficult music he would risk losing his audience. Mozart seems to have resented this advice
as an infringement on his artistic freedom and as a sign of how little Leopold understood
and appreciated his son’s genius. To this parental admonition Mozart usually replied that
his music spoke to audiences of all levels of sophistication, from the uneducated common
man to the most learned connoisseurs. But he may have been fooling himself with this
claim. Critics frequently mentioned in reviews of his concerts that his music was difficult,
both to play and to listen to. And given the usual use of symphonies in the 18th century,
audiences certainly never expected to be faced with music that required careful attention.
A symphony was simply a noisy piece that preceded the important solo or chamber music
on a program. In fact, throughout the 18th century, the use of symphonies in concert
programs never really stepped far outside the shadow of the Italian opera overture from
which the symphony initially evolved. In addition, the basic reality of concert production
in the 18th century that limited rehearsal time to one reading of a new symphony would
have predetermined the level of difficulty for any such works. With such drastic limita-
tions on rehearsal time, a symphony that was too difficult to sight-read could easily ruin
a composer’s reputation.
In the final analysis, the growing complexity of Mozart’s symphonic style, even if it may
have prevented him from achieving the kind of wide-spread popularity one suspects he
always wanted, nevertheless represents an important transition in the very nature of the
genre itself, from utilitarian music to art music. What was once a genre of little significance,
one that composers produced in large quantities, was soon to become a genre over which
composers labored slowly and painstakingly. The symphony of the Romantic era material-
ized as perhaps the most serious genre in which composers could work—the genre by which
they were measured in terms of their compositional technique as well as the depth of their
emotional expression. With Mozart’s last symphonies, we find the genre on the cusp of a
total reinvention, which was to culminate in the works of Beethoven and beyond.
Study Questions
1. Why are the symphonies that Breitkopf numbered from 42–56 not usually thought to
be part of the symphonic canon of Mozart?
2. Mozart began his career working as a court musician for whom?
3. What is the primary influence of Haydn on Mozart’s symphonies?
4. How did Mozart come to know the music of J.S. Bach?
Further Reading
The seminal work on Mozart’s symphonies has been done by Neal Zaslaw in his book Mozart’s Sym-
phonies: Context, Performance Practice, Reception (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), excerpts of
which appear as program notes for the recording of the complete symphonies by Christopher
Hogwood and the Academy of Ancient Music.
Notes
1. H.C. Robins Landon, The Symphonies of Joseph Haydn (New York, NY: Macmillan, 1955),
797–823.
2. In terms of the numbering of Haydn’s symphonies, no. 30 appears to be the last three-movement
symphony. But that work actually predates Symphony no. 26.
3. Ludwig Köchel, Chronologisch-thematisches Verzeichnis sämtlicher Tonwerke Wolfgang Amadé
Mozarts (1862; 6th ed. by Franz Giegling, Alexander Weinmann, and Gerd Sievers, Wiesbaden:
Breitkopf and Härtel, 1964).
4. See his letter of 3 July 1778 in Cliff Eisen, ed., Mozart: A Life in Letters (London: Penguin
Books, 2006), 307.
5. Ibid.
6. See Carl Spazier, “On the Minuet in Symphonies,” Musikalische Wochenblatt, Vol. XII (1792).
Reprinted in Studien für Tonkünstler und Musikfreunde Berlin: Verlag der neuen Musikhand-
lung, 1793, 91–92.
3 From Classicism to Romanticism
Beethoven and the Destruction of the Classical Style

The Early Years
It has often been accurately remarked that Ludwig van Beethoven was a composer of
pivotal importance in the history of Western music. He single-handedly redefined the Clas-
sical style inherited from Haydn and Mozart and paved the way for the great Romantic
composers of the 19th century. In that regard, we might assign Beethoven the role of a
transitional figure linking the 18th and 19th centuries.
As a symphonist, Beethoven’s importance to the development of the genre and his
impact on later composers cannot be overestimated. Beginning in 1800 with his first sym-
phony, one that was deeply indebted to the “London” symphonies of Haydn, Beethoven
continued over the next 23 years to complete a total of nine symphonies. This represents a
significant decrease when compared with the symphonic output of earlier composers such
as Mozart and Haydn. In and of itself, this change points to a new role for the symphony
in the lives of both composers and audiences. Whereas in the 18th century the symphony
served mostly as a noisy concert overture with minimal musical individuality, the same
genre became in the 19th century the one by which the stature of any composer was meas-
ured. Every new symphony represented a major effort on the part of its creator, and every
new symphony was expected to differ in style, form, or message from its predecessors.
In the case of Beethoven, many of his symphonies represent the most significant develop-
ments in the growth of this genre in the Romantic era, and the last of them might even be
said to have challenged the very definition of a symphony.
Like Mozart before him, Beethoven was born into a family of royal court musicians
who had come to Germany from the Netherlands—hence the prefix “van” in the name.
In Germany “van” was often confused with “von,” which was a sign of a family’s nobil-
ity. Beethoven never corrected people who made the mistake of addressing him as “von
Beethoven,” seeming to relish the pretense of nobility, which he carried far into his life.
Beethoven’s grandfather, also named Ludwig, worked as the Kapellmeister for the Elector
of Cologne, who, in 1770, resided in Bonn, Germany. Beethoven’s father, Johann, also served
the royal court as a tenor in the choir. So when little Ludwig was born in 1770, it was no
surprise to see that the boy demonstrated some genuine musical talent. Early lessons came at
the hands of his father, who was eager to turn his son into a second Mozart, hoping perhaps
to tour him all over Europe giving concerts and making a fortune, as Leopold had done with
his gifted son. But Beethoven was no Mozart, and brutal attempts by Johann to make the boy
into a child prodigy were met with Ludwig’s intense rejection of his father, whom he came to
see as a second-rate singer who was usually drunk and more often than not abusive. Most of
Beethoven’s life-long nobility pretense had its raison d’être in his need to disavow his abusive
father and to invent an imaginary replacement of a more elevated rank.1
Fortunately, his father soon gave Ludwig’s musical education over to the local court
organist, Christian Gottlob Neefe (1748–98) who undertook Beethoven’s instruction in
organ and composition, with a detailed study of the music of J.S. Bach. Neefe was also a
member of a Masonic lodge, and instructed young Beethoven in the high moral code of
brotherhood, justice, and equality that characterized that fraternity of believers. These
ideals remained with Beethoven for the rest of his life and can be seen on full display in his
Ninth Symphony and several other important works.
Eventually the Elector saw Beethoven as a likely successor to his grandfather as
Kapellmeister, and so decided that a fuller musical education was essential if the boy was
to take over as director of the court musicians. This led to the idea of sending the 17-year-
old Beethoven to Vienna to study with Mozart. Not much is known for sure about their
meeting; but what we do know is that before Beethoven could actually begin lessons with
Mozart, he was called back to Bonn, where his mother had been taken gravely ill. As
a result, the projected lessons with Mozart never materialized, and it was several years
before Beethoven had another opportunity to return to Vienna for more advanced study.
This second chance to study in Vienna came in 1792, when Joseph Haydn stopped in
Bonn on his way home from his first trip to London, where he had been invited by the
impresario Peter Salomon to write six symphonies for his concert series. Haydn met the
young Beethoven, and after examining some of his early compositions, worked out a deal
with the Elector to take Beethoven as a student starting soon thereafter. So in late 1792
Beethoven arrived in Vienna with a letter of introduction from one of Bonn’s most distin-
guished aristocrats, Count Ferdinand Waldstein, and with high hopes for his lessons with
the grand old master. But these lessons with Haydn did not go as well as Beethoven had
expected. Haydn seems to have been preoccupied with a proposed second trip to London
in 1794, and consequently found himself with little interest in teaching the 21-year-old
boy from Bonn. As a result, many of the counterpoint exercises that Beethoven worked on
with Haydn were left with numerous uncorrected errors, and it became clear to Beethoven
that his new teacher had more important matters on his mind than guiding the studies of
a new student. On the other hand, Beethoven’s behavior was itself not above reproach; a
diligent, honest student he was not. Instead of writing new works, he often showed Haydn
pieces he had brought to Vienna from Bonn. This charade worked well until Haydn sent
some of those works to the Elector as evidence of Beethoven’s “progress,” at which point
the Elector angrily alerted Haydn to the fact that he had been duped by his protégé.
The final breakdown in the relationship with Haydn occurred when Beethoven finished
his first set of three piano trios (eventually published as op. 1). When he showed them to
Haydn, he was told that he probably should not try to publish the third in the set (the C
minor trio), as its revolutionary musical style would surely jeopardize Beethoven’s growing
reputation as an important new composer in Vienna. Beethoven, of course, was shocked
by this advice, and immediately decided that his teacher was simply jealous of his young
student’s compositional ability and innovative style. Under these strained circumstances,
Beethoven was probably not unhappy to see Haydn leave for a second trip to London in
1794, at which point he moved on to taking lessons with Johann Georg Albrechtsberger, a
famous counterpoint teacher, and Antonio Salieri, the royal court composer who had been
Mozart’s chief competition in Vienna.
The Period of Imitation—Symphony No. 1

Beethoven’s career has long been divided by historians into three creative periods: the period
of imitation from about 1782–1802, the heroic period from about 1803–13, and the late
period from around 1815 to the end of his life. The first period is one of apprenticeship, in
which Beethoven took as models for his work the compositions of the great masters of the
From Classicism to Romanticism 69
high Classical period—mostly Mozart and Haydn. Beethoven’s first two symphonies fall
into this initial period of imitation, but clearly also show the young composer in the process
of finding his own voice apart from his predecessors. As a result, Beethoven’s first sympho-
nies tend to use forms that became standard in the decades of the 1780s and 1790s, but at
the same time they have a unique sound not previously heard in earlier symphonies.
As a young up-and-coming musician in Vienna in the 1790s, Beethoven first made his
reputation as a pianist whose style of playing was dramatic and exciting. He then moved
on to make his reputation as a composer, first of piano music, then of chamber music, and
finally, toward the end of the decade, of orchestral music. Having studied with the greatest
composer of symphonies in the 1790s, Beethoven may have been reluctant to challenge
his teacher in the one genre for which Haydn was perhaps best known. As a result, Bee-
thoven’s first attempt at writing a symphony was delayed until the year 1800, by which
time he was already a well-respected 30-year old composer of many other genres.
Beethoven’s First Symphony appeared on a concert presented by the composer for his own
benefit on 2 April 1800. As Mozart had done before him, Beethoven gave concerts in order
to feature himself as both pianist and composer. And like the concerts Mozart presented in
his Viennese years, these programs always included both the composer playing one of his
own piano concertos, and also a symphony that opened and closed the program. In Mozart’s
concerts these symphonies were rarely played straight through, but were arranged instead
with the first two movements at the beginning of the program, and the finale at the very
end. The purpose of the symphony was thus not to present a serious piece of music for the
edification of the audience, but rather to simply alert them to the fact that the concert was
about to begin and it was time to stop talking and visiting with one’s neighbors. Beethoven
challenged this old view of how a symphony should be programmed with the premier of his
First Symphony. On this first public concert of his own music, Beethoven chose to present
a complete symphony by, as the program stated, “the late Kapellmeister Mozart”2 at the
outset, and to finish the program with his own Symphony no. 1. While the purpose of the
symphony may still have been a pragmatic one of quieting the audience, the fact that these
symphonies were performed with all their movements intact suggests a growing respect for
the genre as a kind of music to be taken seriously.
Quite naturally Beethoven used as his model the last symphonies of both Mozart and
Haydn, choosing to take up the symphony where these great composers left off. That
includes his adoption of what is often referred to as the “full Classical orchestra.” In the
Classical period, orchestras, especially at royal courts, had been fairly small—c. 15–25
players, including usually strings, two oboes, and two horns, with trumpets and timpani
as optional additions on some occasions, and a bassoon playing the bass line with the
cellos, double basses, and harpsichord. Once public concert series such as the Concert
Spirituel in Paris became popular in the early 18th century, orchestras increased in size to
include the missing woodwinds—flutes and clarinets. The full complement of players then
included strings, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons (now independent
from the low strings), two horns, two trumpets, and timpani. This configuration replicates
the orchestra Haydn used in his last six London symphonies in 1794.3
One of the special features of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 1 is therefore not the makeup
of the orchestra, but rather the way in which the composer employed its instruments. It
was considered standard compositional practice in the Classical era to begin a symphony
with a tonic triad, and with the violins playing the principal melody. Beethoven upset this
old “rule” immediately at the beginning of his slow introduction to the first movement.
This extraordinary music begins with the string section playing pizzicato chords on the
first and third beats of each measure, while the woodwinds and horns sustain the under-
lying harmonies (see Ex. 3.1). The sound of the opening of the symphony is thus that of
wind instruments, not strings. This, in turn, led one contemporary critic to label the whole
symphony Harmonie Musik, by which he meant music for wind band.
Ex. 3.1 Symphony No. 1, First Movement Opening
The other famous departure from tradition also occurs in the first measure of this sym-
phony (Ex. 3.1), and that is the opening dominant seventh chord built on the tonic note C.
This is not the usual tonic triad that was expected at the opening of any piece of Classical
music, but rather a chord whose function is V7 of IV. Such an unusual harmony suggests
the symphony is actually in the key of F major instead of C major. The V7 chord is also
a dissonance (at least it was in 1800) that violated the rule of beginning every work with
a consonant triad. The confusion about the key of the piece, the dissonance at the outset,
and the fact that the violins were not given a melodic theme in the first measure, all point
to an unusually creative mind—one that was willing to take chances by abandoning tra-
ditional compositional procedures in favor of creating new musical effects. For all of this
Beethoven was roundly chastised at the time.
Returning to the subject of Beethoven’s unusual use of instruments, anyone familiar with
the symphonies of Haydn will immediately notice that Beethoven’s orchestra sounds big-
ger and louder than that of his predecessor. But since the orchestra itself includes the same
instruments for which Haydn had written in his last years, we need to look more carefully
at what Beethoven was doing with those instruments. In particular the woodwind parts in
most Classical symphonies are often written “a due,” with both players in any given section
playing the same part. By contrast, in Beethoven’s First Symphony we frequently find a sepa-
rate part for each woodwind player—a technique that thickens the sound of the orchestra
and adds more weight to the wind section (explaining perhaps the charge of “band music;”
see the opening measures of the introduction). Something similar appears in the violin parts,
where Beethoven frequently calls for a triple divisi of both the first and second violins, again
adding weight to the overall sound of the orchestra (also seen in the opening measures).
The overall effect of Beethoven’s First Symphony is thus one of greater power, with
more dynamic contrast than anything heard in concert halls before this. Clearly Beethoven
had absorbed the musical forms and styles of his Classical predecessors, but was already
on a new path of his own invention. Audiences recognized a new dramatic energy in
Beethoven’s early work—more forceful gestures, greater dynamic contrast, more driving
rhythms, and a bolder use of brass and woodwinds. The First Symphony pushes the lim-
its of conventional symphonic composition in subtle but clearly audible ways, and, in so
doing, marks the first step in the reinvention of the genre in the 19th century.
The Heroic Period

As Beethoven approached the turn of the century, he began to notice a ringing in his ears,
which today doctors would label tinnitus. Writing to his friend Franz Wegeler in Bonn in
1801, be explains that his career is doing well, with “more commissions than it is possible
for me to fulfill.” At the same time, however, he complains about his health saying that
“for the last three years [from 1798] my hearing has become weaker and weaker.” After
explaining the various remedies his doctors prescribed, Beethoven finally gets around to
the real issue that troubles him. “For almost two years I have ceased to attend any social
functions, just because I find it impossible to say to people: I am deaf.”4 Clearly aware
of the significance of deafness for a musician, Beethoven fell into a depression and talked
about having to resign himself to this horrible fate. Yet at other times he seemed to find
cause for hope. Writing to the same friend five months later, he proclaims that he “will
seize fate by the throat; it shall certainly not bend and crush me completely.”5
But the following summer (1802) Beethoven’s hearing crisis came to a head while he was
staying in the town of Heiligenstadt, just outside of Vienna. There his deteriorating hearing
caused him to contemplate suicide, but he rejected that solution to his problem in favor of
a self-justification for what he believed the world perceived as his misanthropic personality.
In a lengthy last will and testament (known as the Heiligenstadt Testament) addressed to
his two brothers, Beethoven lays out the cause of his misanthropy—his deafness—as though
by the time he was dead, the world would still not have been aware of his problem. He
explains, most importantly, that he would have ended his life, but that “it was only my art
that held me back. It seemed to me impossible to leave the world until I had brought forth all
that I felt was within me.”6 Beethoven’s metaphorical image of pregnancy and birth (implicit
in the phrase “bring forth all that was within me”) aptly describes a change of attitude about
composers and their work beginning here in the early 19th century. Composers no longer
make music the way a furniture maker builds a table. Instead, they give birth to art that ger-
minates within them and is then delivered to the world. In the 19th century artists suddenly
became aware of their mission in the world to function as what might be called poet/priests,
the carriers and communicators of divine wisdom.
After returning to Vienna from the turbulent crisis of the summer in Heiligenstadt, Bee-
thoven announced to his publisher that he was “on a new path,” implying that a change
of compositional style lay directly ahead. This new style defines what we call the “Heroic
Period” of Beethoven’s career, from 1803 to about 1813. In that decade we find works that
delineate in music Beethoven’s struggle with his hearing loss. His was a struggle to overcome
an infirmity, postulated in musical images of victory over adversity and of movement from
darkness to light. The heroic works of these years often feature changes of mode from minor
to major, frequently accompanied by dramatic (almost violent) musical gestures, expanded
orchestration, larger forms, and other compositional experiments. This heroic style presents
listeners with a musical autobiography the likes of which no one had ever heard in the 18th
century. This was music that communicated a personal message.
When Beethoven gave concerts on which his symphonies appeared, he usually hired
either an orchestra attached to one of the various theaters in Vienna, or one of the amateur
orchestras that also presented concerts. Beginning with his first “academie” in 1800, when
his First Symphony was premiered, we have only some vague information about who
conducted the concert. Following the usual late 18th century practice, the concertmaster
was most likely still responsible for directing the orchestra. But by the time the Eroica
Symphony debuted in 1805, the printed concert program clearly reported that Beethoven
had “agreed to conduct the concert.” Of course we do not know exactly what the word
“conduct” meant in the context of orchestral performance in1805. We know from various
reports that Beethoven was involved in both rehearsals and the performance as some kind
of director, but it isn’t quite clear whether he actually beat time in a continuous fashion,
or whether he waved his hands to elicit the desired mood of the music from his players.7
Illustration 3.1 Beethoven in His Heroic Period

Symphony No. 3, “Eroica”
Beethoven entered the heroic style with the first new work written after the summer
of 1802, the famous Symphony no. 3 in E-flat major, “Eroica.” As its name implies,
Beethoven’s Third Symphony is a programmatic work about heroism. Despite a few
experiments with program symphonies by other composers in the 18th century, it was
Beethoven who established the idea of music driven by a “poetic idea.”8 The concept
of heroism attracted Beethoven throughout his middle and late periods, undoubt-
edly because of his own heroic efforts to defeat his deafness. As he cast about for
heroic models, his attention settled on Napoleon Bonaparte, the First Consul of the
new French Republic. As originally conceived, Beethoven’s symphony bore the sub-
title “Bonaparte,” because Napoleon was in many ways the perfect representation
of Enlightenment ideals: a man who had risen through the ranks of the French army
to become a general, and then First Consul of the new Revolutionary government.
But his ambition outstripped good judgment when, in 1804, he declared himself
Emperor. Upon hearing this news, Beethoven became outraged that his hero had so
easily betrayed the ideals of liberty, equality, and brotherhood. In a fit of anger Bee-
thoven tried to erase the name “Bonaparte” from the title page of his new symphony,
ripping a hole in the page in the process. Not until some years later did he add the
new title “Eroica.”9 Despite the original title, the symphony was never really about
Napoleon per se, as much as it was about a heroic life in general and what a true hero
can accomplish. In that regard the Eroica can be taken as yet another autobiographi-
cal work in which we can find the shadow of Beethoven looming behind Napoleon
on every page.
One of the remarkable aspects of this symphony is its length, approximately twice
that of any earlier Classical symphony. Perhaps heroic lives need a larger canvas on
which to be depicted. If so, this symphony constitutes a truly grand gesture, whose
vastly enlarged scope is partly achieved through the use of a greater number of themes
in the exposition of the first movement (Ex. 3.2), but more importantly, through the
extension of the process of thematic development throughout the various sections of the
sonata form.
Ex. 3.2 Symphony No. 3, First Movement Themes of the Exposition
3.2a Primary Theme
3.2b Transition 1
3.2c Secondary Theme 1
3.2d Transition 2
3.2e Secondary Theme 2
3.2f Closing Theme
In the symphonies of Haydn and Mozart, the process of thematic development was
mostly limited to that section of a sonata form immediately following the double bar at
the end of the exposition. These development sections were usually not more than a frac-
tion of the length of the exposition, creating a small area of tonal instability between the
harmonically less volatile exposition and recapitulation. The development section in Bee-
thoven’s Eroica first movement, on the other hand, is one and a half times the length of the
exposition, which represents a growth from about one third the length of the exposition in
a symphony of Mozart to 150 percent of the length of the exposition in Beethoven’s sym-
phony. In effect, the musical development in this symphony overwhelms the outer sections
of the first movement, effectively prolonging the area of tonal instability in the movement
and creating an imposing work of dramatic instability.
Equally important is Beethoven’s remaking of sonata form into a four-part structure:
Exposition, development, recapitulation, and coda (development 2). Classical sympho-
nies, of course, frequently have codas, but in the 18th century a coda is literally a “tail
piece” that took the form of a few extra measures of dominant-tonic harmony at the end
of a movement. In contrast, Beethoven’s coda in the Eroica Symphony takes on a new
role as a fairly extended second development section that serves to further prolong the
movement and to destabilize the recapitulation by introducing new modulations at exactly
the point in the form where one would expect the tonic key to be most strongly confirmed.
In the process, this new section at the end of the sonata-form movement separates itself
from the other parts of the form and becomes an independent division of the movement.
Along with the monumentality of the Eroica comes a sense of drama in this symphony.
The word “dramatic” is frequently used to describe Beethoven’s music with little or no
explanation of what that means. One possible answer is that what we call “drama” in
this music is actually a heightened level of anxiety and tension in the listener, brought
about by continually destabilizing forces in the music. This tension is often the product of
ambiguity that can arise in different parameters of the music—rhythm, meter, form, and
harmony—and of deflections that throw the expected direction of the musical narrative
off track. Let’s look at some examples in this first movement.
Ambiguity of Rhythm and Meter

Ambiguity occurs whenever the listener is made to feel unsure of any of the basic elements
of music. For instance, the first movement of the Eroica is in triple meter, but it begins
with two mysterious E-flat major chords. What is the function of these two chords? If they
form an introduction, then this is the shortest introduction in the history of the symphony.
On the other hand, these chords are clearly not part of the opening theme. To determine
the function of these unusual measures, one might ask what the listener knows about the
tempo and meter of the movement, on the basis of these two chords alone. The answer is
“nothing.” These two mysterious chords cannot, in and of themselves, inform anyone of
the tempo of the piece because it is unclear, by listening alone, what the underlying pulse
of the music is. Equally unclear from these two isolated chords is the meter of the music.
Following this ambiguous opening, the statement of the main theme clarifies both the
tempo and meter of the music. But this is then undermined or contradicted yet again by
some curious connecting material in m. 23 that precedes a restatement of that main theme.
Here suddenly Beethoven uses sforzandos, slurs, and ties in order to group notes into pairs
that suggest the real meter is 2/4 (Ex. 3.3). And when the
Ex. 3.3 Connecting Material Between Statements of the Primary Theme, m. 26
notes return to groups of three, what appears to be the downbeat in these groups is actu-
ally the third beat of the measure. Ex. 3.4 illustrates how this material might be heard
without reference to what is written in the score.
Ex. 3.4 Connecting Material Re-Barred to Reflect the Perceived Metric Organization
Clearly Beethoven was using ambiguity of meter as a dramatic device to create a sense of
instability and tension on the part of the listener.
Lastly, the transition that follows the second statement of the Primary theme con-
sists of a rhythmic pattern of a dotted quarter followed by an eighth and a quarter (Ex.
3.2b). The natural pattern of accentuation in such a rhythm would place the primary
stress on the longest note, the dotted quarter. But that long note and its corresponding
natural stress actually falls on the second beat of the measure, thus creating a conflict
between the real notated downbeat and the aurally perceived downbeat created by the
rhythm and phrasing of the melody. This all adds up to an extremely volatile opening
to the symphony—one full of drama that arises out of all this ambiguity and related
tension.
Ambiguity of Harmony/Tonality
To the extent that dissonance can cloud the underlying tonality of any piece of music, a
lack of harmonic clarity caused by dissonance can produce another type of ambiguity.
On at least one occasion in this movement, Beethoven uses harmonic dissonance to aug-
ment the dramatic effect of his metric ambiguity. This remarkable moment occurs at the
climax of the development section, where a minor triad with an added minor sixth over
the root ferociously pounds away on syncopations that again contradict the notated triple
meter at m. 276. By combining both metric and harmonic ambiguity, Beethoven was able
to compound the effect of this climax, producing an especially jarring effect marked by
arrows in Ex. 3.5.
Ex. 3.5 Climax of the Development Section
Immediately following this climax, Beethoven introduces a new theme in the key of E
minor (Ex. 3.6).
Not only does the new tonality effectively resolve the harmonic tension of the preced-
ing dissonant climax, it also resolves all the metric dissonance (the metric ambiguity)
created earlier in the piece. This new theme, based on the same rhythmic pattern seen
in Ex. 3.2b (dotted quarter, eighth, quarter), now appears with the stressed note, the
dotted quarter, placed on the real downbeat where it belongs. It therefore effectively
resolves two different kinds of ambiguity at once, creating a slackening of the dramatic
tension of the movement.
Another unusually dramatic moment resulting from a combination of harmonic and
metrical ambiguity occurs at the recapitulation. This is the famous moment when the sec-
ond horn seems to enter two measures too soon with the main theme in the tonic key of
E-flat, while the strings are still playing a B-flat dominant seventh chord, resulting in tonic
and dominant harmony occurring simultaneously. This apparent compositional mistake
was the source of much consternation in the 19th century, when some editors, such as
Francois Joseph Fétis, who worked in Paris in the 1830s, were sure this unfortunate con-
fluence of pitches must have been a copyist’s mistake, and thus proceeded to correct the
offensive harmony. The “correction” in turn caused Hector Berlioz to rail against Fétis for
defiling a masterpiece with his own presumptuous and mundane “fix” of Beethoven’s bril-
liant compositional idea. But what, exactly, is so brilliant about this strange moment in the
piece? The answer is that because tonic harmony usually functions as downbeat harmony,
and dominant harmony usually serves the metric function of an anacrusis, the confluence
of these dissonant chords becomes a harmonic metaphor for the confusion about the loca-
tion of the downbeat heard throughout the entire movement. The recapitulation therefore
serves to reinforce Beethoven’s fundamental dramatic technique of ambiguity.
Deflection
Yet another of Beethoven’s techniques for creating tension and drama in his music
involves any number of compositional techniques that deflect the expected unfolding
of the music. Most often the process of musical deflection is accomplished through
harmonic digressions that undermine the tonal direction of the work and lead the lis-
tener into a state of sudden confusion. Such is the role of the C-sharp at the end of the
opening phrase of the Primary theme, which up to that point consists of nothing but an
arpeggiated tonic triad. What are we to make of this one foreign note placed so close
to the opening of the work, and in such an important cadential position at the close
of the first phrase? Is the piece modulating before it has even gotten under way? This
kind of ambiguity upsets the equilibrium of the piece, and threatens to undermine the
tonal direction of the exposition. Example 3.7 illustrates how this C-sharp introduces
an implied secondary diminished seventh that resolves to I6/4 in the key of G minor. But
before Beethoven can finish this cadential progression with the expected V and i chords
in G minor, he turns the I6/4 into a V in E-flat in order to regain his tonal equilibrium.
This little harmonic detour thoroughly confuses the basic E-flat major tonality of the
movement almost as soon as it was established by the opening chords of the piece.
Ex. 3.7 Harmonic Analysis of the Opening Theme
A similar harmonic ambiguity occurs at the beginning of the coda in the first movement.
With the recapitulation closing clearly in E-flat major, Beethoven moves into the coda, which
is effectively a second development section, by changing key in the most drastic manner: the
E-flat major triad of the Primary theme drops a whole step to a D-flat major triad, and then
another half step to C major. Because a coda is usually designed as a musical tag that reaffirms
the tonic key, the fact that this one begins with violent modulations that contradict the tonic
key makes this important moment in the sonata form one that is shrouded in the drama of
deflection (Ex. 3.8).
Ex. 3.8 Beginning of the Coda
The second movement of Beethoven’s “Eroica” is a funeral march—clearly a form

ripe with programmatic associations. The perennial question asked here concerns the
relationship of this funeral march to the original dedicatee of the symphony, Napoleon
Bonaparte. After all, in 1804 when this piece was completed, Napoleon was still alive and
very actively pursuing his military conquest of all of Europe. One possible justification for
the inclusion of a funeral march in a heroic symphony like this one, is that the subject of
heroism will inevitably encompass the concept of a heroic death. In fact, Beethoven was
very likely familiar with the music of French composers of the late 18th century such as
François-Joseph Gossec and Étienne Nicolas Méhul, who wrote large patriotic cantatas
in the years immediately following the French Revolution. These cantatas, usually known
as chants nationales, were commissioned by the government to celebrate various Napo-
leonic victories and to commemorate the deaths of important military figures fallen in
battle. Inevitably, one of the sections in such a cantata was devoted to a funeral march,
usually characterized by a drumbeat that imitates that of a funeral cortège. That Bee-
thoven imitated this familiar rhythmic gesture with the grace notes in the double bass part
at the beginning of his funeral march is clearly no coincidence (Ex. 3.9).
Ex. 3.9 Double Bass “Drum Beat” Rhythm
This movement falls into a fairly simple three-part form in which the funeral march con-
stitutes and A section in C minor, while a contrasting middle section moves into C major
to create contrast via two new motivic ideas (Ex. 3.10).
Ex. 3.10 B Section

When the opening minor mode section returns, it brings with it a fugue based on another
new idea (Ex. 3.11).
Ex. 3.11 Fugue Theme, m. 114
This fugue serves as the material for the only section of musical development in this
otherwise simple movement.
Beethoven’s experiments with writing scherzos defined much of his significance as a
composer who transformed the Classical minuet into this new form. Gone now are the
old rounded binary forms we saw in the symphonies of Mozart. The new scherzo, like
some of the more advanced minuets of Haydn and Mozart, substitutes development of the
thematic material found in the first half of the movement for the traditional introduction
of a contrasting theme at the beginning of the second half. This development can often
occupy the entire second half of the binary form, and can far outweigh the first half of the
movement in terms of proportions. In this particular scherzo, the first half of the binary
form is 30 mm., while the second half is 130 mm.
Beethoven added an extra horn to the usual two for this symphony perhaps to
increase its heroic effect.10 Nowhere in the symphony are the three horns used more
effectively to produce this sense of Napoleonic nobility than in the trio of the scherzo
(Ex. 3.12).
Ex. 3.12 Trio of the Scherzo
In the finale of the Eroica Symphony, Beethoven departs from standard symphonic
practice by not writing the usual sonata-form or rondo-sonata-form last movement
that we find so often in the works of Haydn. This last movement is instead a set
of variations based on a passacaglia-like theme first heard in Beethoven’s 15 Vari-
ations and a Fugue op. 35, for which he had in turn borrowed the theme from his
incidental music to the ballet The Creatures of Prometheus (1801). The selection of
a theme from a work about the mythological Titan Prometheus bears examination
in terms of its significance for the heroic program of the whole symphony. In Greek
mythology Prometheus defied the gods and brought fire to mankind. For this, he was
punished by Zeus, who chained him to a rock where his liver was pecked out every
day by an eagle. Years later, Prometheus was rescued by Hercules, who killed the
eagle that tortured the Titan. Beethoven must surely have been drawn to the possible
autobiographical symbolism of this myth about a heroic individual being persecuted
and finally rescued.
After a short furious introduction, Beethoven begins this movement with the ground-
bass theme on which all the variations are built. He presents this theme four times in
increasingly complex contrapuntal arrangements, until he finally superimposes over it the
primary tune of the movement (Ex. 3.13).
Ex. 3.13a Ground Bass of the Finale
Ex. 3.13b Melody Superimposed Over the Ground Bass, m. 84
The variations are marked by various free transitions between them and by occasional
emendations of the passacaglia theme in which only the second half of the original binary
theme is present. This free treatment of the form contrasts with the far more regular treat-
ment of the same material in the op. 35 Variations for piano. Another major difference
between these two works is the fact that in the piano version the piece ends with a large
fugue, while in the symphony, the fugue is incorporated into the main body of the varia-
tions. While fugues and fugal textures are common in Beethoven’s piano sonatas through-
out his career, the only other use of this contrapuntal technique in the symphonies occurs
in the Ninth Symphony.
Other Heroic Period Innovations
Symphony No. 5
Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony must surely be one of the best-known pieces in the entire
repertoire of Classical music. The work therefore requires only a few quick comments to
catalogue the most important innovations Beethoven brought to this symphony.
First the key scheme of the symphony, which moves from C minor at the outset to fin-
ish in a blaze a C major glory in the finale, is an appropriate metaphor for Beethoven’s
struggles with his deafness. As such, C minor serves as a metaphor for the darkness of
his adversity in which fate had trapped the composer, and C major takes on the symbolic
meaning of the light of triumph over that adversity. To emphasize this sense of victory,
Beethoven added to the score of this symphony some important additional instruments
never before employed in a symphony orchestra: piccolo, contra-bassoon, and three
trombones. Of these, the trombones are by far the most important, as they immeasur-
ably augment the heroic effect of the finale, where they appear for the first time. In
reserving the trombones for the finale, Beethoven saved this orchestrational effect for
the moment of greatest programmatic significance—the symbolic victory over the forces
of darkness.
Also of significance in the Fifth Symphony is the fact that all the movements are created
out of the same rhythmic material found in the opening theme of the first movement. As
Haydn had done in his last symphony ten years earlier, Beethoven turned his attention to
the problem of long-range continuity in multi-movement works, trying to assure that each
movement was a part of a larger whole. Ex. 3.14 illustrates some of these rhythmic con-
nections between movements of this work.
Rhythmic Connections Between Movements
3.14a First Movement Primary and Closing Themes
3.14b Second Movement Secondary Theme, m. 22
3.14c Scherzo, Second Theme, m. 19
3.14d Finale Closing Theme, m. 44
Later in the symphony, Beethoven expands his concern with the subject of musical
continuity by connecting the end of the scherzo to the beginning of the finale through a
short bridge that is based on the repetition of this fundamental rhythmic motive in the
timpani. The attacca connection of the last two movements is then further supported
by a restatement of the heroic second theme of the scherzo right before the recapitula-
tion in the last movement sonata form. Here we have the first use of the technique of
“cyclical” organization that was to become so important in the works of later 19th-
century symphonists. A cyclical form arises whenever a theme from an earlier move-
ment reappears in a later movement of the same work. Such thematic recall guarantees
that the movements in which this happens will become aurally linked as parts of an
organic whole.
Like so many of Beethoven’s middle period works, this one also projects a strong
sense of drama. Many of the devices of ambiguity discussed in relation to the Eroica
Symphony reappear here, with one important addition: the technique of interrup-
tion. So much of Beethoven’s most dramatic music is interrupted by fermatas fairly
soon after the music gets underway. This interruption of the unfolding of the musi-
cal discourse produces a shocking ambiguity that leaves the listener confused about
what will happen next. Why did the music stop? Is something going to change once
the music resumes? In the case of the Fifth Symphony the fermatas are attached to
the very first measures of the piece in a way that causes the symphony to seem to be
unable to get going. When the progress of the music is interrupted in this manner, the
listener is subjected to an ambiguous situation, which, like that at the beginning of
the Eroica Symphony, leaves one unable to determine either the tempo or the meter
of the symphony. Ambiguity produces anxiety; anxiety produces tension; and tension
produces drama.
Symphony No. 6 “Pastoral”

Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony has long been held up as the first important program
symphony. But this popular view of the work is misleading on many levels. Most
importantly, the genre of the program symphony was explored earlier in the 18th
century by Haydn, whose three early works titled Le matin, Le midi, and Le soir
(Symphonies 6–8) make a somewhat oblique or incomplete attempt at the musical
depiction of extra-musical phenomena. Somewhat later, in the 1780s, Carl Ditters
von Dittersdorf composed 12 symphonies based on the Metamorphosen of the Roman
poet Ovid. While only nine of these symphonies survive to this day, they represent an
unusual attempt to adapt the Classical symphony to the purpose of painting musical
pictures. In addition, as F.E. Kirby has postulated, the Pastoral Symphony itself is not
really an example of program music as much as it is an example of a kind of imitative
music that falls most accurately into a special category that was labeled as “charac-
teristic” in the 18th century.11 By this definition, Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony is
not a work that tries to paint musical pictures, but rather a work that tries to capture
a pastoral mood through the employment of specific stylistic markers including the
use of 6/8 meter, the key of F major, repetitive rhythmic-melodic patterns, simple
diatonic harmony often underpinned by drone basses, and a general lack of thematic
development. This list of devices for the creation of the pastoral mood in music also
includes the possible use of real folk themes, as can be seen in the last movement of
Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony, where the main theme (Ex. 3.15) is an imitation of a
Ex. 3.15 Main Theme of the Finale

specific kind of alphorn tune known as the “ranz des vaches”—a traditional Swiss
shepherd melody.
Ex. 3.16 illustrates how this traditional melody appears in a modern book of alphorn
tunes.12
Ex. 3.16 An Original Alphorn Tune
Illustration 3.2 A Traditional Swiss Alphorn
In addition, Beethoven relied on specific folk song types in the building of the themes
used in his first movement. A look into almost any collection of Eastern European folk
songs will turn up melodies that look remarkably similar to those that appear in this sym-
phony. Ex. 3.17 places Beethoven’s Primary theme from the first movement alongside an
identical Croatian folk tune.13
Ex. 3.17a Primary Theme, First Movement
Ex. 3.17b Croatian Folk Tune14
Of course, the titles Beethoven appended to each of the movements in this symphony
also suggest that beyond the use of generic pastoral characteristics, he had the description
of specific scenes in mind, making this more than simply a piece of characteristic music of
the kind that was so common in the Classical era.
In marginal notes to his score, Beethoven described this work as “more a matter of feel-
ing than of painting in tones,” suggesting that his goal was not to write descriptive music
as much as it was to capture the pastoral feeling or mood of the whole piece. Despite
such disavowals, there is one entire movement of this symphony that is nothing but a
musical duplication of a storm. As such, this fourth movement has no form, no key, and
no themes. Likewise, at the end of the second movement “Scene by the Brook,” we hear
Beethoven’s attempt to imitate in the woodwinds the calls of a cuckoo, a nightingale, and
a quail. These mostly naïve attempts to imitate the sounds of the real world demonstrate
that Beethoven felt a certain amount of musical literalism was helpful in eliciting the mood
he wanted to project in this symphony.
The Late Style

Beethoven’s middle period included all the symphonies from Nos. 3 to 8, written over the
decade from 1803–12. At that point further tragedies of the magnitude found in the Heili-
genstadt episode of 1802 befell Beethoven. The two most important resulted in emotional
distress that propelled the composer into his final style period.
1. The first of these was his complete retirement from public performances as a pianist
because of the gradual worsening of his hearing. Already in 1811 Beethoven had turned
over the premier of his Fifth Piano Concerto (composed in 1809) to someone else when
he realized he was too deaf to play the piece in public. Strangely, however, he continued
to perform chamber music for several more years, until a terrible performance of the
Archduke Trio in 1814 caused him to finally admit that his deafness had gotten the
better of him. This was a crushing defeat for a person who had lived for so many years
under the illusion (or hope) that he would beat down fate and emerge triumphant.
2. At about that same time Beethoven was involved in a relationship with a woman
known today only as the “immortal beloved,” because his most famous letter to
her does not mention her by name. Nearly all of the women with whom Beethoven
fell in love over the years were unavailable, either because they were married, or
because they were of the aristocracy, or both. While Beethoven had convinced him-
self that he too was of noble birth, and that he always wanted to find a wife and
have a family, he effectively precluded that possibility by subconsciously turning
his attentions to inappropriate female choices, thus guaranteeing that he would
never find a partner. The difference between this relationship with the immortal
beloved and all the others in which Beethoven had been involved was that this
woman, herself a married aristocrat (most likely Antonie Brentano), announced
to Beethoven her willingness to leave her husband and children in order to be
with him. At that point in the relationship Beethoven’s bluff had been called—an
unavailable woman had suddenly made herself available—and in a panic the only
response he could muster was to turn down her offer. Once that happened, the
fantasy of married life and family was broken and Beethoven realized he was going
to be alone for the rest of his life.
Out of these tragic circumstances grew a change of attitude on Beethoven’s part, the
first symptom of which was his almost complete withdrawal from public life and his con-
centration on a small group of close friends and admirers. As a result, Beethoven gave up
writing works in “public” genres—those like the symphony and the concerto that were
intended for large audiences of mostly middle-class citizens. Instead, he concentrated on
the composition of “private” genres such as the piano sonata, and the string quartet, all of
which were now written for a close-knit group of connoisseurs (mostly aristocrats) who
remained faithful supporters of even Beethoven’s strangest late music.
The music that grew out of these last years is full of severe contrasts, some pieces
are extremely large, some very short, some are very simple, others frighteningly complex
and difficult. Some of this music is characterized by an almost religious tranquility that
bespeaks a resignation that evolved from his acceptance of his total deafness, while other
pieces project a frenetic energy that suggests the wild flailing of a desperate man still car-
rying on the fight with his handicap. Much of the late music seems to have grown out of
a creative isolation in which Beethoven apparently no longer concerned himself with the
practicalities of performance. Some listeners and performers even claimed he was writing
impossible music because he couldn’t hear what he was doing.
In terms of the symphony, Beethoven’s withdrawal from public life meant he no
longer needed such works. The Eighth Symphony had appeared in 1812, and ten
years went by without any new Beethoven symphonies being heard in Vienna. This
circumstance changed in 1822 when Beethoven contemplated a trip to London to give
concerts as Haydn had done more than 20 years earlier. For such a trip, he needed at
least one new symphony: his Ninth. But this final foray into the genre that Beethoven
had made so much his own for over twenty years was in some ways a throwback
to his Heroic Period. The first three movements in particular are reminiscent of the
Eroica Symphony of 1803: the first movement is an extended sonata form, the second
movement is a large scherzo, and the third movement is a set of variations based on
the alternation of two contrasting themes. Only in the fourth and final movement
of this symphony did Beethoven enter the world of compositional experimentation
that marks so much of his late period music. The idea of setting a poem by Friedrich
Schiller titled “An die Freude,” (“To Joy,” written 1785 and read by Beethoven in
1793 shortly after he moved to Vienna), which extolls the ideals of the Enlighten-
ment (social equality, justice, human liberty, brotherhood), meant that Beethoven was
willing to reconsider the very nature of the genre of the symphony. Heretofore, the
symphony had always been an exclusively instrumental genre. In Beethoven’s hands
it had grown over the years into something that expressed an extra-musical message
of the composer’s making. But now that message was to be appended to the work
in the form of a sung text. Here Beethoven made explicit the implicit programmatic
associations in many of his earlier symphonies. Looking back on this milestone in the
history of the symphony, some composers such as Richard Wagner saw the demise
of the genre, while others, like Hector Berlioz, saw a possible new direction for the
symphony in the years ahead.
This last movement is daringly original on other levels as well. It begins with a har-
mony that synthesizes the two fundamental keys of the symphony—D minor and B-flat
major—into one bitonal chord. This in turn leads to the famous instrumental recitative
in the double basses and cellos that prepares the listener for the vocal recitative that fol-
lows shortly thereafter. Punctuating this instrumental recitative are short reminiscences
of the main themes from each of the earlier movements, making the work completely
cyclical in its organization. This leads finally to an orchestral setting of the ode theme
that will form the basis of all the variations on which the movement is built. Only once
this instrumental introduction is completed does the chorus finally enter with a vocal
setting of the ode theme.
Throughout the movement Beethoven contrives to place the most important line of
Schiller’s text, “Alle Menschen werden Brüder,” in sharp relief, especially near the end
of the movement where he takes a harmonic turn from D major into the foreign key of E
major and gives this line of poetry to the quartet of solo voices in an elaborate polyphonic
setting that sounds shockingly unlike anything else in the entire symphony—essentially an
operatic vocal cadenza for four voices (Ex. 3.18).
Ex. 3.18 Solo Quartet, Finale
Beethoven’s work as a symphonist encompassed 23 years in the first quarter of the 19th
century. In that time he virtually redefined this genre, bringing to it the element of what
Richard Strauss later called the “poetic idea,” an extra-musical inspiration that fertilized
so many of these works, even in the absence of specific programmatic titles like those seen
in Symphonies no. 3 and 6, or actual sung texts as in Symphony no. 9. In Beethoven’s
hands the symphony had become a serious piece of musical art, expressive of the com-
poser’s deepest spiritual insights and philosophical messages.
Study Questions
1. With whom did Beethoven study composition in Vienna?
2. How many symphonies of Beethoven fall into his Early Period of compositional
activity?
3. How is Beethoven’s orchestra different from that of Haydn or Mozart?
4. What was shockingly new about Beethoven’s First Symphony?
5. What did Beethoven mean when he said his Sixth Symphony was more about feeling
than painting in tones?
6. In which symphony did Beethoven first connect two of the movement attacca?
Further Reading
Maynard Solomon, “Portrait of a Young Composer,” in Beethoven, 2nd ed. (New York, NY:
Schirmer Books, 1998), Chapter 8.
Schubert and the First Signs of Romanticism

Introduction
The formulation of a succinct textbook definition of Romanticism poses innumerable
difficulties for anyone writing about 19th- century music. Romanticism, as it emerged in
the symphonic writing of this period, took many forms in the music of dozens of different
composers, but was generally marked by a desire on the part of each of these composers
to find a unique and individual voice. The artistic concerns of freedom from inherited
forms and procedures, borrowed from the sister arts of literature and painting of the late
18th century, swept through the world of music beginning in the 1820s. The inspiration
for this move toward a more personal style of composition surely derived in part from the
new Romantic novels of the 1770s, such as Goethe’s Sorrows of Young Werther, the sur-
real paintings of Henri Fuseli, and most importantly from the philosophy of Jean-Jacques
Rousseau, who famously advised “think less, feel more.” But the musical godfather of the
new era was clearly Beethoven, with whom the conscious expression of the idea of the
composer as an artist first emerged. Prior to 1802, when Beethoven first referred in the
Heiligenstadt Testament to his music as his “art,” composers had generally been thought
of as servant-craftsmen who built music much as a furniture maker might build a chair.
It was not until Beethoven began to use his music to express the struggle with his own
personal adversity that music became the vehicle for the communication of a message that
was unique to each composer. This sense that music was a message manifested itself to
varying degrees and in many ways in the symphonies of 19th-century composers. On the
whole, these composers can be categorized into two large groups based on their relation-
ship to the principles of the Romantic avant-garde. These principles of modernism took
the form of an interest in, or search for:
1. New large-scale symphonic forms characterized by unusual numbers of movements,

attacca connections between movements, and cyclical structures that bound these
movements together.
2. New variations of standard sonata form that employed free narrative structures and
thematic transformation.
3. Expanded orchestral color through the use of new and unusual instruments or new
orchestrational techniques.
4. Literary and/or autobiographical programs
5. More colorful harmony and key relationships
6. Greater lyricism and melodic breadth
Admittedly, none of these compositional concerns was completely new in the symphonies
of Romantic composers. However, the difference between the use of some of these musi-
cal principles in the 18th century (such as Haydn’s one experimental use of two English
horns in his Symphony no. 22 “The Philosopher”) and their use in the 19th century lies in
the fact that these new compositional concerns became more or less de rigeur markers of
the new Romantic style. Nevertheless, different composers approached this collection of
stylistic principles with differing degrees of enthusiasm. One group of composers tended
to view the symphony in more traditional terms as a large-scale orchestral work in four
discrete movements using standard forms. These were what might be labeled the “con-
servatives” or “traditionalists.” At the same time, other composers worked hard to find
new solutions to the problem of how to write a symphony after Beethoven, and conse-
quently borrowed more heavily from this list of “Romantic concerns.” This group could
be described as the self-consciously avant-garde composers of the new era. However, the
question of which composers belong in which group has always troubled historians, as
some composers seem to have embraced characteristics of both camps. Rather than think-
ing of Romantic composers as belonging to one or another of two distinctly different
groups, it might be more productive to think of them as falling somewhere on a line that
marks a continuum between styles that reflect a greater or lesser concern with the most
modern styles and techniques of composition.
Franz Schubert (1797–1828)

Although Schubert was a generation younger than Beethoven, the two composers lived
and worked alongside each other in Vienna for many years, and their deaths occurred only
one year apart. Schubert might therefore be thought of as the fourth member of the so-
called “First Viennese School.” And like the rest of the composers in that group (Haydn,
Mozart, and Beethoven) elements of a Classical spirit can easily be found in much of his
music. Unlike the important composers before him, however, Schubert was not an active
professional performer. In fact he may well have been the first major composer for whom
public performance was not an important part of his career.
Schubert was born into a family of active musical amateurs who supported young
Franz’s interest in music with lessons on both piano and violin, and instruction in theory
and counterpoint from a local church organist. At age 11 Schubert was accepted into the
Imperial Chapel Choir in Vienna, which brought with it the chance to attend the Royal
City College tuition free. Part of his choir-school education included lessons in composi-
tion with the aging Antonio Salieri, who was still the Kapellmeister of the Royal Court of
the Emperor. During these school years, Schubert played in the student orchestra, where
he became familiar with the music of Haydn, Mozart, and early Beethoven. At the same
time he composed prolifically in several genres: songs, chamber music, symphonies, and
even opera.
Schubert left school in 1813 in order to take up a training program to become a teacher
in a school where his father worked as the headmaster. But after only a few years of teach-
ing he decided this kind of work was not to his liking, and he left his father’s school in
1818 to pursue his compositional career full-time. For several years thereafter Schubert
lived with friends who were eager to support his talent and help him establish a reputa-
tion as a composer. One of these early partners was the poet Johann Mayrhofer. Further
support came from the famous operatic baritone Johann Michael Vogl, who took an early
interest in Schubert’s songs when the two first met in 1817. Schubert’s somewhat Bohe-
mian lifestyle lasted for several years while he continued to build his catalogue of works,
including several symphonies, string quartets, Masses, chamber music, piano sonatas, and
operas, nearly all of which had for many years only private performances in the homes of
musical friends who sponsored programs known as Schubertiaden, which were concerts
devoted exclusively to Schubert’s music. Greater public exposure came slowly, beginning
in 1818 with the first publication of one of his songs, and with performances of some of
his orchestral overtures.
As a symphonist, Schubert worked almost completely within the years when Beethoven
was inactive in this genre—the ten years between his eighth and ninth symphonies, 1812–
22. This may be a coincidence, or, given the relationship between Schubert and Beethoven,
this peculiar chronology of symphonic composition may have some specific significance.
Before exploring the symphonies of Schubert in some detail, it will be profitable first to
examine the relationship between these two giants of the early 19th century.
Beethoven had been one of the first composers to personalize the Classical style, when
early in the 19th century he found himself struggling with the onset of his gradually dete-
riorating hearing. His response was to use his music to express the terror and anger he felt
about this immanent personal and professional disaster. In effect, Beethoven turned the
craft of composition into the art of composition by insisting that the old view of composers
as makers of music (as craftsmen) should be replaced by a new view of composers as crea-
tors of great art that expressed a unique emotional interpretation of the world in which
they lived and the things they experienced in their daily lives. In his middle and late peri-
ods especially, Beethoven’s intense emotional expression and unusual new forms seemed
to move the Classical style to a new level of dramatic expression, as he broke down
old forms, invented new harmonies, and found new ways of writing for both piano and
orchestral instruments. By the end of his career, Beethoven had essentially destroyed the
Classical style of Mozart and Haydn, but in so doing, he brought the art of composition to
a point of crisis, as composers of his generation and after began asking themselves where
music could go from there. Were younger composers going to copy the styles and tech-
niques of Beethoven (which would have been a feeble response to his innovations) or were
they going to try to find something new to do (which would have required an extremely
inventive musical mind)? In either case the path forward was unclear and fraught with
apprehension on the part of many early Romantic composers, including Schubert.
We actually know very little about the personal relationship between these two compos-
ers. Evidence points to a certain ambivalence on Schubert’s part toward Beethoven. For
certain he admired Beethoven, as can be seen by his publication in 1822 of a set of vari-
ations for two pianos, dedicated to Beethoven “from his worshiper and admirer, Franz
Schubert.” But at the same time there were elements of Beethoven’s music that Schubert
found off-putting. As early as 1816 he noted in his diary that Beethoven’s recent music
was full of what he called “Bizarrerie.” Not coincidentally, 1816 marks the beginning
of Beethoven’s late style—a style that to this day many music lovers insist is bizarre and
difficult to understand or enjoy. In addition Schubert objected to what he saw in Bee-
thoven’s music as its deliberate depiction of wildly contrasting emotions—that element of
personal communication for which his music was noted. These objections to the bizarre,
over-emotional nature of Beethoven’s music may point to a desire on Schubert’s part to
pursue a more Classical approach to composition, which his early symphonies amply
demonstrate. But Schubert never disguised his fear of being unable to measure up to the
reputation of the great master. He once confided in a colleague, while he was still a young
student at the Vienna choir school, saying “Secretly I still really hope to be able to make
something of myself, but who can do anything now after Beethoven?”15 This admission
of the paralyzing fear under which Schubert worked in Vienna expresses what the famous
literary critic Harold Bloom called “the anxiety of influence.”16
In analyzing Schubert as a symphonist, it seems clear that he belongs to that category
of composers whose goal it was not to reinvent the genre. Working in the shadow of
Beethoven surely caused Schubert to question what it meant to be a composer of sympho-
nies, but his answer was never a complete repudiation of the music of his predecessors.
If anything, Schubert’s solution to the dilemma of writing symphonies after Beethoven
seems to have been to avoid all possible association with the master’s style (other than a
few oblique allusions) by adopting, in his early symphonies especially, a clear Classical
style that looks back past Beethoven to Mozart. Schubert’s first six symphonies all have
the usual four movements, are written in clear Classical forms, and require an orchestra
of modest Classical proportions. All of these characteristics are clearly in evidence in his
Fifth Symphony, written in 1816 at the age of 19.
The orchestra for this work matches exactly that for which Mozart and Haydn wrote
for most of their careers: Two oboes, two horns, and strings. The first movement is cast in
a clear sonata form that Mozart would easily have recognized. The second movement is a
simple ABA form in E-flat major, in which the middle (B) section appears in the unlikely
key of the flat sub-mediant (C-flat major) and then makes a typically Schubertian enhar-
monic modal interchange to B minor. This key relationship of tonic major to some form
of the sub-mediant scale degree was to become a hallmark of Schubert’s instrumental
music (see remarks about the Unfinished Symphony that follow). In the third movement
Schubert eschews Beethoven’s experiments with the scherzo, preferring instead to retain
the more traditional minuet. This movement is written in the key of G minor and seems
to have a stylistic affinity with the minuet of Mozart’s Symphony no. 40 K. 550, which is
also in G minor. The finale of Schubert’s Fifth Symphony is again a sonata form movement
with a rondo-like main theme. After beginning in the tonic key of B-flat major, the transi-
tion to the second theme starts abruptly in the flat sub-mediant key of G-flat before ending
up where one would expect in the dominant, F major. Other than these colorful key rela-
tionships, the work as a whole is completely Classical in its design. It is not programmatic,
and it relies not at all on cyclical techniques or the process of thematic transformation,
both of which were later to become the preferred techniques of the avant-garde school of
composition. Besides the unusually colorful key relationships, the only other Romantic
characteristic of the Fifth Symphony might be said to result from Schubert’s adoption of a
vocal lyricism borrowed from his work as a composer of Lieder. This lyricism permeates
both of the main themes of the first and second movements of the symphony (Ex. 3.19).
Another characteristic that distinguishes these themes from those of Schubert’s predeces-
sors is their greater length. The Primary theme of the first movement, especially, forms a
long, unbroken melody of 15 measures.
Ex. 3.19a Fifth Symphony, First Movement Primary Theme
Ex. 3.19b Second movement Primary Theme
Schubert’s Last Symphonies

Schubert’s last two symphonies, nos. 8 and 9, remained unknown during the compos-
er’s lifetime. After several false starts at writing a symphony to follow no. 6, Schubert
finally got to the point of completing what looks like half of a symphony in B minor
in 1822. This work—at least the part Schubert had finished—was given to Anselm
Hüttenbrenner, a member of the Graz Musical Society, as a token of appreciation for
Schubert’s election as an honorary member of that society. But Hüttenbrenner shelved
the work for decades until he finally released it in 1865 for performance by the Vienna
Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde on the condition that they also perform one of his
compositions.
Long before this, however, Robert Schumann had discovered another unknown Schu-
bert symphony when the composer’s brother showed him the C major symphony ten years
after the composer’s death. This newly discovered symphony turned out to be Schubert’s
last, which we now know as no. 9, written in 1825. Schumann turned the work over to
Felix Mendelssohn to conduct its premier in 1839 with the Gewandhaus Orchestra in
Leipzig. The symphony was originally given the number 7 since at the time of its discovery
it was the only new symphony of Schubert known to have been written after no. 6. But
once the Unfinished Symphony came to light 35 years later, the C major symphony had to
be renumbered to position it after the Unfinished. So in the end, the completed sketches for
a symphony in D major (1821) became the seventh Symphony, the “Unfinished” (1822)
became the eighth, and the C Major of 1825 took the ninth spot in Schubert’s symphonic
catalogue.
Several theories about why the “Unfinished” has only two movements have been
advanced over the years, the most prominent of which maintained simply that the last
two movements had been lost over the long years of the symphony’s neglect. But the
most convincing theory is that suggested by Martin Chusid in an essay he wrote for the
Norton Critical Edition of the work,17 in which he reminds us that Schubert sketched a
third movement for this work, and that these sketches for the scherzo (extant but never
completed) show Schubert unconsciously imitating the scherzo of Beethoven’s Seventh
Symphony. Given Schubert’s obsession with not sounding like Beethoven, this alone might
have been sufficient reason for him to abandon work on the symphony.
Symphony No. 8 “Unfinished”

This symphony is scored for pairs of woodwinds, two horns, two trumpets, three trom-
bones, timpani, and strings—more or less the same size orchestra Beethoven used in his
Fifth Symphony, which Schubert is known to have admired. The first movement is cast in
a mostly regular sonata form in B minor that begins with an introductory motive in the
cellos and basses (Ex. 3.20)
Ex. 3.20 First movement, Opening Motive
This is followed by a typically lyrical Schubertian theme functioning as the Primary

theme of the sonata form (Ex. 3.21).
Ex. 3.21 Primary Theme

From B minor, Schubert modulates to G major, the sub-mediant key for the presentation
of the lyrical second theme (Ex. 3.22).
Ex. 3.22 Secondary Theme
This songful cello melody powerfully characterizes the entire movement, and is a fine
example of the influence of the German Lied on Schubert’s instrumental writing. The
key of G major in which Schubert chose to present this theme also reinforces the general
Romantic preference for third-relationship modulations that had been initiated in vari-
ous works of Beethoven, such as the Waldstein Sonata and the Ninth Symphony. Such
unusual key relationships create colorful harmonic cross-relations when the original
key is in the major mode, but less striking harmonic contrasts when the original tonic
key is in the minor mode, as is the case here. Third relationship modulations also avoid
the strong pull back to the tonic of a second theme in the usual dominant key, and
are therefore a valuable tool for the prolongation of a work through the avoidance or
postponement of the arrival at the tonic—something with which Wagner was later to be
especially concerned.
Schubert’s desire not to duplicate the symphonic style and technique of Beethoven, may
have led him to the creation of an entirely different approach to the traditional develop-
ment section in the sonata form of the first movement. Rather than fragmenting and mod-
ulating the main themes as Beethoven so often did in his symphonies, Schubert decided to
avoid both of his main themes and to build his development rather loosely on the motive
heard in the introduction. This results in the following melodic opening of the develop-
ment section (Ex. 3.23).
Ex. 3.23 Opening of the Development Section, m. 122 ff.
While this developmental process looks fairly traditional, it does not extend very far
into this section of the work. Instead Schubert abandons any pretense of developing the-
matic material and substitutes a loud dramatic outburst based on a series of descending
arpeggiated diminished seventh chords. While conjecture is always dangerous in musical
analysis, we might wonder why Schubert created a development section that makes no
reference to the main themes of the movement, and includes instead so much material
that is based on nothing heard earlier in the exposition. Certainly this kind of a develop-
ment section avoids associations with Beethoven, and that alone may have been Schubert’s
motivation. But Schubert might possibly also have thought that the long lyrical themes
on which the movement is based did not lend themselves to the traditional developmental
technique of fragmentation—that is, that lyrical melodies do not easily break into motivic
bits that serve the usual process of development. In this regard, the symphony of Schubert
that best illustrates a more traditional style of development is his last, Symphony no. 9.
But this more traditional approach to building a development may well have resulted
from the fact that the main themes of that work are not nearly as lyrical as those in his
Unfinished Symphony.
The recapitulation of the first movement of the Unfinished Symphony is interesting
because it copies the modulatory scheme of Beethoven’s Waldstein Sonata, but in reverse.
Beethoven began his sonata in C major and modulated up a third to E major in the exposi-
tion. In the recapitulation he reversed this modulatory pattern by starting in C major and
then setting the second theme in A major, a third down from the tonic. In the Unfinished
Symphony Schubert created a mirror inversion of Beethoven’s key scheme: from B minor
down a third in the exposition, and then up a third to D major in the recapitulation. We
might conclude then that there were some aspects of Beethoven’s compositional style that
Schubert was not afraid to copy, most likely because they would not result in easily per-
ceived parallels and accusations of plagiarism.
The second movement of this symphony brings the work to the unusual key of E major,
rather than the expected key of the relative major (D). It is cast in a simple four-part ABAB
form in which each of the four parts contains four smaller phrases as illustrated in the
diagram in Figure 3.1:
Figure 3.1 Formal Design of the Second Movement
The most important aspect of the design of this movement does not lie in the thematic
structure, which is very simple, but rather in the key relationships, which involve both
modulations by thirds and modal interchange (minor to major in part B). Then within this
interesting arrangement of keys, Schubert creates some extremely colorful modulations
using chromatic voice leading. The move from C-sharp minor to F major at the beginning
of the B section of the movement makes a fine illustration of Schubert’s Romantic use of
harmonic color (Ex. 3.24). In this passage the solo clarinet holds the note A for several
measures while that one note is reinterpreted as a different chord tone in the various chro-
matic harmonies that appear underneath it in the string section. Especially beautiful is the
move in the last two measures from the D major chord to the F major chord by way of the
passing D-flat augmented triad.
In summary we can see that while Schubert was no symphonic revolutionary, he did
speak with a new Romantic voice in terms of his sense of harmonic color and melodic lyri-
cism, both of which serve to distinguish him from his Classical predecessors. But Schubert
was not a composer for whom unusual instrumental effects and literary programs were
important aspects of constructing a symphony. Nor do his works in this genre depict any
Ex. 3.24 Harmonic Color Modulation, m. 65
specific autobiographical situations. Even in the midst of his suffering with syphilis from
1823 to the end of his life, Schubert was able to write an almost joyous symphony in the
key of C major (his last). Perhaps this composer is best understood as a one whose works
bridge the gap between the Classical and Romantic styles of orchestral writing.
Study Questions
1. What was Schubert’s relationship (both personal and musical) to Beethoven?
2. What are the Romantic characteristics of Schubert’s symphonic style?
3. What are the Classical elements of Schubert’s early symphonies?
4. Why is Schubert’s “Unfinished” Symphony unfinished?
Further Reading
Martin Chusid, “Beethoven and the Unfinished,” in Schubert, Symphony in B Minor, ed. Martin
Chusid (New York, NY: W.W. Norton, 1971), 98–110.
Notes
1. See Maynard Solomon, Beethoven (New York: Schirmer Books, 1998) for an elaboration of this
theory of Beethoven’s nobility pretense.
2. Probably a deliberate advertising mistake, as Mozart never rose to the level of Kapellmeister in
Salzburg or anywhere else.
3. Ironically, Mozart rarely wrote for this full complement of instruments in his symphonies.
4. Letter of 29 June 1801. Quoted in Maynard Solomon, Beethoven, 2nd ed. (New York, NY:
Schirmer Books, 1998), 147.
5. Ibid., 16 November.
6. The Testament is printed in full in Maynard Solomon, Beethoven, 2nd ed. (New York, NY:
Schirmer Books, 1998), 151–54.
7. Clive Brown, “The Orchestra in Beethoven’s Vienna,” Early Music 16/1 (February 1988):
13–14.
8. A term used by both Liszt and Richard Strauss to describe Beethoven’s works.
9. Maynard Solomon suggests a more mundane reason for the titling of this work “Bonaparte,”
which is that Beethoven was around this time thinking of relocating to Paris, and having a
work named after the Emperor might have helped him gain entry into Parisian musical circles.
When the move was abandoned in 1804, Beethoven no longer needed to call his symphony
“Bonaparte,” and thus dropped the title, which would have been offensive to Germans in any
case. See his Beethoven, 178–79.
10. The use of more than two horns, while unusual, is not unprecedented in the Classical symphony.
Haydn experimented with the use of four horns in several of his symphonies, especially in Sym-
phony No. 31, the so-called “horn signal” symphony.
11. See F.E. Kirby, “Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony as a Sinfonia caracteristica,” in The Creative
World of Beethoven (New York: W.W. Norton, 1971), 103–21.
12. From a collection titled Blast mir das Alphorn noch einmal published in 1898 and brought to
my attention by a student whose husband was an amateur alphorn player. Whether this tune
was already well established in the repertoire of the alphorn, or whether the author of this col-
lection simply incorporated Beethoven’s melody into his book, matters little. The association of
this kind of melody with the tradition of the “ranz des vaches” remains clear in either case.
13. Whether this particular folk melody predates or postdates Beethoven’s symphony if difficult to
determine. But the fact that the tune appears in both a folk and a symphonic repertoire is evi-
dence to the connection between the two.
14. Franjo Ksaver Kuhač, Južno-slovjenski narodne popievke [Popular Slavic Folk Songs] (Zagreb:
University of Zagreb, 1881).
15. Martin Chusid, “Schubert’s Chamber Music: Before and After Beethoven,” in The Cambridge
Companion of Schubert (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 174.
16. Harold Bloom, The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry (New York, NY: Oxford Univer-
sity Press, 1973).
17. Martin Chusid, “Beethoven and the Unfinished,” in Schubert, Symphony in B Minor, ed. Martin
Chusid (New York, NY: W.W. Norton, 1971), 98–110.
Part II
The Romantic Symphony

4 The Romantic Generation
Tradition vs. The Avant-Garde
Berlioz and the Romantic Revolution
Illustration 4.1 Berlioz in 1857

Hector Berlioz (1803–69) is the first symphonist to have lived wholly in the 19th cen-
tury. Not coincidentally, he is also the first fully Romantic composer of symphonies. Ber-
lioz was born into a family of avid amateur musicians. His father, a French country doctor,
arranged for his son to have lessons on the flute and guitar, but refused to allow him to
play the piano for fear the boy might gravitate to a career in music if he became a compe-
tent pianist. Music was fine as an avocation for a cultured gentleman, but in the Berlioz
family only medicine was considered an appropriate profession.
After having been home-schooled in the Classics (especially the works of Virgil), Berlioz
was duly sent off to Paris to study medicine. But his reluctance to follow in his father’s
footsteps soon resulted in Berlioz giving up his medical education in trade for the study of
composition at the Paris Conservatory, where he officially enrolled in 1826 as a student of
Jean François Le Sueur. Like most other French composers, Berlioz dreamed of writing for
the Paris Opera, following in the footsteps of his favorite composer, Christoph Willibald
Gluck. At the time, this desire to compose opera made perfect sense, since the musical life
100 The Romantic Symphony
of Paris in the 1820s revolved almost exclusively around that genre, with relatively little
attention paid to symphonic and chamber music.
The path to a successful career in Paris was almost assured if a young composer could
win the coveted Prix de Rome (The Rome Prize), a competition run by the French National
Institute, which awarded prizes in several categories, including painting, sculpture, archi-
tecture, and composition. Winners were granted two years of study at the French Acad-
emy in Rome, followed by a five-year stipend to help them establish a career back home.
It took Berlioz five separate attempts to win this prize, mostly because his music was so
controversial that the conservative judges at the Conservatory were unable to recognize
his unique, new compositional voice. One of his competition pieces (written in the second
year he entered) was actually declared “unplayable” by the adjudicating committee. Ber-
lioz thus found his Conservatory years to be difficult, as he quickly developed the reputa-
tion of a belligerent student who questioned everything he was taught and who insisted on
writing wildly unintelligible music.
Symphonie Fantastique (1830)

Berlioz’s career as a symphonist began almost by accident, as the result of a confluence of
several circumstances that impacted his life between 1827 and 1830. The first of these was
his inability to interest any Parisian theater in producing his first opera, Les francs juges,
written while he was still a student at the Conservatory. Understandably, no theater was
willing to take the risk of staging a work by a young, untested radical like Berlioz. As a
result, this rejection had the unforeseen benefit of forcing him to find another outlet for his
dramatic instincts, one that did not require the approval of a large well-established organi-
zation such as an opera house. Berlioz’s thinking then turned to writing some kind of
concert music that would allow him to give expression to his thwarted dramatic instincts.
This requirement brought Berlioz to the invention of an entirely new genre that he himself
labeled the “dramatic symphony.” With this new nomenclature, Berlioz meant to describe
a symphony that was not only programmatic, but also embraced operatic techniques and
narrative compositional devices.
The second circumstance that pushed Berlioz into composing his first symphony was
the arrival in Paris in 1827 of an English troupe of actors who scheduled productions of
Shakespeare’s most popular plays (Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, and Othello), all in English.
Even though he spoke no English, Berlioz attended these productions because he knew
these plays through French translations he had read some years earlier. Despite numerous
inaccuracies in the translations, Berlioz fell in love with the power of Shakespeare’s dra-
mas, especially with the playwright’s portrayal of his heroines, Desdemona, Ophelia, and
Juliet, So strong was this attraction that young Hector also fell in love with the principal
actress of the troupe, Harriet Smithson, who played all these leading female roles in the
Parisian productions of 1827.
With his world in a state of turmoil over this passionate love of Harriet, Berlioz began
trying, with no luck, to contact her. His unrequited love for the unattainable actress, along
with his need to do something that would bring him to her attention, spurred the composi-
tion in 1830 of the Symphonie fantastique, an autobiographical account of this seemingly
hopeless love. This work astonished audiences at its premiere because of its unabashedly
autobiographical program, which was distributed in the form of a printed leaflet that
described the sequence of episodes the composer wanted to narrate. The word “narrate”
suggests an unfolding action like the plot of a novel or a play, which, however, is not
exactly what Berlioz intended to do with this symphony. In an important essay he wrote
for the Revue et gazette musicale a few years later (1837) titled “On Imitation in Music,”
The Romantic Generation 101
the composer made a point of explaining that he never intended to paint musical pictures
or tell stories, but was rather trying to capture emotions in music. In the preface to the
symphony’s program, Berlioz explained that his goal with this “instrumental drama” was
simply to “develop, insofar as they contain musical possibilities, various situations in the
life of an artist.”
Movement I—Reveries and Passions

In the program for this movement, Berlioz describes the emotional stirrings in a young art-
ist (Berlioz himself) who meets and falls in love with the ideal woman (Harriet). Her image
is associated with a melodic idea—Berlioz calls it an idée fixe—that forms the Primary
theme of this first movement (Ex. 4.1). Notice how this theme erupts and then subsides
with small hairpin crescendos and diminuendos and sudden changes of tempo. Nowhere
in the symphonic literature before this have we seen such a long main theme with so many
radical changes of dynamics and tempo.
Ex. 4.1 Idée Fixe
The idée fixe functions as the Primary theme of the exposition of this modified sonata
form, and is followed almost immediately by a short contrasting phrase (A2 in Figure 4.1)
and then a modified repeat of the opening measures of the idée fixe with a new continu-
ation (B). Overall the movement is meant to depict the storm of emotions—from mel-
ancholy tenderness to frenetic passion, fury, and jealousy—that characterized Berlioz’s
volcanic emotional attachment to Harriet. The exposition in this unique sonata structure
is followed by episodes of thematic development alternating in a free manner with sections
of recapitulation (Figure 4.1).
Figure 4.1 Diagram of First Movement Form
Movement II—The Ball

Berlioz carefully chose to depict specific “episodes” in the life of his artist, making sure
that each of them consisted of scenes or images that could be translated into music. Thus
the setting of the scene for the second movement is a ball at which the artist encounters his
beloved. The ball implies dancing, which is easily represented in music, in this case with a
waltz that functions as the main thematic material of the movement (Ex. 4.2).
Ex. 4.2 Waltz Theme
The orchestration for this movement illustrates Berlioz’s interest in finding new more
colorful instrumental combinations in his orchestra. In fact, his treatise on that subject, the
Grand traité d’instrumentation et d’orchestration modernes, published in 1843, was one of
the first formal examinations of the art of orchestration in the 19th century, and seems to
have grown out of his complaint that none of his teachers at the Paris Conservatory ever
talked about this subject when he was a student there in the 1820s. Berlioz’s concern with
inventive orchestral effects manifests itself here in his inclusion of an important part for
four harps. While these instruments had been employed in opera houses since Monteverdi’s
L’Orfeo of 1607, they had never appeared in a concert orchestra prior to 1830. On the
broadest level, Berlioz’s contribution to symphonic orchestration consisted in part of his use
of instruments and techniques heretofore employed only in the world of musical theater.
Midway through the movement Berlioz inserted the idée fixe, now transformed in its
meter and rhythm to fit the underlying waltz theme (Ex. 4.3).
This reappearance of Harriet’s theme takes on historical significance as a symphonic tech-
nique because it carries forward the process of thematic transformation found in the piano
and chamber music of Beethoven, one of the composers Berlioz most respected. For Berlioz,
the process of transforming a theme most often involved retaining the melodic shape of its
original presentation while altering the meter, rhythm, orchestration, or harmony. Note that
Ex. 4.3 Transformation of the Idée Fixe, Second Movement, m. 120
the idée fixe as it appears in this movement duplicates the intervallic structure of the theme
as it appeared in the first movement, but the new triple meter, which allows the theme to
appear in the middle of a waltz, has caused the theme to take on a new identity.
Movement III—Scene in the Country

Like Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony, Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique is a five-movement work.
In both cases, the outline of a traditional four-movement symphony underlies this new
design, with the “extra” movement in each work being the fourth. The difference between
these symphonies lies in the fact that Berlioz reversed the order of the middle movements by
placing the dance movement second and the slow movement third (Figure 4.2).
Berlioz’s third movement makes other obvious allusions to Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony.
The scene for this movement is set in the country, thus recalling the general pastoral affect
of the Beethoven symphony. The meter Berlioz chose is 6/8, a clear duplication of the
standard compound meter of nearly all pastoral works in the 18th and early 19th centu-
ries. Lastly, the return of the idée fixe in this movement occurs in the middle of a section
that Berlioz’s program describes as a storm—another clear reference to Beethoven, who
devoted an entire movement of his symphony to representing this natural phenomenon.
Here the idée fixe is again transformed (Ex. 4.4).
Ex. 4.4 Transformation of the Ideé Fixe, Scene in the Country, m. 90
Figure 4.2 Beethoven “Pastoral” Symphony Compared With Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique
The “Scene in the Country” is another example of Berlioz’s inventive use of the
orchestra, again related to techniques that were popular in French opera of that time.
The movement begins with a duet for oboe and English horn, the latter instrument
used only once before in the history of the symphony, in Haydn’s Symphony no. 22
“Der Philosoph,” in which he experimented with a pair of English horns in place of
the usual oboes. The program for Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique makes clear that
this duet represents two shepherds in a musical conversation, playing a “ranz des
vaches”1 (again as in the finale of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony). But more unusual
than the use of English horn is Berlioz’s placement of the oboe offstage. This device
of offstage music was another of those techniques that was prominent in the opera
house, but not on a concert stage. The offstage oboe brings a three-dimensionality to
the concert hall and effectively introduces the dramatic element of aural perspective
into the world of the symphony.
Another remarkable orchestrational device appears at the very end of this movement,
at the point where the program mentions one of the shepherds piping without a response
from the other. The only response to the lone shepherd is the sound of distant thunder
as the storm clears. Here Berlioz, copying Beethoven’s storm movement in the Pastoral
Symphony, resorts to the use of timpani to imitate thunder. But going beyond Beethoven’s
fairly simple use of this instrument, Berlioz decided that the rumble of thunder could bet-
ter be represented by the use of multiple timpani, each tuned to a different pitch. With
four timpanists, this results in triads and seventh chords. Despite the fact that timpani are
pitched percussion instruments, Berlioz clearly understood that the combination of three
or four different timpani pitches would not sound like a specific triad or seventh chord,
but would produce instead an indistinct collection of notes that more accurately imitated
thunder. Timpani chords were, however, not the product of Berlioz’s inventive imagina-
tion; they were first seen in the music of Anton Reicha, one of Berlioz’s professors at the
Paris Conservatory in the late 1820s.
Movement IV—March to the Scaffold

Again Berlioz selected a scene from the life of his artist that lent itself to musical depiction.
The program tells us that the hero of this drama, in a fit of suicidal depression, takes an
overdose of opium; but instead of killing him, the drug puts him into a deep hallucina-
tory dream, wherein he imagines he has murdered his beloved and is now being marched
off to his execution.2 The idea for this opium overdose was not drawn from real events
in Berlioz’s life, but was rather borrowed from a popular novel of the day, Confessions
of an English Opium Eater (1822) by the English author Thomas De Quincey. The scene
described in the program is one of those easily depicted with a common musical type—a
march. Berlioz plagiarized the music for this movement from his own early opera Les
francs juges, in which the same music represented a “march of the guards.” This bor-
rowing may account for why the idée fixe appears only at the very end of the movement,
where it was undoubtedly easier to insert without interrupting the progress of the bor-
rowed music.
This appearance of the idée fixe is the only one in the symphony that does not involve
a transformation of the original theme from the first movement. The only alteration of
the idée fixe in this movement consists of its being cut off before coming to a full conclu-
sion. The termination of the motto theme is produced by a single loud chord that the
program tells us represents the blade of a guillotine falling on the head of our hero. This
crashing chord is then followed by pizzicato notes that descend from the violins to the
basses on each of the remaining beats of the measure, most likely as a gruesome imita-
tion of the severed head falling off its body (Ex. 4.5).3
Ex. 4.5 The Guillotine and Head Drop
Movement V—Dream of the Witches’ Sabbath

This last movement is a prime example of what could be called “narrative form” in
music. Berlioz’s program is very specific here in terms of what he wanted his music
to describe. Each visual image in the program is depicted in the music without any
instances of large-scale thematic repetition, resulting in what is essentially a through-
composed form. This series of musical depictions begins with sounds that the program
describes as “strange noises, groans . . . and distant cries,” represented in Berlioz’s music
by the unusual divisi of the first and second violins into six separate parts, followed by
eerie downward octave glissandos in the upper woodwinds. The latter was an orchestra-
tional device never before tried in symphonic music—one that is, technically speaking,
not actually playable.4
Next the beloved melody appears again, but now in a grotesque and trivial form. Ber-
lioz employs the sound of the E-flat clarinet with trills and grace notes to produce this
distortion of the idée fixe (Ex. 4.6).
Ex. 4.6 Final Transformation of the Idée Fixe, m. 40
The program continues with the mention of funeral bells. Here Berlioz calls for
real church bells to be played back stage, another new instrumental effect in this
symphony. Realizing full well that most orchestras were not going to have a set of
church bells on hand for this occasion, Berlioz notes in his score that “several pianos
onstage” may be substituted for the bells, as if this were actually a more practical
alternative.5
Berlioz’s program next mentions a parody of the Dies Irae, which calls forth a state-
ment of that old Gregorian chant for the dead, played by ophicleides and bassoons.6 Each
phrase is then restated in double time in the higher brass and then again in the woodwinds,
as if to make fun of (i.e., to parody) the Requiem Mass from which the chant derives. This
parody then leads to what the program calls the “witches’ round dance,” aptly captured
in the music by a jaunty tune given out in fugal imitation in the strings (Ex. 4.7).
Ex. 4.7 Round Dance, m. 241
The movement ends, as described in the program, with a contrapuntal combination of the
round dance and the Dies Irae. Shortly after this point in the score, Berlioz adds one final
instrumental innovation: the use of “col legno” in the strings to imitate the sound of rattling
skeleton bones in the underworld. This technique for playing string instruments involves
turning the bow so that both its hair and its wood hit the strings, and was known as far back
as the 17th century, where it appeared, for example, in some of the chamber music of Hein-
rich Biber (1644–1704). But the use of col legno in an orchestral work was new with Berlioz.
Taken in total, Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique represents a remarkable step forward in the
history of the symphony. Its program, the first ever printed on a leaflet and distributed to an
audience, is based on both autobiography and contemporary literature. This brand of pro-
grammaticism became popular with those composers of the later 19th century who favored
an avant-garde approach to writing symphonies. Berlioz’s use of unusual new instruments
and inventive ways of playing old instruments marked the beginning of an exploration in the
Romantic era of the coloristic possibilities of the orchestra. Berlioz’s use of narrative form (i.e.,
a through-composed musical form that mirrors actions described in a programmatic text) in
the last movement of this symphony anticipated the formal principles of Liszt and the tone
poem. Lastly, Berlioz’s use of the idée fixe in every one of the symphony’s five movements
made this the most thoroughly cyclical composition in the history of the symphony thus far.
Berlioz’s Other Symphonies
Harold en Italie (1834)

Like the Symphonie fantastique, Berlioz’s second symphony, Harold en Italie, (for orches-
tra and viola solo) was inspired both by events in Berlioz’s own life and by a famous piece
of literature of the early Romantic era, Lord Byron’s dramatic poem Childe Harold’s Pil-
grimage. This poem narrates events in the life of its author (masquerading under the pseu-
donym Childe Harold), as he traveled through Italy after having exiled himself from his
native England following years of a lifestyle of wanton debauchery. Berlioz had developed
an attachment to the works of Byron, having read Childe Harold while he himself was “in
exile” in Rome as the winner of the Prix de Rome competition in 1830.
This symphony was commissioned by the famous violin/viola virtuoso Nicolo Paganini,
who wanted Berlioz to write him a viola concerto. Upon seeing an early draft of the work,
Paganini complained that the viola part was far too easy, and consequently withdrew
his commission. Berlioz went ahead with the work nonetheless, changing the concerto
into a symphony for viola solo and orchestra. As in the Symphonie fantastique, Berlioz
again chose to use a motto theme that represents the hero, Harold, and which is repeated
throughout the symphony in cyclical fashion.
Roméo et Juliette (1839)

By far the most innovative and unusual of Berlioz’s symphonies, and the one that comes
closest to the operatic styles and techniques that lie at the root of the so-called “dramatic
symphony,” is his symphony based on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Alongside Byron,
Shakespeare stood as one of Berlioz’s favorite writers, despite the fact that as a native
Frenchman, he didn’t read English, and knew the bard’s plays only in highly Bowdlerized
translations that began to appear in France in the early 19th century.
Shakespeare’s works had lain in eclipse for nearly two hundred years, buried under
an avalanche of criticism from French classical dramatists such as Pierre Corneille
(1606–84) and Jean Racine (1639–99), who decided that Shakespeare’s works failed
to follow the Aristotelian rules of good drama—in particular the rule of the “unities
of time, place, and action” found in the works of the ancient Greek playwrights. But it
was exactly this unwillingness to follow rules for the production of a “good” play that
helped make Shakespeare the darling of Romantic artists who embraced him as a free
spirit who insisted on making art his own way. This sense of individuality resonated in
the hearts of Romantic composers like Berlioz who were themselves striving for a unique
artistic voice in a new era.
Most likely the production of Shakespeare’s plays in Paris in 1827 that led to Berlioz’s
unrequited love for Harriet Smithson and to the composition of the Symphonie fantas-
tique was also responsible for his love of Romeo and Juliet. But the writing of a symphony
on this subject had to await the return of Paganini to Paris in 1838. It was then that
the violin virtuoso finally heard Harold en Italie, the work for which he had withdrawn
his commission several years earlier. Now touched by the beauty of this symphony, and
remorseful over having abandoned it because of the lack of virtuosity in the viola part,
Paganini apologized to Berlioz by writing him a check for 20,000 francs—enough money
to allow the composer to stop writing newspaper reviews, and devote his full energy to the
composition of his next symphony.
The design of Berlioz’s Roméo et Juliette was revolutionary: seven movements in all,
some with voices (following the model of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony), others purely
instrumental. In transferring Shakespeare’s drama to music, Berlioz relied on the use of
recitatives, arias, and choruses—all drawn from the world of opera—to serve as an expli-
cation of the basic “program” of his symphony. As was the case in the Fantastique, Berlioz
began by identifying those moments in the drama that he felt contained musical potential,
that is, those that were “musicable.” Those scenes that lent themselves to musical treat-
ment were then arranged in seven mostly chronological movements beginning and ending
with operatic recitatives and choruses that explain the basic story.
One of the most interesting aspects of this symphony is that some of the scenes in Shake-
speare’s play that would seem most likely to receive a vocal (operatic) setting, were actu-
ally entrusted by the composer to purely instrumental music. The most obvious of these is
the famous balcony scene in which Romeo, hiding in Juliet’s garden after the party at the
home of the Capulets, overhears Juliet’s private testimony of love, and then jumps out of
the bushes to respond in kind to her declaration. What a perfect love duet in full operatic
style this text would have made! But Berlioz decided against this obvious treatment of the
scene and wrote instead a purely instrumental movement that perfectly captures both the
stillness of an Italian summer night and the passion of two young lovers. His explanation
for this reliance on instrumental music was simple:
the very sublimity of this love made its depiction so dangerous for the composer that
he had to offer his imagination a latitude that the precise meaning of sung words
would not have allowed, and thus had to turn to the language of instrumental music—
a language that is richer, more varied, less restricted, and by its very vagueness incom-
parably more powerful in such a case.7
Grande Symphonie Funèbre et Triumphale (1840)

Berlioz’s last symphony represents a marked departure from the innovative style of the
first three. As originally conceived, this work was scored for wind band and was intended
to accompany the ceremonial reburial of the remains of victims of the July 1830 revolu-
tion. The model for this large piece of outdoor music, part of which was to be played in
procession, was the tradition of huge occasional cantatas for orchestra and chorus that
were popular during the years of the Napoleonic Wars and known as chants nationales.
As explained in the chapter on Beethoven, these works were commissioned by the French
government to commemorate important military victories or the deaths of high-ranking
military officers. The colossal style of these works directly influenced what might be called
the “public” style of Berlioz’s “funeral and triumphal” symphony. Also at work as an
influence on this symphony is surely the funeral march movement of Beethoven’s Eroica
Symphony, itself a work with connections to the French emperor Napoleon.
Summary
It would not be an exaggeration to claim that Hector Berlioz was the most innovative
symphonist in the first half of the 19th century. His entire symphonic style was largely pre-
determined by the fact that he grew up in a country where the symphony was of relatively
little interest to most composers and the public at large. Opera ruled supreme in Paris in
the late 18th and early 19th centuries, and we can easily conclude that Berlioz’s new “dra-
matic symphonies,” which mixed elements of opera into an instrumental genre, were the
result of his own instinctive, theatrical inclinations, and that had he been more successful
at procuring a commission to write an opera, he may have had little need to write what
amount to operatic symphonies. The fortunate set of circumstances that led to the creation
of Berlioz’s three symphonies had a profound influence on generations of composers to
follow: Liszt adopted Berlioz’s concept of the dramatic program as the controlling formal
element in his new tone poems; Wagner adopted the idée fixe as the basis of his system
of Leitmotifs in his mature operas; and Strauss copied the autobiographical aspects of
Berlioz’s symphonies in many of his most famous tone poems. So while the “dramatic”
symphony per se had no direct offspring in the work of later symphonists, many of the
most central aspects of Berlioz’s conception of the symphony bore fruit in the instrumental
works of several later 19th century composers.
Study Questions
1. Define the “idée fixe.”
2. List some of the new instruments in Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique.
3. List some of the new playing techniques in the Symphonie fantastique.
4. What is narrative form?
5. Define thematic transformation.
6. Define cyclical form.
Further Reading
Jeffrey Langford, “The Symphonies,” in The Cambridge Companion to Berlioz, ed. Peter Bloom
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000).
Mendelssohn’s Classical Romanticism

Not one of the early Romantic symphonists could claim to have been as musically gifted as
Felix Mendelssohn (1809–47). Blessed as a young boy with perfect pitch, perfect recall, a facile
pianistic technique, and remarkable compositional skills, as well as a talent for writing poetry
and drawing, young Felix is often compared with the earlier child genius, W.A. Mozart.
Mendelssohn was born into a family of well-to-do Jewish bankers, who, mostly for
sociopolitical reasons, converted to Christianity in 1822 and took the name Mendelssohn-
Bartholdy as a sign of that conversion. Growing up in privileged circumstances, young
Felix had access to the best teachers money could buy, including theory and composition
lessons with Carl Friedrich Zelter, who was nothing less than a musical advisor to Goethe.
While Zelter is today most famous as the narrow-minded composer responsible for Goe-
the’s failure to appreciate Schubert’s setting of his poem Der Erlkönig, he was nonethe-
less useful in developing Mendelssohn’s deep love of Bach, Handel, and Mozart. In these
composers, Mendelssohn found the essence of his symphonic style, one that included a
fondness for counterpoint and an abiding faith in Classical principles of construction. To
this love of the Classical style, Mendelssohn added an interest in descriptive programs that
expressed his impressions of Europe gathered in his early twenties as a widely travelled
young man. Visits to London, Paris, Switzerland, Scotland, and Italy all left Mendelssohn
with memories that resurfaced in his later compositions.
Early String Symphonies

Mendelssohn achieved a mature compositional style at a remarkably early age. Before
trying his hand at writing a full symphony, he learned his craft through the writing of 12
symphonies for strings alone, all composed between the ages of 12 and 14.8 As exercises
in the development of a compositional style, the string symphonies illustrate the musical
concerns of a boy finding his own voice through the adoption of techniques he found
attractive in the works of earlier composers. Numerous instances of fugal writing and con-
trapuntal development sections reminiscent of the finale of Mozart’s “Jupiter” Symphony
(no. 41) clearly indicate an affinity with the Classical masters of the 18th century.
Beyond these early string symphonies, Mendelssohn wrote five mature symphonies for
full orchestra, the numbers of which reflect the order in which they were published, not
their order of composition. Of these five works, only those numbered 3, 4, and 5 are
frequently played today. The following discussion of these symphonies is arranged in the
order of their composition using the numbers usually assigned to each.
Symphony No. 1
Completed in 1824 when Mendelssohn was just 15 years old, this first symphony is scored
for a standard Classical orchestra of strings, pairs of woodwinds, two horns, two trum-
pets, and timpani. While this size orchestra is regularly taken as a sign of Mendelssohn’s
continuation of a Classical tradition in symphonic writing, we should bear in mind that
in 1824, Beethoven and Schubert were still alive, and no one was writing for the kind of
large Romantic orchestra that Berlioz eventually employed in 1830.
Given that stylistic caveat, however, Mendelssohn’s First Symphony is, in fact, a thor-
oughly Classical work in four standard movements, three of which are cast in Classical
sonata form, while the third is a somewhat unusual minuet written in 6/4 meter that sounds
more like a scherzo. Mendelssohn’s fondness for using the symphonies of the Classical mas-
ters as models for writing in this genre becomes apparent in the fourth movement, where the
main theme calls to mind the finale of Mozart’s G-minor Symphony no. 40.
Symphony No. 5, “Reformation”
Composed in 1830 in anticipation of celebrations commemorating the 300th anniversary
of the writing of the Augsburg Confession (a document presenting a statement of Lutheran
faith to the Holy Roman Emperor in 1530), this symphony expands Mendelssohn’s earlier
Classical instrumentation to include three trombones and contrabassoon. The first move-
ment begins with a slow introduction based on the same four notes that open the finale of
Mozart’s “Jupiter” symphony: D–E–G–F-sharp.
This leads to a statement of the famous “Dresden Amen” (IV-ii-V7-I) before moving on
to the main sonata form section of the movement.
The other three movements are respectively a joyful scherzo, and a lyrical slow move-
ment that functions as an interlude leading to the climactic finale, which is based on Mar-
tin Luther’s chorale tune “Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott” (A Mighty Fortress Is Our God).
Symphony No. 4, “Italian”

Although this is the third of Mendelssohn’s symphonies, completed in 1833, it was one
with which he was never satisfied and therefore never published in his lifetime. Its place-
ment as no. 4 among his symphonies is therefore the result of a publication decision made
after his death.
Inspiration for this work, came from a year-long trip Mendelssohn made to Italy in 1830–
31. There he met Hector Berlioz (who was in Italy as the winner of the 1830 Prix de Rome),
visited the various historical and cultural landmarks of ancient Italy, and generally soaked
up the sunny spirit of the Italian people and landscape. He began sketching the symphony
while still on the road, but its completion had to await his return to Germany the following
year. This work returns to the Classical instrumentation of Mozart and Mendelssohn’s own
First Symphony, and thus carries with it a textural lightness that confirms Mendelssohn’s
attachment to the style of the Classical masters and perhaps early Schubert.
The first movement sonata form (with traditionally repeated exposition) produces a
sprightly mood through two main themes, thanks mostly to the continual repeated eighth-
note accompaniment in 6/8 meter. The second movement is often said to have been inspired
by some kind of religious procession that Mendelssohn encounter during his Italian visit.
It does indeed share some of the same melodic characteristics as the “Pilgrims’ March” in
Berlioz’s second symphony, Harold en Italie, written just a couple of years later. Without
accusing Berlioz of plagiarism, it may be safe to note that religious marches were common
in Italy and seem to have inspired the reminiscences of both of these foreign composers.
The third movement has a lilting dance-like quality in triple meter that almost suggests an
Italian version of the classical minuet. The last movement is clearly labeled a “saltarello,”
a kind of vigorous Italian folk dance.
Symphony No. 2, Lobgesang (Song of Praise)

Although published after his death as Symphony no. 2, this unusual work was titled by
Mendelssohn a “symphony-cantata.” Written for the 400th anniversary of the invention
of the printing press and premiered in 1840, the work has for years been known as Men-
delssohn’s Second Symphony despite the fact that the composer himself never called the
work a symphony. In recognition of that fact, the work has recently been repositioned
in the Mendelssohn Thematic Catalogue (Ralf Wehner’s Mendelssohn-Werkverzeichnis,
2009) among his sacred vocal works. The structure of this “symphony” seems clearly
indebted to the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven: three instrumental movements (in this
case played attacca) leading to a grand choral finale based on Biblical texts of praise.
Symphony No. 3, “Scottish”9
Mendelssohn’s last symphony, completed in 1842, had a long gestation, dating back to his early
trip to England and Scotland in 1829. Like the later trip that supplied the inspiration for the
“Italian” Symphony, this visit to the northern climes of the British Isles left an indelible impres-
sion on the young Mendelssohn, who at the age of 20 was in the process of soaking up the
unique landscapes and social customs encountered in the far corners of Europe as part of what
his parents thought was a necessary cultural exposure for any well-educated young sophisticate.
Here Mendelssohn expanded the Classical instrumentation of his First Symphony by
adding two additional French horns to his orchestra. Of his five symphonies, the “Scot-
tish” is by far Mendelssohn’s most adventurous in terms of its overall formal organization.
While it comprises the usual four movements, they are all meant to be played attacca, and
are connected by an elaborate scheme of thematic interrelationships.
The first movement begins with a dark-hued slow introduction that captures the misty
coolness of Scotland, and provides the basic motivic material for the rest of the move-
ments that follow (Ex. 4.8).
Ex. 4.8 Slow Introduction, First Movement
This introduction then moves into a sonata form allegro with a dance-like Primary
theme derived from the material of the introduction (Ex. 4.9).
This is accompanied by some stormy music that lends a more Romantic quality to this
particular movement of the symphony. There follows a buoyant scherzo in a folk-like
style, the main theme of which is also derived from the slow introduction to the first move-
ment (Ex. 4.10).
Ex. 4.10 Main Theme, of the scherzo

The culmination of this cyclically organized symphony lies in the “new theme” that
Mendelssohn introduces in the coda to the last movement. While this movement began in
the key of A minor, thus bringing the symphony home to where it began, this coda shifts
in a rather startling manner to A major thus bringing the symphony to a surprising close
in the tonic major. The triumphant theme Mendelssohn created for this happy conclu-
sion is yet another transformation of the theme first heard in the introduction to the first
movement (Ex. 4.11). All of these variations on the opening motive of the first movement
involve scale steps in the pattern 5, 1, 2, 3, 4 or 5. 1, 2, 3, (4), 5.
Ex. 4.11 Coda of the Last Movement
Despite Mendelssohn’s fondness for capturing European landscapes and their asso-
ciated moods in his symphonies, he is not truly a Romantic symphonist in the man-
ner of someone like Berlioz. Mendelssohn was far too steeped in the music of Bach
(whose St. Matthew Passion he resurrected and conducted in Berlin at the age of 20),
Handel (whose oratorios he made arrangements of later in his career), and Mozart
(whose easy compositional facility he most closely matched as a boy genius). There is
little in the symphonies of Mendelssohn to indicate that he grappled with the impli-
cations of Beethoven’s personal artistic struggles and innovations in this genre. Like
most Romantic composers, Mendelssohn was admittedly attuned to his environment,
whose stimuli motivated many of his compositions. But as a writer of symphonies, his
relationship with the world around him seems to have been fairly superficial. This is
not to say that the music is superficial, but rather that it doesn’t transmit a level of
engagement with the world that brought other composers to the creation of significant
new musical ideas.
Study Questions
1. In what ways was Mendelssohn similar in his training and talent to W.A. Mozart?
2. How is Mendelssohn’s version of a program symphony different from Berlioz’s?
3. Name one of the Classical elements of Mendelssohn’s symphonic style.
Further Reading
James Garratt, “Mendelssohn and the Rise of Musical Historicism,” in The Cambridge Companion
to Mendelssohn, ed. Peter Mercer-Tayler (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004).
Douglass Seaton, “Symphony and Overture,” in The Cambridge Companion to Mendelssohn, ed.
Peter Mercer-Taylor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004).
Tradition and Innovation in the Symphonies of Schumann

Born into a literary family, Robert Schumann (1810–56) developed a love of literature
and music through his father, an author, publisher, and seller of books. Schumann
began taking piano lessons from a local organist at the age of 6, and at about the
same time began composing on his own. By his teenage years he was already showing
ability as a writer. After receiving a general elementary education, Schumann entered
the University of Leipzig at the age of 18 to study law. Unfortunately, his interest in
music and literature resulted in very poor performance at the university. While there,
he published some of his early songs and piano music, undertook more serious study
of composition, and even at this late age devoted himself to a more rigorous study of
the piano with one of Germany’s leading pedagogues, Friedrich Wieck. Now intent on
making a career as a concert pianist, Schumann dropped out of law school to devote
himself entirely to music. But by 1832 he began to experience a weakness in two fin-
gers of his right hand, most likely caused by dystonia. Realizing that his career as a
pianist depended on the full use of those fingers, he resorted to the use of a mechanical
device to strengthen the muscles in his hand. But this piece of equipment only further
aggravated the problem with his fingers, and at the age of 22 Schumann was forced to
abandon his hopes of a career at the piano. From then on he turned his attention to
composition and to the writing of essays and reviews. His blossoming literary career
led him in 1834 to establish a new music periodical, the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, for
which he served as editor-in-chief and a major contributor of articles and reviews. Most
of these articles were signed with the names Eusebius or Florestan, the two alter egos of
Schumann’s own personality—dreamy and introspective vs. bold and extroverted. The
Neue Zeitschrift became an important platform from which Schumann could preach
his ideas of what constituted high-quality art and do battle with what he called the
“Philistines” of music.
Central to Schumann’s life, both personal and professional, was his wife Clara, the
daughter of his piano teacher, Friedrich Wieck. Clara, herself a brilliant piano prodigy,
was just nine years old when Schumann came to study with Wieck at the age of 18.
Despite their age difference, he fell in love with Clara by the time she reached the age of
16. After a lengthy courtship that was opposed by Wieck on the grounds that Schumann
was not financially secure enough to support a family, the two finally married in 1840.
Illustration 4.2 Clara Schumann

From there to the end of Schumann’s life, Clara was a major inspiration for his work,
always offering encouragement and advice on his compositions.
Throughout his life Schumann struggled with bouts of depression. But by the early
1850s these became more serious and led eventually to an attempted suicide and a full
mental breakdown. By 1854 his mental condition so deteriorated that he had to be insti-
tutionalized. His death followed only two years later.
In the world of the 19th-century symphony, some composers seem to have taken a fairly
conservative approach to the genre, not questioning its fundamental identity, but simply
trying to adapt the standard Classical concept of the genre to a new Romantic musical
vocabulary. Schubert was one such composer. At the same time other composers seemed to
have taken to heart the challenges presented by Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, and to have
questioned the actual definition of a “symphony.” These composers searched tirelessly for
new solutions to the old genre. Standing at their head was Hector Berlioz, followed closely
by Franz Liszt and later Richard Strauss and Gustav Mahler. These were the composers of
the 19th-century avant-garde, occupying a position in direct contradiction to the school
of more conservative traditionalists. These more audacious and inventive composers took
a far greater interest in program music based on literary and/or autobiographical subjects,
in instrumental timbre and harmonic color, and in finding new musical forms, both within
and between the movements of a symphony.
Given this polarization of compositional thinking, some composers are not easily clas-
sified in one camp or the other. Such a composer is Robert Schumann, whose piano music
and Lieder are unanimously agreed to be examples par excellence of the new Romantic
style, but whose chamber music and symphonies are less clearly aligned with the principles
of the avant-garde. Schumann’s piano music is often related to literature of the time, but
his symphonies are less overtly programmatic. Of his four works in this genre, three carry
subtle programmatic associations, but these three do little to break the standard arrange-
ment of four contrasting movements in mostly regular forms.10 In addition, nearly all of
Schumann’s instrumental music relies on orchestral colors that are no more innovative
than those of Beethoven. On these grounds alone, he would seem to have been a composer
whose compositional principles fell more in line with the attitudes of the conservative tra-
ditionalists like Schubert and Mendelssohn. But the one symphony of the four that breaks
from tradition (no. 4) clouds this evaluation of Schumann’s position in the symphonic
world of the early 19th century.
Symphony No. 1
As early as 1832, perhaps with the realization that a successful composer must be able to
write more than piano music and songs, Schumann began sketching a symphony. Consid-
ering that he had no experience with orchestral music and no specific compositional train-
ing in large instrumental genres, it is not surprising that this early attempt was abandoned
before completion.
Not until 1840, when Schumann married Clara Wieck, did his thoughts return to the
challenge of writing a symphony, mostly because it was she who pointed out that much
of his piano music was conceived with a thickness of texture characteristic of large-
scale orchestral music. Why, she must have asked, did he not realize those implications
by actually writing a symphony? With this encouragement, Schumann worked on his
First Symphony in 1841. Taking as his inspiration a poem on the subject of springtime
by Adolf Böttger, Schumann’s original idea was to use the poem as the springboard
to four traditional symphonic movements describing different aspects of spring, some-
thing along the lines of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony. But by the time the work was
completed, he had dropped the idea of placing titles on each movement (which were to
have been “Beginning of Spring,” “Evening,” “Happy Games,” and “Height of Spring”)
choosing instead to let the music stand on its own. Despite the work’s initial inspiration,
Schumann’s First Symphony was not based on the kind of literary or dramatic program
that characterized the work of the more avant-garde composers like Berlioz. Its four
movements are cast in regular symphonic forms, and its orchestration shows little of the
interest in instrumental color that we associate with the more experimental composers
of symphonies in the 19th century.
Symphony No. 2
Work on Schumann’s Second Symphony dates from 1845–46, after he and Clara had
moved from Leipzig to Dresden the previous year. It may have been the conservative
atmosphere of his new home that motivated Schumann to take up the study of counter-
point and the music of J. S. Bach at this point in his life. Bach’s music had lain dormant
for many years after his death in 1750, but was undergoing a renaissance ever since Men-
delssohn’s resurrection of the St. Matthew Passion in 1829. Schumann’s fascination with
Baroque-style counterpoint may account for why the Second Symphony is the most con-
servative of his four works in this genre.
Despite what looks like four distinct movements in traditional forms (sonata,
scherzo with two trios, slow, sonata), there lies behind the whole symphony an unspo-
ken autobiographical program about Schumann’s struggle with ill health. The year
before (1844) his mental and auditory hallucinations had led to a complete mental
breakdown and an inability to tolerate listening to music. The progress from this
desperate state of health back to mental stability became the hidden program for the
Second Symphony, which moves from a melancholy opening to a more triumphant
conclusion in the finale.
Here then is some hint on Schumann’s part of interest in the kind of autobiographical
programs that characterized the music of the most avant-garde composers of the new era.
Symphony No. 3, “Rhenish”

In 1850 Schumann accepted a position as municipal music director in Düsseldorf on the
Rhine River. There he found a renewed happiness that bore fruit in the composition of a
symphony about the Rhineland. This “Rhenish” Symphony consists of five semi-descrip-
tive movements in which Schumann tried to capture the feeling of his new home, much as
Mendelssohn had done in his Scottish and Italian Symphonies. The opening movement,
marked “lebhaft” (lively) is fairly abstract but captures perhaps some of the composer’s
new-found happiness. The scherzo movement is actually a Ländler, a kind of folk waltz
that represents the joy of the German peasantry. This is followed by a short lyrical inter-
lude leading to the symphony’s main slow movement marked “Freierlich” (solemn). This
movement was meant to capture some of the solemnity of a specific church ceremony in
which Schumann witnessed the elevation of an archbishop to the position of cardinal.
It is the most overtly programmatic of the five movements in this symphony. The finale
reverts to the same “lebhaft” style as the first movement, without specific programmatic
implications.
Symphony No. 4
Schumann’s Fourth Symphony was originally written immediately after the First Symphony in
1841. The original conception of the work as four movements to be played completely attacca
made it the most radical of Schumann’s symphonies. This early version of the symphony was
first titled “symphonic fantasy,” but Schumann set the work aside because of some dissatisfac-
tion with its original form. Years later (1851) he returned to the work and revised the orches-
tration, making the new version far thicker than the more transparent original.
The form of this symphony is irregular not only because all four movements are to be
performed without a pause, but also because the four movements can be understood to
function like the parts of a single, large sonata form movement—a “compound” sonata
form—as illustrated in Figure 4.3:
Figure 4.3 Compound Sonata Form of Symphony No. 4
The first indication the listener has of the unusual structure of this symphony comes in the
opening movement, which begins with a traditional slow introduction moving into an exposi-
tion with two closely related themes and the traditional repeat. After the double bar marking
the end of the exposition, the music moves into the expected “development” section, but this
section of the form contains little in the way of traditional development of the main themes.
Instead, Schumann introduces two new themes (D1 and D2 in Exs. 4.14a and b) in this section.
The movement then ends without ever coming to a recapitulation. The reason for this unusual
departure from “normal” sonata form has mostly to do with the fact that this movement func-
tions as the exposition of the larger compound sonata form that spans all four movements,
and the role of the recapitulation in this larger form will be played by the last movement of
the piece. The principal thematic idea of the first movement appears in the slow introduction,
whose first five notes become the kernel from which the entire symphony grows (Ex. 4.12).
Ex. 4.12 Slow Introduction, First Movement
This melodic figure is then transformed into the Primary theme of the allegro that fol-
lows (Ex. 4.13).
Ex. 4.13 Primary Theme of Exposition
One of the two new themes heard in the development section of this movement contains
this same melodic idea (see Ex. 4.14b).
Ex. 4.14a D1 After Double Bar
Ex. 4.14b D2 After Double Bar
The overall structure of the first movement can be diagramed as in Figure 4.4:
Figure 4.4 Formal Structure of the First Movement
The second and third movements of this symphony can be understood as the development
section of this compound sonata form because the themes of those movements have been
developed and expanded out of material found in the first movement (the exposition). The
second movement, a simple ABA form, contrasts with the first in both meter and tempo,
as we would expect. But because the opening theme of this movement contains the same
pattern of pitches (in mm. 2–3) as the motto theme of the first movement it represents the
process of development at work across the two contrasting movements (Ex. 4.15).
Ex. 4.15 Primary Theme, Second Movement (Development, part I)
This process of development via thematic transformation (see arrows in Ex. 4.16) con-
tinues within the second movement as Schumann creates a new version of the motto theme
for solo violin in the contrasting B section of this movement.
Ex. 4.16 Violin Solo Theme in the Contrasting Middle Section of the Second Movement
Like the second movement, the scherzo also serves the function of a development sec-
tion in the compound sonata form of the whole piece. Its main theme is also a transforma-
tion of the basic motto theme, again by inversion (Ex. 4.17).
Ex. 4.17 Main Theme of the Scherzo (Development, part II)
The contrasting B theme in the binary form scherzo likewise contains the basic shape of
the motto theme in its first two measures, but now stated in retrograde motion (Ex. 4.18).
Ex. 4.18 B Theme of the Scherzo
The trio of this scherzo is a further development of the second theme of the slow movement,
which was itself a transformation of the motto theme (compare Ex. 4.19 with Ex. 4.16). This
thematic similarity further unites the middle movements as one large unit of development.
The finale of the symphony functions as the recapitulation of the compound sonata form
by returning us to the tonal center of D, but now in the major mode.11 Schumann begins his
recapitulation-finale with a bridge in B-flat major between the third and fourth movements.
This bridge is a mostly literal repetition of the motto theme from the slow introduction that
opened the symphony. This is the first time in the entire symphony that this theme has been
reheard in its original unaltered form (compare Ex. 4.13 and Ex. 4.20).
Ex. 4.20 Slow Introduction to Last Movement

Schumann then moves to the allegro section of the movement where he introduces a
theme that is rhythmically reminiscent of the first of the new themes (D1) that appeared
after the double bar at the end of the exposition of the first movement (compare Ex. 4.21
with D1 in Ex. 4.14a).
Ex. 4.21 Primary Theme in the Last Movement
The role of this finale is to complete the truncated first movement (which had no reca-
pitulation) by returning to thematic material that will bring to the end of the symphony
the sense of thematic return that the first movement was missing. Besides the literal rep-
etition of the slow introduction at the start of the finale, the most interesting connection
of this last movement to the opening of the symphony lies in the complex construction
of the movement’s contrasting theme out of the material drawn from the motto, not by
the process of obvious transformation seen in all the other movements, but rather by a
process that anticipates the compositional techniques of Schoenberg’s free atonal music
more the 50 years later: the process of permutation of a pitch set. Notice that this theme
(Ex. 4.22) contains the notes C-sharp, D, E, F-sharp which are all part of the collection of
pitches that makes up the opening motto theme in the first movement, but they are now
restated in the major mode and in a completely new permutation, E–F-sharp–D–C-sharp.
Ex. 4.22 Contrasting Theme in the Last Movement
Such pitch manipulation is perhaps the most sophisticated kind of thematic transfor-
mation seen thus far in the 19th-century symphony, and it marks Schumann’s position in
the battle between the conservative traditionalists and the avant-garde composers with
a question mark. Was Schumann as traditional as we have often been led to believe?
Lastly, the finale contains in its main section one more seemingly new theme that is actu-
ally also an expansion of the fundamental motive of the entire symphony. (See arrows
in Ex. 4.23.)
Ex. 4.23 Second Contrasting Theme in the Last Movement
Schumann’s Orchestration
One last point with regard to Schumann’s compositional style in his large orchestral works
like the symphony remains to be noted here, and that concerns his command of the art
of orchestration. As already suggested, colorful orchestration seems to have been a pri-
mary interest among the most modern and innovative composers of symphonies. Berlioz,
in particular, set the standard in terms of inventing new orchestral sounds that could be
employed as tools in creating expressive programmatic music. Schumann, on the other
hand, was either not interested in this aspect of writing for orchestra, or was untrained
and inexperienced in the art of orchestration, or both. Adam Carse, writing in his history
of orchestration, commented that
The work of Robert Schumann . . . provides one of the few instances in which a com-
poser of the first rank . . . was unable to handle the orchestra even moderately well.12
He goes on to explain that the problem is that
he did not conceive theme and passages, patterns and textures, which owe their very
being to particular instruments or groups of instruments . . . The continuously even
tone quality, the full-bodied but monotonously rich tint of his coloring, is due to the
employment of string, woodwinds, and horns in constant combination.13
Carse’s condemnation of Schumann’s thick-textured and “monotonous” orchestral sound

has been repeated by numerous other writers over the years, and has even led various
famous conductors into making alterations to his scores in an attempt to thin out the
orchestral textures and bring some variety to his instrumental coloring. These attempts to
reorchestrate Schumann’s symphonies were common throughout much of the 20th cen-
tury, until there arose in the 1960s a counter-revolution against such musical tampering.
The newest thinking about Schumann’s orchestration is that the thick undifferentiated
sound of his symphonies is part and parcel of the German aesthetic under which he worked
and of his personal struggles with his own emotional darkness throughout his career. We
would do well, therefore, not to try to make his orchestral music into something that it
was never meant to be. As a result of this new thinking, there began to appear in the last
decades of the 20th century recordings that boldly proclaimed to present these symphonies
in their “original orchestration.” And like Handel’s Messiah, which was performed for
most of the 19th and 20th centuries in the reorchestrated version made by Mozart, nearly
all modern recordings of these masterpieces present them in their original form.
Summary
As a symphonist, Schumann was caught between opposing schools of thought in the 19th
century. On the one hand, composers such as Schubert and Mendelssohn chose not to
challenge the hundred-year tradition of symphonic writing they inherited from the great
Classical masters. For them the symphony was either a purely abstract or faintly descrip-
tive genre of orchestral music in multiple contrasting movements, written for strings, with
limited support from woodwind and brass instruments. While the music of these con-
servative composers did not push the limits of what a symphony was, their works in this
genre had a truly Romantic sound based on unusual key relationships and extended lyrical
themes. On the other hand, composers such as Berlioz and Liszt felt the need to take the
implications of Beethoven’s last symphony and to break new ground in terms of the very
definition of this genre. Symphonies that translated great literature into sounds that had
never before been heard, or symphonies in which the composer himself was overtly the
hero of a narrative drama, became the standard for the new avant-garde composers who
followed after Beethoven.
Schumann’s symphonies embrace both the old and the new simultaneously. They usu-
ally comprise the four traditional movements we would expect in a symphony of the Clas-
sical era. They are not test pieces for new instrumental sounds, and their programs, where
they exist at all, seem mostly ancillary to the music itself. From this perspective Schumann
looks fairly traditional in his symphonic writing. But on the other hand, as editor of the
Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, Schumann continually searched for what he called the “New
Messiah” of music—the composer who would take up the mantle of Beethoven and carry
great music into the future. He supported Berlioz, the most radical symphonic composer
of the early 19th century, with a laudatory review of that composer’s Symphonie fantas-
tique, at a time when few would have understood or appreciated the remarkable innova-
tions in that work. Yet Schumann rejected the flashy showmanship of Liszt, preferring the
more conservative music of Brahms. In the final analysis, Schumann remains an enigma,
a composer who bridges the gap between traditional and avant-garde approaches to the
symphony in the 19th century.
Study Questions
1. Explain the special formal structure of Schumann’s Symphony no. 4.
2. How many of Schumann’s symphonies are programmatic? And what is the nature of
these programs?
3. What was so long thought to be the problem with Schumann’s orchestration?
Further Reading
Alan Walker, ed., Robert Schumann: The Man and His Music (London: Barrie and Jenkins, 1972).
Contains essays on various aspects of Schumann’s life and music.
The Janus Face of Brahms

Johannes Brahms (1833–97) has frequently been referred to as the “keeper of the flame,”
a sobriquet that suggests he followed a traditional line of stylistic development, keep-
ing alive an attitude about musical composition based firmly in Classical principles. In
terms of the dichotomy between traditional and avant-garde styles in the 19th century,
Brahms is nearly always cast in the role of the figurehead of the conservative branch
of composers—those like Schubert and Mendelssohn who showed less interest in liter-
ary and autobiographical program music, new forms, and new orchestral colors. The
opposing branch of composers—made up mostly of Berlioz, Liszt, and Wagner—was
motivated by a need to find a new path for music to travel after the death of Beethoven.
Wagner became the titular leader of this group, directly challenging the compositional
principles of Brahms in numerous essays and treatises promoting a more radical view of
the future of music. Brahms, for his part, had little time for, or interest in, pursuing such
a philosophical dispute in music. It was actually the devoutly conservative critic Eduard
Hanslick (of the Viennese Neue freie Presse) who passionately supported Brahms and
fanned the flames of controversy between these two opposing schools of composition.
On the avant-garde side of this debate a few outspoken composers inveighed against
Brahms, especially toward the end of the century. Hugo Wolf, for one, rather snidely
quipped that Brahms had mastered “the art of composing without ideas.”14
Beginning with Mendelssohn’s “rediscovery” of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion in 1829,
the 19th century became the first point in the history of music at which an active repertoire
of earlier music became firmly established in concert halls. Prior to this, nearly all music
performed in 18th-century public and private concerts was by contemporary, living com-
posers. In the 19th century, the music of Mozart and Beethoven (among others) became
canonized as a timeless or “classical” repertoire that could be played and replayed along-
side newer works by less well-established composers.
Brahms was part of this transition to a new era that began to value old music as much
as new. His musical education in piano, theory, and composition was based on a study of
the music of Bach and the Classical masters, all of whom became his first loves. Brahms’s
affinity for older music also found expression in his willingness to work on the edito-
rial boards of some of the first collected critical editions of German Classical composers
(Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert) as well as collections (German Denkmäler) of Renaissance
and Baroque masters. These editions represented the birth of modern musicology and
cemented the public’s growing interest in music of composers of the more distant past. The
result of Brahms’s lifelong association with early music was his adoption of many of the
characteristics of that music in his own compositions. Especially revealing of his Classical
tendencies as a composer is Brahms’s apparent lack of interest in the modern expansion of
the orchestra found in the music of his contemporaries. For example, unlike Tchaikovsky,
Brahms never employed tuba, crash cymbals, bass drum, gong, or more than two trumpets
in his orchestra. Unlike Dvořák, another close contemporary, he never used an English
horn. Nor did Brahms ever follow the lead of Berlioz in the use of harps in his orchestra.
And only once (in the scherzo of his Fourth Symphony) do we find Brahms daring to
employ piccolo and triangle. Because orchestral color was such an important element in
the music of avant-garde composers of the 19th century, Brahms’s lack of interest in this
aspect of orchestral composition has partly led to his being characterized as the arch Clas-
sicist in the Romantic era.
Throughout most of his career Brahms’s musical influences also included an exposure
to a more popular kind of music heard in dance halls where he played piano as a young
man, to German folksongs, and to the gypsy music that he came to know through
his association with the Hungarian violinist Eduard Reményi. Both of these influences
penetrated his mature compositional style in the form of simple lyrical tunes, especially
in the middle movements of his symphonies, and the use of the “zingarella” (gypsy)
style in much of his chamber and piano music. But perhaps the most important influ-
ence on the career of young Brahms was his introduction in 1853 to Robert and Clara
Schumann. Schumann took an instant liking to the music of the 20-year-old Brahms,
and published an extremely laudatory article in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik titled
“Neue Bahnen” (New Paths). It was in this article that Schumann proclaimed Brahms
as the Second Messiah (the First Messiah having been Beethoven) who had come to
save the world of music from the purveyors of low-class, tasteless music—those people
Schumann referred to as “Philistines.”
Brahms’s reputation as a serious composer of earnest, dignified music is everywhere in
evidence in his work as a symphonist. For him, the symphony might be said to have rep-
resented a composer’s highest calling, a genre in which one’s compositional mettle was to
be tested. For Brahms more than any other 19th-century composer, it was the symphonies
of Beethoven that presented him with the single greatest crisis in his creative life—a crisis
of influence (or as the famous literary critic Harold Bloom so aptly put it: “the anxiety of
influence”15) that Brahms needed to transcend before he could proceed with his own work
in this genre. Brahms is said to have been quite open about this anxiety, pointedly singling
out Beethoven in the now famous comment, “You have no idea what it feels like to hear
the feet of a giant tramping behind you.” Although this sounds like a genuine admission
from Brahms of his inhibitions caused by the legacy of Beethoven, the comment actually
derives not from Brahms himself, but from the critic Max Kalbeck, who reported it as
something Brahms told the conductor Hermann Levi. This third-hand information has,
alas, no solid confirmation in any other sources, and thus has to be considered of dubious
authenticity.16 Although Brahms did indulge his desire to write a large orchestral work
with the composition of two substantial serenades in the 1860s, the fact remains that his
approach to the writing of a real symphony was filled with extreme trepidation, forcing
him to wait until he was 43 years old before completing his first.
Symphony No. 1
Because Brahms has for so long been known as the de-facto king of the Classical sym-
phony in the 19th century, he has often been written off as a great composer who actu-
ally contributed little, if anything, to the development of the genre. Unfortunately, this
ingrained understanding of his symphonic style has long obscured the more Romantic
and forward-looking aspects of his compositional style. At first glance, Brahms’s open-
ing gambit in the world of the symphony looks like a continuation of the Classical
tradition he so revered. Unlike the symphonies of so many of his contemporaries, his
First Symphony, completed in 1776 after a gestation of about 15 years, is a piece of
purely instrumental music that eschews all programmatic associations. While other
composers experimented with techniques designed to cyclically organize large, multi-
movement compositions, Brahms’s First Symphony contains four apparently uncon-
nected movements in the normal tempo sequence of fast, slow, moderate, and fast. But
a more careful look reveals some unusually forward-looking modifications of the tra-
ditional Classical symphonic form at work in this piece. The sequence of keys between
the movements, for example, makes a Romantic cycle of ascending thirds that reminds
us of some of the unusual third-related key changes found in much of Schubert’s music
(see discussion below). Furthermore, while the first movement is a fairly straight-
forward sonata form with a long, slow introduction, this introduction lays out the
thematic material that will be reworked as the main themes of the subsequent sonata
form—a technique that Brahms probably borrowed from his mentor Schumann (see
the discussion of his Symphony no. 4 earlier in this chapter) or from the tone poems
of Liszt (see the analysis of Les preludes later in this chapter). Examples 4.24 and 4.25
illustrate these motivic elements in the introduction and their transformation into the
main themes of the sonata that follows.
Ex. 4.24a Introductory Motive 1
Ex. 4.24b Motive 2
Ex. 4.24c Motive 3
Ex. 4.24d Motive 4
Ex. 4.25a Primary Theme, Derived From the First Three Motives
Ex. 4.25b Secondary Theme (Motive 1 Inverted)
The second and third movements also depart somewhat from the standard Classical
arrangement of a slow movement followed by a scherzo. Brahms upset this normal pat-
tern of middle movements by writing a second movement in a moderate andante tempo,
followed by an allegretto movement in duple meter in place of the usual scherzo. The key
scheme of these two movements represents one of the most Romantic aspects of Brahms’s
symphonic style. Instead of placing the second movement in the subdominant as one
might expect, Brahms chose the key of E major for this movement, a major third above
the key of the first movement. In and of itself, this kind of modulation is not so shocking
for a 19th-century composer. But Brahms then upset traditional expectations by writing
his third movement in the key of A-flat major, up another major third from the second
movement. In so doing he established an unusual key scheme that cycles through a series
of major thirds: C–E–A-flat–C for the four movements of the symphony. Both of these
middle movements are cast in simple ternary form and feature attractive lyrical themes of
the kind we usually associate with Romanticism in general.
Given Brahms’s simultaneous veneration and fear of Beethoven, it is not surprising
to find that his First Symphony pays homage to that great predecessor in several ways.
Like the Fifth Symphony of Beethoven, the key of Brahms’s First Symphony is C minor,
and following Beethoven’s lead, Brahms ended his symphony in C major to create the
same kind of triumphant climax. This allusion to Beethoven seems deliberate for a few
reasons: first, because the symphonies of Beethoven were the gold standard by which
all later works in the genre were to be measured. No one could justifiably be said to
have succeeded in this genre without first having confronted and overcome the immense
influence of Beethoven’s nine symphonies. Second, the importance of Beethoven’s influ-
ence was compounded by the fact that Wagner had already commandeered the Ninth
Symphony as a justification for his own music dramas, boldly claiming that Beethoven’s
final symphonic masterpiece marked the end of the instrumental symphony, and that
no further progress was possible without synthesizing orchestral and vocal music into a
new dramatic entity.17
As the reluctant standard bearer of the traditional camp of symphonic composers,
Brahms could not let the challenge of Wagner go unanswered; and that answer appeared
in the finale of his First Symphony. In this sonata-form movement, Brahms created a
song-like main theme in C major (after a lengthy slow introduction in C minor) that
alludes so directly to the Ode to Joy in the last movement of Beethoven’s Ninth that the
conductor Hans von Bülow referred to the new symphony as “Beethoven’s Tenth.” One
might think that someone like Brahms, who was so concerned about finding a way to tran-
scend the symphonies of Beethoven and establish a unique compositional voice within that
tradition, would never have dared to let his first symphony drift so perilously close to the
very style he was trying to supersede. Perhaps, as Mark Evan Bonds suggests, this refer-
ence to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony constitutes a musical rebuttal to Wagner’s proclama-
tion that the instrumental symphony was dead.18 That is, by writing such a symphony and
making direct reference to the work that “killed” the genre (Beethoven’s Ninth), Brahms
was sticking his proverbial finger in Wagner’s eye. Example 4.26 3 sets Beethoven’s Ode to
Joy (transposed to C major) directly against Brahms’s theme for direct comparison. Notice
that the phrase lengths are nearly all the same, and that the cadences correspond exactly.
The narrow folk-like compass of the melody is also the same in each theme. There are even
a couple of measures (10–11) where the two themes mirror each other exactly.
Despite Brahms’s personal struggle with the influence of Beethoven on his symphonies
(or perhaps because of it), his four symphonies all impressed his colleagues as throw-
backs to an earlier era. In fact, because Brahms was clearly not someone consumed with
a need to find new musical forms, to write detailed program music, or to experiment
with unusual instrumental colors, his reputation as the perfect Classicist was in many
ways well deserved. But the technique of motivic transformation in the last movement
(illustrated in Exs. 4.27–33) was a modern aspect of Brahms’s symphonic style that went
unnoticed until Schoenberg first drew attention to it with the publication of an essay
titled “Brahms the Progressive,” which appeared in his collection of essays Style and
Idea (1950).19 In this, and several other essays in the collection, Schoenberg pointed out
what he called the process of “developing variation” in the music of German composers
from Bach to Brahms. He defined this technique as a process in which the “variation
of the features of a basic unit produces all the thematic transformations that provide
Ex. 4.26 Finale Themes Compared

for . . . contrasts, variety, logic and unity.”20 In this regard, “developing variation”
would seem to be similar to the process of thematic transformation we’ve already seen
in the music of Berlioz. But the illustrations Schoenberg supplied throughout his essay
allow us to make a subtle distinction between the transformational technique of Berlioz
and that of Brahms.
Berlioz’s process of thematic transformation, as seen in his Symphonie fantastique,
was one that involved the possible alteration of all aspects of a theme other than the
actual melodic outline. In other words, in the music of Berlioz the basic melody of a
theme is retained without alteration, while the meter, rhythm, harmony, and orchestra-
tion are all subjected to change. In Brahms’s process of developing variation, however, the
most important change or transformation is that to which the melody itself is subjected.
Brahms’s technique is thus much closer to that of Schoenberg himself, who considered a
theme to be a collection of pitches that could be transformed through inversion, permuta-
tion (reordering), and/or the addition and subtraction of pitches from the original motive.
This technique can be illustrated with a few examples drawn from the last movement of
Brahms’s First Symphony.
To start, the finale opens with a motive whose most prominent notes outline the melodic
shape G–E-flat–D (Ex. 4.27).
Ex. 4.27 Motive 1, Finale Introduction
This is followed almost immediately by a motive that outlines a second inversion tonic
triad (Ex. 4.28).
Ex. 4.28 Motive 2, Introduction
As the slow introduction unfolds, these motives become the source material for new
themes. First Brahms takes the theme that appears in Ex. 4.28 (the tonic 6/4 chord),
changes the key to C major and the tempo to andante, and presents it in retrograde in
m. 30 as a new theme in the French horn, without its original appoggiatura decorations
(Ex. 4.29).
Ex. 4.29 Horn Melody in Introduction

The culmination of this slow introduction is the gorgeous brass chorale that begins in
m. 47. Its melody is a permutation of the pitch set of motive 1: G–E-flat-D in motive 1 is
transposed up a step to A–F–E and then rearranged to make A–E–F in Ex. 4.30.
Ex. 4.30 Brass Chorale in the Introduction
Once the actual sonata form begins with the famous tune borrowed from Beethoven’s
Ninth Symphony, we can see that this too is simply a restatement in the major mode and in
a new tempo of motives 1 and 2 from the introduction: measures 1–2 of this theme are an
exact repetition of motive 1, and measures 3–4 are constructed from the tonic 6/4 chord
of motive 2, marked by arrows in Ex. 4.31.
Most astonishing in this process of developing variation is how Brahms managed to

create the second theme of the exposition in this movement (Ex. 4.32) by completely
rearranging the order of the pitches of motive 1 in the introduction. The introduction
presented the pitches of the motive in the order G–F-sharp–G–E-flat–D. Now the second
theme of the exposition presents those same pitches (here in the major mode) in the order
E–D–F-sharp–G.
Ex. 4.32 Secondary Theme 1
Further demonstration of this technique comes with the next theme in the subordinate
theme group of the exposition (S2 in m. 132) which takes the same four pitches and adds
an A to make the series D–E-flat–F-sharp–A–G (Ex. 4.33).
Ex. 4.33 Secondary Theme 2

These kinds of transformations are substantively different from those created by Ber-
lioz, because the actual melodic basis of the original motives is completely disguised by
the rearrangement of their pitches to create new themes that do not have an immediately
recognizable connection to their sources. Brahms was thus able to create a tightly organ-
ized movement of related thematic material without resorting to the obvious audible simi-
larities that Berlioz’s simpler thematic transformations produced.
On the whole, we may still want to label Brahms a Classicist among a generation of
more avant-garde Romantic composers of symphonies. His goal was not to reinvent the
genre, but to bring to it an expansion of the abstract instrumental style of the Classical
masters (especially Beethoven). For Brahms, the symphony was still a large-scale work
for orchestra in four contrasting movements, but one in which the internal growth and
development of the melodic materials was far more coherent than anything seen in earlier
symphonies. Schoenberg’s estimate of Brahms as a “progressive” has gotten lost over the
years in a general evaluation of his work as staunchly conservative, an opinion bolstered
by critical commentary from several late 19th-century composers who saw him as a fossil
from prehistoric times. Today we are in a better position to recognize the opposing forces
of Classicism and Romanticism at work in his music, and to appreciate both.
Study Questions
1. What is “developing variation,” and who coined the term?
2. Why did Brahms imitate the Ode to Joy from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in the
finale of his First Symphony?
3. What are the Classical elements of Brahms’s style?
Further Questions
Mark Evan Bonds, “The Ideology of Genre: Brahms’s First Symphony,” in After Beethoven: Impera-
tives of Originality in the Symphony (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996).
Liszt and the Symphonic Avant-Garde
Illustration 4.3 Liszt in Middle Age
The 19th century opened with a generation of ground-breaking, early Romantic com-
posers, all of whom were born around 1810, including Mendelssohn, Chopin, Schumann,
Verdi, and Liszt. Among this illustrious group, Franz Liszt (1811–86) is perhaps best
known as one of the greatest piano virtuosos of the 19th century and as a composer of
some of the most difficult piano music ever written. As a symphonist he is perhaps less
well known, although historically one might argue that his work in that genre is at least
as significant as his innovations in the world of piano playing.
The story of Liszt’s musical education begins with his family’s move from Hungary,
where he was born, to Vienna where he began studying the piano with Carl Czerny and
took composition lessons with the aging Antonio Salieri. His family then moved on to
Paris in 1823 where Liszt gave some spectacularly successful public performances. As a
young man, he circulated widely among Parisian intellectuals, including famous writers
such as Victor Hugo and Alphonse de Lamartine. Among the musicians he met, the most
influential were Paganini, whose extraordinary virtuosity Liszt adapted to the piano in
the form of what he called his “transcendental” technique, and Berlioz, whose Symphonie
fantastique made a lasting impression on him at its premiere in 1830. This connection to
Berlioz was to become one of the most important in Liszt’s life, as the two men joined
arms in support of modern music. Liszt made a piano arrangement of Berlioz’s symphony
and performed it frequently in his recitals, thus vastly increasing the work’s exposure in
the 1830s. In gratitude, Berlioz dedicated the first published edition of his La damnation
de Faust to Liszt, who returned the favor by dedicating his own Faust Symphony to Ber-
lioz. In addition, Liszt’s compositional technique relied heavily on the process of thematic
transformation that Berlioz first introduced in his symphonies.
The fame and fortune of Liszt as a brilliant pianist and composer of piano music
extended through the mid 1840s, and was partly augmented by his notorious love
affairs with famous aristocratic women. The most prominent of these was his relation-
ship with the Countess Marie D’Agoult, who left her husband and daughter to run away
with Liszt. Although they never married, their long liaison resulted in the birth of three
children, the most famous of which was Cosima, who later married Liszt’s assistant,
Hans von Bülow and then left him to marry Richard Wagner, setting off one of the
biggest scandals of the mid-19th century. The other major woman in Liszt’s life, whom
he also never married, was the Russian Princess Carolyne von Sayn-Wittgenstein. Liszt
met her in 1847 on one of his Russian tours. Carolyne, who at the time was estranged
from her husband, began living with Liszt almost immediately, and planned to marry
him after securing an annulment of her marriage. But the annulment was never granted
by the Church, and the marriage never happened. However, the Princess became a life-
long companion of Liszt, and assisted him with the writing of several of his essays on
the relationship of music to society, which became an important part of his work as a
19th-century artist.
After more than 20 years of concertizing, Liszt began to tire of the life of a traveling
piano virtuoso, and in 1848 shifted the focus of his artistic activity when he accepted
a position as director of music at the court of the Duke of Weimar. As the new head of
music in this important cultural center, Liszt made it his goal to return the city to a posi-
tion of musical importance in Europe that it hadn’t enjoyed since the days when J. S.
Bach worked there. Under Liszt’s guidance, Weimar became a center for new music, with
regular performances of the most avant-garde works by his friends Wagner and Berlioz.
These three composers became known as the proponents of what Franz Brendel, editor of
the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik (after Schumann retired in 1845), labeled the Neudeutsche
Schule (New German School), a self-consciously avant-garde movement dedicated to pro-
moting the “music of the future” (Zukunftsmusik)21
Almost as soon as he started working in Weimar, Liszt unveiled his most important
compositional innovation—the one-movement symphonic poem (Liszt’s actual term for
this new genre was sinfonische Dichtung). Over the next ten years he composed twelve
of these symphonic poems, usually basing them programmatically on literary works of
authors such as Hugo, Byron, and Lamartine. He then added one more, Von der Wiege
zum Grabe (From the Cradle to the Grave) in 1882. The symphonic poem represents an
important development in the history of the symphony just because it is not a symphony.
Liszt’s invention of a new orchestral genre deals emphatically with the challenge of
Beethoven and his Ninth Symphony. Like Berlioz, Mendelssohn, and Schumann before
him, Liszt had to decide in what direction the symphony was going to evolve. The over-
riding question became that of determining how to do something new with the genre
while maintaining its fundamental characteristics. The one-movement symphonic poem
that Liszt invented as a response to Beethoven’s immense influence derives partly from
the programmatic concert overtures of composers such as Mendelssohn (The Hebrides,
Midsummer Night’s Dream) and Berlioz (Waverly, Rob Roy), with one important dis-
tinction: concert overtures were almost invariably cast in sonata form, while the tone
poems of Liszt use musical forms derived from the nature of the program underlying
the music. At least from a theoretical point of view, the form of every tone poem, as
prescribed by the composer himself, should be different because it presumably reflects
the program on which it is based. This prescription, however, did not preclude the use
of sonata-like elements in the structure of a tone poem, as we shall see in Liszt’s Les
preludes.
The writing of Liszt’s third symphonic poem, Les préludes (1854) makes a fascinating
story of the application of this axiomatic principle regarding the derivation of musical
form directly from an underlying program. The work began life as an overture to a cho-
ral/orchestral work titled Les quatre éléments (The Four Elements), which was based on
poems of Joseph Autran about the ancient Greek concept of the four basic elements of the
universe—earth, wind, water, and fire. When this work failed to gain a positive reception,
Liszt abandoned the choral sections, saving only the instrumental overture. At that point
he looked for a new program to illustrate the meaning of what was now a piece of purely
instrumental music, i.e., a symphonic poem. For this purpose, he decided to connect his
overture-turned-symphonic-poem to Alphonse de Lamartine’s Nouvelles méditations poé-
tiques. A close look at this poem by Lamartine, however, reveals little that could convinc-
ingly be claimed to have anything to do with the form of Liszt’s symphonic poem. Because
Liszt invented the connection of his composition to Lamartine’s poem after the music had
already been written, he therefore violated the most fundamental of his own principles
regarding the connection of programs to musical form.
In order to make a connection between Lamartine’s poem and the music Liszt extracted
from Les quatre éléments, the composer asked his current mistress, the Princess Carolyne
von Sayn-Wittgenstein, to write an introduction to the score that would draw the two
together somehow. This introduction was then printed in the published score of 1856. In
it, the Princess took the overture Liszt wrote for the four movements of his choral work
(La terre—earth, Les aquilons—north wind, Les flots—the waves, and Les astres—the
stars/fire) and linked it to her somewhat arbitrary summary of Lamartine’s poem. The
resulting program, only part of which was drawn directly from Lamartine, appeared in
the score as follows:
What else is our life but a series of preludes to that unknown hymn, the first and
solemn note of which is intoned by Death? Love is the glowing dawn of all exist-
ence; but what is the fate where the first delights of happiness are not interrupted
by some storm, the mortal blast of which dissipates its fine illusions, the fatal
lightning of which consumers its alter; and where is the cruelly wounded soul
which, on issuing from one of these tempests, does not endeavor to rest his recol-
lection on the calm serenity of life in the fields: Nevertheless, man hardly gives
himself up for long to the enjoyment of the beneficent stillness which at first he
has shared in Nature’s bosom, and when the trumpet sounds the alarm, he hastens
to the dangerous post, whatever the war may be, which calls him to its ranks, in
order at last to recover in the combat full consciousness of himself and the entire
possession of his energy.22
A slightly different version of this program was written in 1860 by Liszt’s assistant, Hans
von Bülow, now with no reference to Lamartine. In this shortened version, the program is
said to be about the progress of a man’s life from youth to adulthood.
Regardless of how closely or not Princess Carolyne’s introduction comes to capturing
the moods of Liszt’s music, the form of the tone poem itself is unusual. Like the Fourth
Symphony of Schumann, the work is a gigantic compound sonata form (sometimes also
referred to as “two-dimensional sonata form”)23 in which the various sections of exposition,
development, and recapitulation take on the characteristics of individual movements in a
full multi-movement symphony. The first movement plays the role of the sonata exposition.
It contains a slow introduction in the key of C major, with the motive illustrated in Ex. 4.34.
Ex. 4.34 Introductory Motive

This motive is then transformed using the same technique found in the works of Berlioz
to make the Primary theme of the exposition, T1 in terms of the overall compound sonata
structure (Ex. 4.35).
Ex. 4.35 Primary Theme, T1
The Primary theme is then itself rhythmically and metrically altered to create the Sec-
ondary theme, T2 of the exposition (Ex. 4.36).
Ex. 4.36 Secondary Theme, T2
The only new theme, T3, in the exposition appears in the horns and closes the exposition
in the key of E major (Ex. 4.37).
Ex. 4.37 Closing Theme, T3
The “second movement” of this large sonata form functions as the beginning of the
development section. It is marked by a change of meter to cut time and a change of key
to C major, both of which cause us to perceive this as a new movement. Liszt labeled this
section the “Storm” (as mentioned in the program). As expected in a development sec-
tion, the melodic material is clearly derived from the Primary theme of the first movement
(exposition). This development then changes tempo and meter again as it moves into what
sounds like the third movement, labeled “Pastoral.” This movement continues the process
of development started in the preceding “Storm” movement. Here the pastoral theme
(T4) that introduces this movement seems on first hearing to be new. But a closer analysis
reveals that it actually contains a small segment of the main notes of the Primary theme
(T1) from the first movement. Ex. 4.38 illustrates this new theme with the notes that are
common to both marked with arrows. While most of the thematic transformations seen
in this tone poem derive from the technique first introduced by Berlioz in his Symphonie
fantastique, this particular example comes closer to the technique of developing variation
used by Brahms.
Ex. 4.38 Pastoral Theme, T4
At last the tone poem returns in its last movement to a theme that clearly restates the
Secondary theme (T2) of the first movement. This aural connection is easy to make despite
the fact that the meter of the last movement has changed to 4/4. But beyond this simple
alteration, the theme that opens this section of the piece, which is devoted to conveying
the “glory” of a man’s life, is essentially a recapitulation of thematic material from the first
movement (exposition) now back in the tonic key of C major. This entire closing move-
ment (recapitulation) of the piece takes on the mood of a military march. Even the lyrical
Closing theme of the exposition (T3 in Ex. 4.37) is transformed by rhythmic and metric
manipulation into a march-like theme (Ex. 4.39).
Ex. 4.39 T3 of the Exposition Transformed as the Secondary Theme of the Finale
The formal technique Liszt used in this, his third tone poem, reminds us of that seen
in the experimental Fourth Symphony of Schumann, although the overture on which
Liszt’s tone poem is based predates Schumann’s symphony by several years. The basic
idea is that of a large-scale compound sonata form in which the parts of the sonata take
on characteristics of the traditional contrasting movements of a regular four-movement
symphony. Thus the sections of exposition, development, and recapitulation seem to sep-
arate themselves into distinct, contrasting movements because of changes of key, meter,
and tempo that imitate those one would find in the various movements of a traditional
symphony. But in fact, the contrast that creates the different “movements” of the piece
is contradicted by the unifying device of cyclical form and thematic transformation that
allows us to hear those separate movements as parts of a super-sized compound sonata.
The structure of this interesting tone poem can thus be diagramed as in Figure 4.5.
Faust Symphony (1854)

In addition to his symphonic poems, Liszt also wrote two symphonies of a more tra-
ditional design: The Faust Symphony (1854) and the Dante Symphony (1855). It was
Berlioz who introduced Liszt to Goethe’s Faust in 1830 when they first met. Liszt became
especially intrigued by the work after Berlioz directed a performance of his own La dam-
nation de Faust in Weimar in 1852 and dedicated the score to Liszt. Liszt may also have
seen the Faust legend as a mirror of his own life—“two souls within one breast,” as Faust
described himself. Certainly Liszt’s personality had two sides, like that of Faust: the cor-
poral and the spiritual, making the symphony something of an autobiographical work
along the same lines as Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique. And like Les préludes, much
of the thematic material in this symphony is derived through the process of thematic
transformation.
Figure 4.5
Liszt’s symphonic interpretation of the Faust story took the form of a three- movement
symphony to which the composer later added a fourth choral/solo setting of the Chorus
mysticus from Part II of Goethe’s drama. Each of the first three movements is a character
sketch of the main protagonists in the Faust legend: Faust, Gretchen, and Mephistopheles.
The first movement is a sonata form based on five themes that represent the different
aspects of Faust’s personality: mystical, romantic, energetic, longing, and heroic. One of
these (Ex. 4.40) appears in the slow introduction, and then reappears via transformation
as the Secondary theme in the exposition.
Ex. 4.40a Main Motive in the Introduction
Ex. 4.40b Motive Transformed as the Secondary Theme in the Exposition

The development includes some well-arranged thematic superimpositions leading to a
recapitulation that includes all the main thematic material (now in a new order of presen-
tation) along with more development.
The second movement portrays Gretchen in a lyrical interlude in ABA form. The material
in the contrasting middle section of this movement consists of a restatement of three of the
themes from the first movement. Most fascinating in this regard is the transformation of the
main motive from the introduction of the first movement, which Liszt had already transformed
into the romantic contrasting theme in the exposition (Ex. 4.40b). Here in the second move-
ment the new transformation of this theme takes on a sinister quality, as if to suggest that Faust
may not be the kindly, loving young man he appears to be. As portrayed here, he has become a
sinister force in Gretchen’s life. Liszt accomplished the reinterpretation of this important theme
by altering the harmony and orchestration without changing the melody in a significant way.
The last movement, a portrait of Mephistopheles, is modeled after the last movement of
Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique, both in form and technique. Liszt’s idea was to capture
Goethe’s suggestion that Mephisto has no personality of his own, but mirrors in a negative
way the personalities of those he has entrapped. For that reason, the last movement pre-
sents no new themes. Rather, all the melodic material of this movement is derived through
thematic transformation from themes presented in the first two movements, thus creating
in its cyclical organization yet another connection to Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique. Like
the idée fixe in the “Witches’ Sabbath” in Berlioz’s symphony (on which Liszt’s finale is
modeled), the main themes that represent Faust are here musically twisted and distorted.
The only borrowed themes that are not transformed are those that represent Gretchen, sug-
gesting that her purity of spirit is beyond the reach of the devil.
Dante Symphony (1856)

Liszt read Dante’s Divine Comedy in the 1830s, and responded to its powerful impression
by writing a Dante Sonata for piano titled Après une lecture de Dante. With his Dante
fascination not fully satisfied, he then continued on to writing a symphony on the same
subject. The original plan was for a three-movement work corresponding to the three books
of the Divine Comedy: Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso. But Liszt’s friend Wagner convinced
him that trying to create a musical representation of paradise would be fool-hardy, so Liszt
dropped the last movement and substituted a choral Magnificat (“my soul doth magnify the
Lord”) in its place. The first movement of this symphony (Inferno) is predictably ferocious,
beginning with an abundance of loud chromatic scales that create a stormy effect. A more
tranquil, slower middle section offers some contrast before the opening material returns to
round off this ABA form. The second movement is slower and more peaceful. It opens with
several contrasting motives that lead to the loud, brassy middle section of the movement.
One of the opening motives returns at the end before leading directly (attacca) to Liszt’s set-
ting of the Magnificat for female chorus to close the symphony.
Despite the fact that today Liszt is far better known for his piano music and his career
as a virtuoso performer, his contribution to the genre of the symphony makes him one of
the most important composers of orchestral music in the 19th century. His invention of
the symphonic poem and his frequent use of compound sonata form constituted one of the
few successful challenges to the legacy of Beethoven and impacted symphonic composition
for the remainder of the Romantic era.
Study Questions
1. Define the “symphonic poem.”
2. What is “the music of the future”?
3. According to Liszt, what determines the form of a symphonic poem?
Further Reading
Christopher H. Gibbs and Dana Gooley, eds., Franz Liszt and His World (Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 2006). A wonderful collection of essays on various aspects of Liszt’s life and music.
Notes
1. This is the same category of Swiss cow-calling melodies that Beethoven used in the finale of his
own Pastoral Symphony.
2. Berlioz’s program exists in two different versions. The first, created for the symphony’s premiere,
places the taking of the drug overdose here in the fourth movement. The second, printed in 1855
with the publication of the sequel to the symphony, Lélio, ou the retour à la vie, placed the drug-
taking at the beginning of the first movement.
3. This programmatic moment is actually more successful as a visual effect on the score page than
it is as an aural representation of a severed head, because the first chord in the measure is so loud
that it covers the falling pizzicatos that follow it.
4. Wind players are reduced to having to imitate the downward glissando by bending the top pitch
down as far as they can, and then falling directly to the lower note.
5. The tubular bells one often hears at this point in performances of this work are an unfortunate
and totally inappropriate substitute for the effect Berlioz wanted.
6. The ophicleide is a bass bugle with keys like a saxophone. It was the lowest brass instrument
in French orchestras of the early 19th century. Because ophicleides were gradually replaced by
tubas later in the century, nearly all modern performances of the Symphonie fantastique substi-
tute tubas for the Berlioz’s original ophicleides. But because the tuba is a more powerful instru-
ment than the ophicleide, this substitution destroys the balance with the bassoons, and covers
the reedy sound of the original orchestration.
7. Berlioz’s note in the introduction to his full score.
8. A thirteenth string symphony was begun but abandoned after the completion of only one
movement.
9. In a letter to his family written at the time of his visit to Scotland, Mendelssohn referred to his
new symphony as “Scottish,” but thereafter dropped all such reference to the work’s provenance
in performances of the symphony.
10. The Third Symphony (“Rhenish”) has five movements.
11. The parallel between this tonal center and the mode change found in Beethoven’s Ninth Sym-
phony is striking.
12. Adam Carse, The History of Orchestration (New York, NY: Dover, 1964, original publication,
1925), 263.
13. Ibid., 264.
14. Nicholas Slonimsky, Lexicon of Musical Invective, 2nd ed. (Seattle, WA: University of Washing-
ton Press, 1953), 73.
15. The title of his most famous book, The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry, published in
1973.
16. I am indebted to the Brahms scholar Styra Avins, editor of a collection of Brahms’s correspond-
ence titled Johannes Brahms: Life and Letters (New York, NY: Oxford University Press, 1997)
for this little known information regarding this famous quote.
17. See Mark Evan Bonds, “The Ideology of Genre: Brahms’s First Symphony,” in After Beethoven:
Imperatives of Originality in the Symphony (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996).
18. Ibid.
19. Arnold Schoenberg, “Brahms the Progressive,” in Style and Idea, original ed. Dika Newlin (New
York, NY: Philosophical Library, 1950), rev. ed. Leonard Stein (Berkeley, CA: University of Cali-
fornia Press, 1975), 398–441.
20. Ibid., 397.
21. This term “Zukunftsmusik” is the title of an essay by Richard Wagner, published in 1861.
22. Franz Liszt, Preface to Symphonische Dichtungen für grosses Orchester, Vol. 1 (Leipzig: Breit-
kopf und Härtel, n.d. [1885]).
23. For Liszt’s ‘two-dimensional form’ see Steven Vande Moortele, Two Dimensional Sonata Form:
Form and Cycle in Single-Movement Instrumental Works by Liszt, Strauss, Schoenberg, and
Zemlinsky (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2009).
5 Musical Nationalism
Eastern Europe and Russia
The Politics of Nationalism in the Symphonies of Smetana and Dvořák
Political Background
Nothing better represents the struggles of artists in the 19th century than the emergence
of nationalism in music and literature. Nationalism can be defined as the expression of a
unique ethnic and cultural identity common to a specific group of people usually living in
a limited geographical region. The spirit of nationalism became especially powerful in the
19th century after the defeat of the Holy Roman Empire at the hands of Napoleon Bona-
parte in 1806. Prior to that date, the Empire had stretched from Poland and Germany in
northern Europe all the way to parts of Italy in the south, and had dominated the political
map of the European continent for more than a thousand years. The Holy Roman Empire
thus united many geographically distinct parts of Europe and many culturally different
people. Once the Empire was defeated, the different nations that had been forced into sub-
mission under the rule of the Austrian emperor now found the strength to revolt against
his leadership and to seek independence.
The spirit of nationalism also owed its development to theories of freedom, justice, and
equality that had grown out of the Enlightenment in the previous century. This sociologi-
cal movement had brought with it the rise of the common man to a new position of politi-
cal and economic power. The growing importance of the common man translated, in turn,
into the awareness of a Volksgeist—a spirit of the folk—in which the sense of a national
pride was thought to reside.
Musical Nationalism
After having emerged in Italy early in the 18th century, the symphony migrated north to
Germany and Austria where its growth and development continued for over a century
(c. 1750–1850). In music, the nationalist movement found its strongest expression in
reaction to this Austro-Germanic hegemony, as composers residing in countries that had
long been dominated by this mainstream Germanic tradition stretching back to Haydn
and Mozart began to feel the need for a music of their own. The most important of these
countries was Czechoslovakia (known as Bohemia and Moravia in the 19th century),
and the most important composers in this country were Antonín Dvořák and Bedřich
Smetana.
Before looking at each of these composers, there are some general characteristics of
nationalist music that are worth noting. These include:
1. An avoidance of German genres and musical forms.

2. The use of programs based on subjects of a national origin.
3. The adoption of modal harmony and melody, and folk-like themes.
4. An avoidance of thematic development of the kind that characterized the German
symphony to this point in time.
Because the symphony had grown up in the hands of German composers, the need
of nationalists to separate themselves from that tradition and to establish their own
voice led to the avoidance of the most familiar genre of German orchestral music—
the symphony. Instead, these composers chose to follow Liszt (himself a Hungar-
ian nationalist) in exploring the tone poem. In addition, nationalist composers
invented other new symphonic genres that offered greater formal freedom than did
the symphony. Thus we begin to see compositions bearing titles such as “symphonic
pictures,” “symphonic variations,” “symphonic dances,” and “symphonic rhapso-
dies,” all of which allowed composers to explore more flexible alternatives to large-
scale symphonic form. In addition, most of this symphonic repertoire announced
its nationalist intentions through programmatic titles such as: Finlandia, Slavonic
Dances, Russian Easter Overture, My Fatherland, Romanian Rhapsody, New World
Symphony, etc.
Bedřich Smetana (1824–84)

Smetana’s early musical training was in piano and violin, but he never attended a major
European school of music, deciding instead to study privately. He eventually settled in
Prague, where in 1848 he opened his own music academy with support from his mentor,
Franz Liszt, who also arranged for the publication of some of Smetana’s early composi-
tions. By 1856 Smetana decided to move to Sweden, where he opened up a new school
of music and took up conducting. Returning to Prague in 1862, he opened yet another
music school, put on concerts of his own tone poems, and became more involved in the
revolutionary politics of the time. Although his spoken language up to that point had been
German, Smetana suddenly began studying Czech in recognition of his cultural heritage.
Eventually in 1866 he secured an appointment as director of the Royal Provincial Czech
Theater in Prague (also known simply as the Provisional Theater and later the Czech
National Theater), and continued his work as a composer of nationalist operas, of which
he wrote eight altogether.
As a composer of orchestral music, Smetana began his career with the writing of his
one and only symphony in 1854. This work relied on many of the common 19th-century
avant-garde techniques, such as cyclical form and thematic transformation, first intro-
duced by Berlioz. But Smetana’s close relationship with Liszt turned him from the sym-
phony to the tone poem during the years he spent in Sweden. There he wrote the first three
of his nine works in this genre. These early works, however, were based on pieces of lit-
erature (by Shakespeare, Schiller, and a little known Danish writer, Adam Oehlenschläger)
most of which had little to do with nationalist subjects. It was not until after the onset
of deafness forced Smetana’s retirement from the Czech National Theater in 1874 that
he began work on the series of six tone poems based on Czech subjects collectively titled
Ma Vlast (My Fatherland), 1874–79. These are works that derive directly from Smetana’s
growing involvement in the movement for Czech independence from the Austrian Empire.
The most famous of the six is no. 2 Vltava (The Moldau), named after the river that runs
through Prague.
The Moldau is an especially instructive example of how composers of tone poems
tried valiantly to balance Liszt’s underlying principle of musical form determined by
poetic content (in other words, “narrative” form) with the general needs of music to
develop thematic materials and create a sense of overall form based on the principle of
Musical Nationalism 141
Illustration 5.1 The Moldau River in Prague
thematic reprise (recapitulation). The program for The Moldau is quite specific, with
its several sections titled “The Source, Forest Hunt, Peasant Wedding, Moonlight—
Dance of the Nymphs, St. John Rapids, and The Moldau Broadens.” Smetana’s overall
idea, then, was to trace the flow of the river from its source high in the mountains
through various parts of the country and eventually on out to sea. In keeping with
this idea, he wrote six discrete sections of music, each of which illustrates, with dif-
ferent music, the landscapes through which the river flows. Foremost in importance
among the various thematic materials of the work is the theme heard at the outset that
represents the river itself (Ex. 5.1). Notice the folk-like construction of this tune, in
which the seventh degree of the scale is deliberately absent in order to leave open the
possibility that the entire melody might be heard in the Aeolian mode (with its lowered
seventh degree).
Ex. 5.1 The Moldau River Theme
Fortunately for the musical structure of the work, the titles of its first and last subsec-
tions specifically mention the river, thus enabling Smetana to introduce this main theme
at the beginning of the piece, and then to repeat it at the end as a kind of recapitulation.
But what can we say about the form of the rest of the piece, which if it were to follow
the program, would become a loose assortment of independent musical episodes? Facing
this immanent formal problem, Smetana must have felt that a reminiscence of the opening
river theme somewhere in the middle of the piece was necessary to give the music some
sense of coherence. He therefore decided that the section labeled “Moonlight—Dance
of the Nymphs” could contain a restatement of the basic Moldau theme, thus giving the
work a musical design somewhat like a rondo.
By balancing the requirements of musical form with those of narrative structure, Smet-
ana, like Liszt before him, showed how a large-scale orchestral work that did not rely on
traditional principles of symphonic construction could succeed as both a dramatic narra-
tive and a satisfying musical structure, blending the requirements of thematic repetition
with the need to depict a series of actions or scenes related to a program. This solution is
one that later composers of tone poems, especially Richard Strauss, were to draw upon as
the genre developed later in the century.
Antonín Dvořák (1841–1904)

Dvořák’s early musical training centered primarily on the violin, viola, and later the organ,
which he studied at the Prague Organ School from 1857–59. After graduation, he played
principal viola in the orchestra of the Czech Provisional Theater under the baton of Smet-
ana. His emergence as a composer of national note occurred mostly in the 1870s after he
moderated the early influence of Wagner on his compositional style and devoted more of
his energy to developing a nationalist voice. This led to Dvořák’s adoption of nationalist
subjects in his operas (especially The Bartered Bride) and a symphonic style that leaned
more in the direction of Liszt and Smetana.
However, as a composer of nationalist music, Dvořák seems to have been less devoted to
the ideals of this new anti-Germanic style than was Smetana. As a result, the expression of
a Czech nationalist voice in Dvořák’s music is muted by his devotion to more mainstream,
Germanic principles of construction. The very fact that Dvořák wrote nine symphonies,
and that none of them is programmatic, speaks to an absence on his part of the usual
need of nationalist composers to avoid Germanic genres and forms in their music. Much
of Dvořák’s impetus for writing symphonies may have come from his admiration of Bee-
thoven, whose works he was not afraid to imitate and make allusion to, and from Brahms,
who had by the late 1870s become a major supporter of Dvořák, introducing him to the
German publisher Simrock.
The numbering of Dvořák’s symphonies is complicated by the fact that the first
four were never published in his lifetime, leaving only the last five to have appeared
in print with numbers 1–5 that do not reflect their proper chronology (see Figure 5.1).
This checkered publication history explains why to this day we can still find scores of
Dvořák’s symphonies with the old numbering system sitting on library shelves all across
the country.
The most popular of Dvořák’s late symphonies is surely the last, no. 9, “From the
New World.” Written in 1893 while Dvořák was acting as the head of the newly formed
National Conservatory of Music in New York City, the “New World” Symphony exem-
plifies many of the characteristics of nationalist music, even though that nationalism is
American, not Czech. Dvořák was fascinated by the music of native Americans and Afri-
can-Americans, which he encountered while living in and traveling through the country.
The melodies associated with these indigenous people became the source of much of the
thematic material of this work. The lovely English horn solo (Ex. 5.2) that opens the
slow second movement in particular seemed to exude the spirit of Negro spirituals that
Figure 5.1 Chronology of Dvořák’s Symphonies
Dvořák must have heard (most likely in concert settings) in New York. The tune became
so popular in the United States that William Fisher set words to it in 1922, making it
into a spiritual that was published under the title “Goin’ Home” and sold in sheet music
form for years thereafter.
Among the famous last five symphonies, the one that comes closest to a Czech nation-
alist style is no. 8 (old no. 4) in G major. In traditional fashion this symphony comprises
four discrete movements, like any of the Brahms symphonies. The first is in a simple
sonata form that shares techniques that Dvořák could have learned from Brahms, and
at the same time is suffused with a folk spirit that is generally foreign to the style of his
mentor. The movement opens with an introductory motto theme that, despite the nomi-
nal key of G major, actually vacillates between G Aeolian mode and B-flat major (Ex.
5.3), imbuing the piece with a folk-like, ambiguous tonality right from the start.
This folk style continues with the presentation of the main themes of the movement
(Ex. 5.4). For the second of these melodies (still in the tonic key) Dvořák employs the
harmonic technique of parallel thirds, frequently used in “pastoral” music (such as Bee-
thoven’s Sixth Symphony) for the projection of a folk style.
In a typical nationalist style the movement is loaded with tuneful melodies: two Primary
themes in the tonic key of G (Ex. 5.4), and three Secondary themes in A major, B minor,
and B major respectively (Ex. 5.5).
Ex. 5.2 Main Theme, Second Movement, Later Set to the Words “Goin’ Home”
Ex. 5.3 Symphony No. 8, i, Motto Theme, First Movement
Ex. 5.4a Primary Theme 1
Ex. 5.4b Primary Theme 2
Ex. 5.5a Secondary Theme 1
Ex. 5.5b Secondary Theme 2

Ex. 5.5c Secondary Theme 3
Because nationalist composers devoted themselves to representing the people and cul-
ture of their country (i.e., the folk) in music, many nationalist works borrow heavily on
the pastoral style seen in Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony, because that style is also associ-
ated with the folk element in music. Dvořák’s Eighth Symphony is a fine example of
the use of pastoral characteristics in a nationalist symphony. Especially obvious in this
regard are the parallel thirds in the second Primary theme (mentioned earlier, Ex. 5.4b).
This kind of harmony became one of the most common techniques with which compos-
ers evoked the pastoral style, because harmony built from parallel thirds is perhaps the
simplest and least sophisticated kind of harmony that untutored (i.e., folk) musicians
might be able to invent. The abundance of attractive themes and the avoidance of com-
plex developmental techniques seen in Dvořák’s Eighth Symphony are also aspects of
both the pastoral style in general and much nationalist music. In short, this symphony
differs from one by Brahms on many levels.
The second movement of the Eighth Symphony shows the same simplicity of design
found in the first movement, except that this movement is not in a sonata form. There are
two large parts—an A section in E-flat major, and A1 in C major, which repeats the themes
of the opening section while adding two new ones (see Figure 5.2).
Figure 5.2 Thematic Design of the Second Movement
Ex. 5.6 Theme 1, Second Movement

Ex. 5.7 Theme 2
Ex. 5.8 Theme 3
Part A1
Ex. 5.9 Theme 4
Ex. 5.10 Theme 5
In this movement Dvořák adopts the developing variation technique of Brahms to

derive themes 2, 3, and 4 from theme 1. All four themes have in common the rising
scale-wise triplet, making each of them a member of a family of related themes. Even
theme 5 contains the same triplet sixteenth pattern, though not in as prominent a posi-
tion. Such thematic manipulation rarely appears in nationalist works, but Dvořák’s close
association with Brahms may have led him to adopt the technique in this movement.
Equally important and far more characteristic of the nationalist style is theme 2, which
contains both the natural and raised seventh degrees of an F minor scale. This modal
mixture has a distinctly folk-like flavor, and emphasizes one of the fundamental qualities
of nationalist music.
The third movement of Dvořák’s Eighth Symphony, like many symphonies that make
use of a more vernacular style of writing, replaces the usual scherzo with a Ländler. The
Ländler is a couples’ dance in triple meter that sounds something like a waltz. In keep-
ing with the structural simplicity and emphasis on melody that one finds in nationalist
music, this Ländler consists of only two parts, the first in G minor, based on the theme
in Ex. 5.11, and the second in G major, based on the theme in Ex. 5.12. Because so
much nationalist music relies on an association with the folk, we should not be surprised
to see the melodic design of many of Dvořák’s themes leaning heavily on very simple
antecedent-consequent phrase structures of two equal and fully symmetrical 8-measure
units. (See Ex. 5.12.) As in a scherzo, the B section of the Ländler functions like a trio
and leads to a repeat of A. Again befitting the folk-like character of the this movement,
Dvořák unfolds each of the two large sections through the process of thematic repeti-
tion, carefully avoiding the kind of development of his materials that one would expect
to find in a Beethoven scherzo.
Ex. 5.11 Part I Theme, Ländler
Ex. 5.12 Part II Theme
Equally simple in its design is the finale of this symphony, cast not in the typical sonata
form of a Beethoven symphony, but rather in a three-part ABA form. Here the A sec-
tion takes shape as a set of variations on a song-like theme in G major (Ex. 5.13), which
appears immediately after a short introductory brass fanfare. The contrasting middle sec-
tion builds on two thematic ideas (Ex. 5.14a and Ex. 5.1.4b), the first of which again
adopts a folk-like lyricism. The second, because of its sequential structure, actually lends
itself to a certain amount of thematic development. The movement closes with a repetition
of the opening material.
Ex. 5.13 Opening Theme, Finale
Ex. 5.14a First Theme of B Section

Ex. 5.14b Second Theme of B Section
If one were to think that Dvořák was only a composer of absolute symphonies, an over-
view of his orchestral works would correct that misimpression. In addition to his nine sym-
phonies, Dvořák wrote five programmatic overtures, but only one of these, Husitská (1883),
bares any relationship to a nationalist subject. More in keeping with what might be expected
from a nationalist composer are his eight tone poems, nearly all of which are based on Czech
literature or otherwise involve native Czech subjects. Lastly, Dvořák wrote a considerable
amount of music in genres we have come to associate almost exclusively with nationalist
composers trying to escape the influence of the Germanic style in the 19th century. These
includes Interludes (1867), two Serenades (1875 and 1878), Symphonic Variations (1877),
Slavonic Dances (1878), Slavonic Rhapsodies (1878), Czech Suite (1879), Legends (1881),
along with miscellaneous polkas, waltzes, and polonaises for orchestra. The nationalist con-
nection here is undeniable, placing Dvořák in the unusual position of straddling the fence
that separated the mainstream Germanic tradition from the new nationalist style that had
grown out of the need of some composers to find their own voice at a time when the politics
of Europe had led to thoughts of revolution and independence from the Austrian Empire.
Study Questions
1. List some of the characteristics of nationalist music in general.
2. What is the political background that led to the development of musical nationalism?
3. In what ways could Dvořák’s symphonies be seen as an extension of those of Brahms?
Further Reading
Michael Beckerman, ed., Dvořák and His World (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993).
A collection of essays on various aspects of Dvořák’s life and music.
The “Mighty Five” and Tchaikovsky

While a distinctive style of nationalism arose in Eastern Europe in the 19th century, an
equally important center of nationalist music turned up in a less likely place: Russia. In
Czechoslovakia nationalism was a byproduct of the suppression of the cultural identity
of a minority group within the Austrian Empire. But because Russia never suffered under
any such political oppression, one might wonder why that country also became a center
of nationalist music in the 19th century. The answer to this question lies in the fact that
the suppression of a nationalist voice in Russian music came not at the hands of a political
giant like the Austrian Empire, but rather through the oppressive reign of foreign musical
styles in Russia. Without actually falling under the political thumb of Western Europe,
Russia was nonetheless dominated by various aspects of European life and culture, almost
as though no native culture or art was thought to be as good. Thus, by the 19th century,
the language of the royal court of the Tsar was French, not Russian. Opera houses pro-
duced the works of the great Italian composers, and many of these composers (Galuppi,
Paisiello, Cimarosa) actually worked at opera houses in Russia. Therefore, the subjuga-
tion of a native Russian style of composition was musical, not political, in nature.
In the 19th century, Mikhail Glinka (1804–1857) broke new compositional ground
with the writing of several operas based on Russian subjects. His work served as a model
for a group of mostly amateur composers who followed his lead and continued to write
music that drew heavily on a tradition of Russian folk music and on subjects based on
Russian history and literature. This new generation of Russian composers became known
as the “Mighty Five.”1 Their nominal leader, Mily Balakirev (1837–1910), received private
training as a pianist but had no formal conservatory education in theory and composition.
Given his limited formal training in music, Balakirev decided that a conservatory educa-
tion was not only unnecessary, but actually harmful to the development of a Russian style
that he hoped would break free from the influence of Western European music. As a result,
the other members of the Mighty Five included men who wholeheartedly embraced this
philosophy by deliberately avoiding any conservatory training in composition. Because
they all held “day jobs,” they were, in the strictest sense of the word, all amateurs:
Alexander Borodin (1833–87) made his living as a professor of chemistry.

César Cui (1835–1918) worked as an army engineer.
Modest Mussorgsky (1839–81) was forced to make his living as a civil servant who
worked various government jobs.
Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov (1844–1908) started his adult life as a naval officer, but
through his love of music, eventually ended his career as a professor of composition
at the St. Petersburg Conservatory of Music from 1871 on.
Except for Rimsky-Korsakov, who gradually came to see the benefit of academic musical
training, the Mighty Five saw any kind of formal musical education as something that
perpetuated the teaching of Western European composition and which stifled the develop-
ment of a unique Russian voice in music.
As one might expect of composers dedicated to the establishment of Russian national-
ist music, none of the Mighty Five showed a significant interest in writing symphonies.
Rimsky-Korsakov wrote three. Balakirev and Borodin each wrote only two. Mussorgsky
planned but never completed one, and Cui wrote none. Instead, the work of these com-
posers falls largely into the genres of opera (based on national subjects) and other non-
symphonic orchestral music. Figure 5.3 itemizes some of the major orchestral works of
each of these composers that fall outside the tradition of the symphony.
As a sample of these nationalist works, Borodin’s tone poem In the Steppes of Central
Asia demonstrates many of the same characteristics found in the nationalist style of the
Figure 5.3 Non-Symphonic Works of the Mighty Five
Czech composers: an emphasis on folk-like melody; a lack of thematic development; sim-

ple forms; vernacular influences including modal melodies, scales, and harmony. Written
in 1882, this tone poem was described by Borodin himself as a “symphonic picture,” thus
placing it in that group of alternative orchestral genres with which nationalist composers
sought to disavow the symphony.
A program printed at the front of the full orchestra score explains that this tone poem
represents an Eastern caravan passing through the steppes of south-central Asia, intersect-
ing with Russian peasants along the way. The work opens with a sustained pedal point in
the upper strings and flute.2 Under this pedal point appears the first theme representing
the Russian people (Ex. 5.15).
Ex. 5.15 Russian Theme
This is followed immediately with the contrasting theme that depicts a middle-Eastern
caravan (Ex. 5.16). This theme is first presented in the English horn with numerous mor-
dents in the melodic line, all suggesting something Oriental.
Ex. 5.16 Middle Eastern Theme

This symphonic picture unfolds simply as an alternation of these two themes, which are
repeated multiple times in ever-varied orchestrations. Here we can see how this attention
to changing the orchestration of a repeating theme results in shifting colors becoming more
important than traditional thematic development. In effect, the pattern of instrumental tim-
bres replaces traditional Germanic techniques of building form in music, and thus aligns per-
fectly with what the nationalist composers were attempting to accomplish with their music.
Only toward the very end of the piece did Borodin decide to combine the contrasting themes
in counterpoint, but this is more a programmatic effect, designed to depict the intersection
of contrasting cultures, than a nod toward Western European contrapuntal techniques. The
work closes as it began with the Russian theme left sounding alone.
Pyotr (Peter) Ilyich Tchaikovsky (1840–93)

One would naturally expect the most famous Russian composer of the 19th century, Peter
Tchaikovsky, to be part of the Mighty Five. He belonged, after all, to the same genera-
tion as the rest of the composers in that group, but was curiously never a member of this
nationalist clique. The reason for his omission had much to do with his musical training.
After preparing for a career in government service, Tchaikovsky allowed his love of music
to attract him to the St. Petersburg Conservatory where he enrolled as a student of compo-
sition in 1862 under the tutelage of Anton Rubinstein. Because his teacher had been edu-
cated in Europe, the training Tchaikovsky received at the Conservatory perpetuated the
fundamentally German style that the Mighty Five had been trying to eradicate in Russia.
That bias toward the European tradition was sufficient to derail any thought of including
Tchaikovsky in a group that could (and perhaps should) have been called the Mighty Six.
Tchaikovsky then further alienated himself from his nationalist colleagues by accepting a
position as professor of theory at the newly formed Moscow Conservatory in 1865.
The breach between the Russian nationalists and the more cosmopolitan composers
like Anton Rubinstein and Tchaikovsky has tended to take on a somewhat exaggerated
significance over the years. In fact, the two schools of composers had far more in common
than we are usually led to believe. It was Rubinstein, with the support of Balakirev, who
first oversaw the formation of the Russian Musical Society and set its agenda with regard
to the rejection of Western compositional practices and the adoption of a new nationalist
style. But Rubinstein and Balakirev eventually fell out over the latter’s insistence on the
importance of an “amateur” approach to creating this new Russian music. While Tchai-
kovsky remained on friendly terms with most of the Mighty Five, his nationalism, like that
of Dvořák, often took shape within the boundaries of more traditional Western European
genres. We should therefore not be surprised to see that Tchaikovsky wrote six sympho-
nies between 1866 and 1893. All but one of these have four discrete movements and, with
the exception of no. 2, the “Little Russian,” were performed without programmatic titles.
Symphony No. 4 (1877–78)

Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony captures the essence of his personality, his emotional
struggles, and his relationship to nationalism perhaps better than any other. He was by
nature always a very sensitive person, prone to bouts of depression and tortured by anxi-
ety over his homosexuality (which for years after his death was covered up by the Soviet
government through the suppression of some of his letters). In 1877 the emotional stress
under which he lived mounted to the point where Tchaikovsky decided he simply had
to marry in order to hide his real sexual identity. It was during these stressful circum-
stances that he found himself writing the Fourth Symphony, a work of almost exaggerated
emotional intensity. Shortly after work on the symphony had begun, Tchaikovsky received
a letter from a former student at the Moscow Conservatory, Antonina Milyukova, declar-
ing her love for the composer and requesting a meeting, to which Tchaikovsky agreed.
At this meeting he clearly told her he could not return her love. However, because he had
just finished reading Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin, in which exactly the same scenario plays
out between the characters of Tatiana and Onegin, leading to a disastrous conclusion,
Tchaikovsky reconsidered his initial response and offered to marry this unknown young
lady. Of course, like so many gay men in the 19th century, he may also have been driven
to this marriage simply by the need to conceal his homosexuality. Not surprisingly, such
an ill-conceived marriage led to a disastrous conclusion, as Tchaikovsky broke down
under the strain of being a closeted homosexual man having to live with a woman. The
marriage lasted only a couple of months before he suffered an emotional collapse and
attempted suicide. In response to this crisis, the composer’s brother rushed him off to Italy
for a recuperative vacation. After regaining some of his stability, Tchaikovsky returned
to Russia to find that Nadezhda von Meck, a wealthy widow who had been a lover of
his music for many years, was now prepared to offer him an annual stipend that would
allow him to retire from teaching and devote himself entirely to composition. But part
of their financial arrangement was the strange stipulation that they should never meet
and never speak to one another. Fortunately for posterity, this agreement meant that all
communication between the two took place through the exchange of letters, in which
Tchaikovsky eventually revealed many of the secrets that lay hidden in his music. In par-
ticular, he explained that the Fourth Symphony, on which he was working at the time of
his marriage, represented the idea of inexorable “fate—the inevitable force that checks
our aspirations towards happiness before they reach their goal . . . embittering the soul.”3
Furthermore, he identified the opening brass fanfare as the “fate” motif.
The design of this first movement is a standard sonata form with some modifications
that suited Tchaikovsky’s personal approach to symphonic form. Responding to a letter
from Nadezhda von Meck who had asked if Tchaikovsky adhered to particular forms in
his compositions, the composer wrote:
Yes and no. Some kinds of composition imply adherence to a particular form, for
instance, the symphony. Here I keep to the form established by tradition in broad out-
line . . . in the sequence of the movements in the work. You can deviate in details as
much as you like if the development of a particular idea demands it. So, for example,
the first movement of our symphony [no. 4] contains very marked deviations. The
second subject, which should be in the relative major, is in fact in a remote key and in
the minor [mode]. In the recapitulation of the first movement the second subject does
not appear at all, etc.4
In reading his letters, we can see that Tchaikovsky struggled with the concept of “proper”
Germanic form throughout his career, admitting quite openly his fear that his melody-
based compositions were somehow inferior to the symphonic models of Beethoven and
Brahms. Writing to Mme. von Meck he says, “Although I cannot complain of poor inven-
tive powers or imagination, I have always suffered from a lack of skill in the management
of form.”5 Comments like this project the image of an extremely self-critical man yearning
for a compositional technique based on techniques he found in Western European music,
and which he must have felt he did not fully possess.
However, an examination of the first movement of Symphony no. 4 will reveal that
although the music relies heavily on the repetition of attractive melodies, Tchaikovsky far
underestimated his skill in managing matters of musical form.
The first movement opens with the “fate” motif mentioned earlier, heard in the brass in
the home key of F minor (Ex. 5.17).
Ex. 5.17 Fate Motive, First Movement
T chaikovsky’s use of this motto theme confirms its interpretation as a representa-

tion of fate, for it continues to reappear throughout the movement (at the beginning
of the development, the recapitulation, and the coda) like an all-pervasive, inescapable
force that derails the main musical narrative. The exposition proper is based on four
themes, arranged in the strange key sequence of F minor, A-flat minor, and B major
(Ex. 5.18).
Ex. 5.18a Primary Theme
Ex. 5.18b First Secondary Theme
Ex. 5.18c Contrasting Secondary Theme
Ex. 5.18d Closing Theme

The second and third of these both function as contrasting Secondary themes, and are
presented in a contrapuntal superimposition before being developed in a fashion that
would not have been out of place in a Beethoven symphony. In the analysis of the sym-
phony he provided Mme. von Meck, Tchaikovsky describes these themes as depicting
a “sweet and tender dream,” and the movement as a whole as an “alternation between
grim truth and fleeting dreams.”6 The development section is also constructed along
lines common in a German symphony, with the Primary theme from the exposition
worked out in the customary manner involving fragmentation and sequencing. In the
middle of this section, as in the Third Symphony of Beethoven, an entirely new theme
appears (Ex. 5.19).
But Tchaikovsky himself seems not to have been especially happy with his technique
of development. Writing to Nadezhda von Meck about this first movement, he again
points to compositional problems in the “middle section” [development] of the move-
ment, admitting that it contains “some forced passages, and some things that are labored
and artificial.”7 While this comment sounds somewhat self-deprecating, and suggests that
Tchaikovsky longed for a more secure developmental technique, the very fact that his
music is not developmentally perfect indicates that he, like most of his nationalist col-
leagues, instinctively understood that those traditional developmental techniques actually
ran counter to the expressive purpose of nationalist music.
The sequence of keys presented in the exposition of this movement consists of rising
minor thirds, F, A-flat, B. The missing key needed to complete the circle of minor thirds
and lead back to the tonic is D, and that missing key is supplied in the recapitulation
where the second theme begins in D minor. The triumphant Closing theme is then dropped
and replaced by a piu mosso coda in F minor.
Tchaikovsky’s second movement is a simple ABA form, the first section of which con-
tains two alternating themes with characteristically folk-like modal inflections in B-flat
minor (Ex. 5.20a and Ex. 5.20b).
Ex. 5.20a Second Movement, Theme 1, A Section, Second Movement
Ex. 5.20b Theme 2
The contrasting middle section is also built on a folk-like theme in F major (Ex. 5.21).
Ex. 5.21 Theme of the B Section
In explaining this movement, Tchaikovsky wrote that it “expresses another phase of

suffering. Now it is the melancholy that steals over us when at evening we sit indoors
alone, weary of work”8
The third movement of this symphony, marked “scherzo” in the score, is by far the
most ambitious movement of the four, not so much in terms of its form, but in terms of
its extraordinary orchestration. Tchaikovsky admitted that this movement had less to
do with suffering and fate, and more to do with “capricious arabesques of a distracted
mind.” The scherzo section is devoted to strings alone, all playing pizzicato at an allegro
tempo (Ex. 5.22).
Ex. 5.22 Opening of the Scherzo
It amounts to an exercise in orchestral virtuosity of the kind never before seen in the
symphonic repertoire. The following trio is then given over to woodwinds with some
decidedly virtuosic passage work (Ex. 5.23).
The trio finishes with the addition of a section for brass instruments alone (Ex. 5.24), to
which Tchaikovsky then superimposed fragments of the woodwind material in counter-
point. Especially famous here is the piccolo solo seen in Ex. 5.25.
Ex. 5.24 Brass Alone

Ex. 5.25 Part of the Superimposed Woodwind Fragments
The finale of the Fourth Symphony comes closest to capturing the essence of nationalist
music, based as it is on a Russian folk tune known as the “Birch Tree.” The movement
depicts the happiness of others celebrating a rustic holiday, or as Tchaikovsky said, “Be
glad in others’ gladness; this makes life possible.”9 The movement opens with a furi-
ous introductory gesture of fiery sixteenth-note scales in the strings and winds in unison,
which leads directly to the Birch Tree theme set out in the key of A minor despite the
nominal key of F major for this movement (Ex. 5.26).
Ex. 5.26 Birch Tree Theme, Finale
A repetition of the opening material is then followed by a contrasting theme (Ex. 5.27).
This theme exhibits a folk-like modality of C Mixolydian.
Ex. 5.27 Contrasting Theme
The entire movement consists of nothing but an alternation of these themes interrupted
by the periodic return of the introductory material, which appears four times in the course
of the movement. The sections of the movement based on both of these themes involve a
considerable amount of repetition usually in varied orchestrations. This melodic repetition
is one of the symphony’s most nationalist characteristics, and given that the two principle
themes of the movement are each heard three times, the total effect of the movement is one
of formal simplicity as found in most nationalist music. In keeping with the overall idea of
fate as a destructive force, the F-minor motive from the first movement reappears near the
end of this last movement. The programmatic significance of this thematic return at the end
of a movement in F major is unclear. If the fact that the finale is written in F major were to
be interpreted as a sign that inexorable fate (represented by F minor) can in fact be defeated,
then the reappearance of the Fate motive here at the end lends to the conclusion of the sym-
phony an unexpected atmosphere of pessimism and ambiguity. From a structural point of
view, on the other hand, the restatement of the “fate” motive in this last movement produces
a satisfying cyclical form reminiscent of the works of Berlioz and Liszt.
Despite not finding acceptance of his music among the Mighty Five, Tchaikovsky
always thought of himself as a nationalist composer. In a letter to Nadezhda von Meck he
once commented:
I have never yet come across anyone so much in love with Mother Russia . . . as
myself. . . . I am passionately devoted to the Russian people, to the language, to the
Russian spirit . . . and to Russian customs.10
In another letter he tells her that his devotion to the “Russian element” in music “comes
about because of my growing up in the wilds, being steeped since early childhood in the
indescribable beauty of Russian folk music and its characteristic features.”11
In the final analysis, Tchaikovsky’s symphonies, like those of Dvořák, are nationalistic in
a more subtle way than are the tone poems of someone like Smetana. One might say that
Tchaikovsky channeled his nationalism more into his operas (many of which are based on
Russian literature and historical subjects) and other symphonic genres such as the concert
overture. Perhaps the best example of this non-symphonic nationalism can be found in his
“1812 Overture,” written in 1880 to commemorate the Russian victory over Napoleon
during the French invasion of Russia in 1812. This piece includes Russian hymn tunes, folk
songs, and the French Marseillaise, along with live cannon shots and the Russian national
anthem. A more overtly nationalist work would be hard to imagine. But in keeping with
Tchaikovsky’s more traditional compositional education, even this highly programmatic
work is cast, like most concert overtures of the 19th century, in a fairly traditional sonata
form. It might be safe to conclude then that Tchaikovsky’s devotion to the development of
a nationalist style in Russia cannot be doubted, even if he adopted, and then adapted, the
genres and forms of 19th-century German music for his own personal expression.
Study Questions
1. Is Tchaikovsky as much a nationalist composer as the members of the Mighty Five?
2. What role did Nadezhda von Meck play in Tchaikovsky’s life?
3. What were the issues surrounding Tchaikovsky’s self-doubts about his music?
Further Reading
Vladimir Lakond, tr., The Diaries of Tchaikovsky (New York, NY: W.W. Norton, 1945).
Notes
1. This term, also translated as “The Mighty Handful,” was invented by the Russian critic Vladimir
Stasov. The actual Russian title of Borodin’s composition is literally translated as In Central
Asia, but the work is best known by the English title In the Steppes of Central Asia.
2. Exactly the same technique is duplicated just a few years later in Mahler’s First Symphony.
3. Modest Tchaikovsky, The Life and Letters of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky, tr. Rosa March (New
York, NY: John Lane Co., 1951), 275.
4. Edward Garden and Nigel Gotteri, eds., To My Best Friend: Correspondence Between Tchai-
kovsky and Nadezhda von Meck, 1876–1878, tr. Galina von Meck (New York, NY: Oxford
University Press, 1993), 296–97.
5. Tchaikovsky, Life and Letters, 312.
6. Ibid., 276.
7. Ibid., 294–95.
8. Ibid., 277.
9. Ibid.
10. Ibid., 268.
11. Garden and Gotteri, eds., To My Best Friend, 201.
6 The Late Romantic Symphony
Mahler and Strauss
Mahler as “Song-Symphonist”
In the second half of the 19th century, nearly all composers of symphonies fell under
the influence of Richard Wagner. This resulted in the vast expansion of the orchestra
(especially in the woodwind and brass sections), the adoption of a complex system
of chromatic harmony, and a general broadening of the time frame in which music
unfolds, resulting in symphonies with a duration of more than an hour. This move
toward music of vastly expanded dimensions was carried forward in the late 19th
century by two very different symphonists, Anton Bruckner (1824–96) and Gustav
Mahler (1860–1911). Of these two, Bruckner was the far more conservative, writing
non-programmatic symphonies that relied on standard symphonic forms arranged in
the usual pattern of four contrasting movements. Mahler, on the other hand, took a
more avant-garde approach to the symphony, with works based on programs that
expressed his personal philosophy of life and the world around him. His nine sympho-
nies continue the tradition established by Beethoven and Berlioz of including voices
(both solo and choral) in a symphony, and of expanding the number of movements
beyond the four that had become standard since the Classical era. In addition, Mahler
embraced the principle of thematic transformation that lies at the heart of Wagner’s
entire system of operatic lietmotifs.1
Mahler was born in a part of the Austrian Empire known as Bohemia (now part
of Czechoslovakia). Jewish by birth, he suffered the impediments that came with the
rampant anti-Semitism found in Austria in the 19th century. Despite the challenges of
being Jewish in a country where the state religion was Catholicism, Mahler started
a successful career as a conductor of opera in small theaters immediately after his
graduation from the Vienna Conservatory. As a musician of unyieldingly high artistic
standards who was not afraid to wield a rather severe authoritarian discipline over
his singers and players, his reputation spread quickly, as he moved from one opera
company to a larger one over the early years of his career. This rise to fame took him
from Olmütz, to Kassel, Prague, Leipzig, Budapest, and Hamburg, all by the age of 31.
Finally in 1897 Mahler applied for the position of Director of the Vienna State Opera,
but was only able to secure that position after converting to Catholicism. His ten years
in Vienna brought that opera company to the highest standards of performance and
production it had ever enjoyed; but Mahler’s difficult, unyielding personality eventu-
ally caused him to be forced out in 1907, at which point he accepted an offer to con-
duct the Metropolitan Opera in New York City.
Mahler was not so much a devoutly religious person as he was a deeply spiritual one. As
such, he could be described as a pantheist who believed in “the divinity of all,” and in the fact
that music should embrace and represent the vast variety of God’s creation. This explains why
Mahler’s approach to the symphony was eclectic, borrowing heavily from vernacular music he
The Late Romantic Symphony 159
found around him: Military marches and fanfares, hymns, folk materials, and Jewish music.
These sources led to the creation of music that projects numerous stylistic opposites: At one
moment sweet and innocent, the next moment brutally crude and noisy. This eclecticism also
led to accusations of banality being leveled against many of his symphonies, and a general
lack of appreciation among audiences at that time. Unlike Richard Strauss, who often wrote
tone poems that told entertaining stories, Mahler wrote music that dealt with the fundamental
questions of the meaning of life and death. In one symphony after another he posed the ques-
tions of why we live, why we suffer, and what comes after death.
The nine symphonies of Mahler can be divided into groups that outline the early, mid-
dle, and late parts of his career. These divisions are outlined in Figure 6.1.
Figure 6.1 Overview of Mahler’s Symphonies
Symphony No. 1
Mahler’s career as a conductor usually occupied him from October through May of
any given year, at which point he was able to spend the summer and early fall in the
Austrian countryside devoting himself to composition. Most of his works fall into just
two genres: songs and symphonies, with the former often being borrowed for use in
the latter, leading Mahler to be commonly referred to as the “song symphonist.” The
relationship of songs to symphonies throughout Mahler’s career was complex and ever
changing. His First Symphony, for instance, borrows thematic material from his early
song cycle Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen. It was originally performed in 1889 when
its five movements were described simply as “a symphonic poem in two parts.” Four
years later, in 1893, for a second performance of the work Mahler added the general
title “Titan,” borrowed from a popular novel of Jean Paul, and specific programmatic
titles for each movement:
Part I, From Days of Youth Flowers, Fruit, and Thorns
1. Spring and No End

2. Blumine
3. Under Full Sail
Part II, Commedia Humana
4. Stranded—Funeral March in Callot’s Manner

5. From the Inferno to Paradise: A Sudden Outburst of Despair From a Deeply Wounded
Heart
For later performances of the symphony, Mahler chose to omit these programmatic
titles, having found them more confusing for audiences than helpful.
A brief analysis of the First Symphony will elucidate some of the complexities of Mahl-
er’s symphonic construction, as well as the manner in which he employed his songs in his
symphonies. Like the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven, Mahler’s First Symphony begins
in D minor and makes its way to D major in the finale. This overt homage to Beethoven
seems to suggest that the influence and reputation of the old master continued to linger all
the way to the end of the century.
Movement I—Spring and No End

The work begins with a slow introduction in D minor, the first sounds of which again
harken back to Beethoven’s last symphony. Like Beethoven, Mahler begins his symphony
with a pedal point on the dominant (A) set out in string harmonics. And like Beethoven’s
Ninth Symphony, important motives involving the interval of a descending perfect 4th
emerge from this pedal point (Ex. 6.1a). Interspersed between iterations of this funda-
mental interval are periodic brass fanfares (Ex. 6.1b) and imitations of cuckoo calls in the
clarinet. Because the program tells us this movement is about spring, we can safely assume
these introductory motives constitute what might be called the “themes of awakening
nature.”
Ex. 6.1a Introduction
Ex. 6.1b Brass Fanfare
Following the slow introduction, the exposition of this first movement begins with
a theme borrowed from the song “Ging Heut Morgen über’s Feld” (Went this morn-
ing through the field) from the song cycle Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen (Songs of a
Wayfarer). The text of the first and last stanza can be seen in Figure 6.2. The principle
melody of the song, which like the slow introduction also begins with a descending 4th,
becomes the thematic material of this highly personalized sonata form movement. Mahler
extracted three phrases from the song to serve as the principal themes of the exposition
(Exs. 6.2–6.4). He must surely have chosen this particular song for its textual connection
Figure 6.2 Text of Ging Heut Morgan
to the program of the symphony. The song tells of a young man (i.e., the poet) who walks
through the fields in the early morning of a lovely springtime day, greeting the flowers and
birds as he goes. But the poem ends with the poet (serving as a metaphor for Mahler him-
self) lamenting the fact that his own life is not full of bright sunshine. The song therefore
embraces the same idea expressed in the symphony’s program: springtime with both its
flowers and its thorns.
Ex. 6.2 Theme 1
Ex. 6.3 Theme 2

Ex. 6.4 Theme 3
Because the thematic material in this exposition is essentially an orchestral transcription

of the melody of the song (including some slight variations heard in repeating strophes),
the entire exposition is remarkably short.
The exposition closes with a traditional double bar and a repeat sign (perhaps to com-
pensate for its brevity) and then moves into the development section. This is the part of
the sonata form in which Mahler departed most radically from standard sonata practice.
Rather than use material from his exposition, he decided instead to begin the develop-
ment section with motives drawn from the slow introduction. What follows is not the
expected developmental processes found in most symphonic writing before this, but rather
the introduction of several new themes, the first of which is a heroic horn fanfare similar
to one of the motives in the introduction (Ex. 6.5).
Ex. 6.5 Theme 4, in the Development Section
This is followed immediately by another new theme (T5) in the celli (Ex. 6.6)
Ex. 6.6 Theme 5, in the Development Section
Only after this new theme makes its appearance does Mahler take up the process
of developing some of the themes from the exposition, finally leading to a contra-
puntal superimposition of theme 3 with theme 5. Here we can see Mahler’s pen-
chant for the process of “developing variation,” as both of these themes are now
modified using this technique. Compare Ex. 6.7 with Ex. 6.4 (T 3), and Ex. 6.8 with
Ex. 6.6 (T 5).
Ex. 6.7 Theme 3 Transformed

Ex. 6.8 Theme 5 Transformed
Amidst repetitions of all the themes introduced thus far, Mahler brings in yet another
new theme, T6 (Ex. 6.9), which will return as an important theme in the finale.
Ex. 6.9 Theme 6 in the Development
Two of the new themes in the development (T5 and T6) feature a melodic line that rises
gradually higher in repeated short phrases, giving each of them a metaphorical sense of
striving upward and reaching for something, as if they represent the hero of the symphony
(Mahler) climbing the ladder of life’s successes. All three of the new themes in the devel-
opment section have what might be called an affect of heroic striving. As such they must
surely be designed to shed meaning on the themes of youth presented in the exposition.
Mahler eventually brings back the tonic key with a powerful restatement of theme 4 at
rehearsal no. 26. This leads to restatements of Themes 5 and 1, all in D major. This entire
section of the movement therefore takes on the character of a recapitulation, even though
it does not begin with theme 1. In many of Mahler’s symphonies (though not so much
here), the recapitulations present alterations of the main themes of the movement that
diverge sufficiently from their original presentations to cause the recapitulation to sound
like a second development section.
Here then we have an unorthodox sonata-form movement, but one that is typical of
how Mahler liked to treat this form. Because the development contains so much new
material, it seems to function at least partly as a re-exposition (or second exposition) in
which the introduction of the remaining thematic material of the movement is mixed with
development of material already presented in the opening introduction and first exposi-
tion. This process of mixing thematic statement with thematic development characterizes
many of Mahler’s symphonic movements throughout his career.
Movement II—Blumine
As presented at its premiere, Mahler’s First Symphony was a five-movement work in
which the “Blumine” movement served to represent the love aspect in this musical picture
of a hero’s life. The thematic material for this movement had been borrowed directly from
some incidental music Mahler composed a few years earlier for a theatrical production of
a verse-play “The Trumpeter of Säkkingen” by Joseph von Scheffel. But by the time the
symphony was performed in Berlin in 1896, Mahler decided to drop this movement and
restore the traditional number of four movements. According to the diaries of Mahler’s
close friend Natalie Bauer-Lechner, the composer eventually came to feel that the Blumine
movement was too sentimental, and that this “love episode” could be dispensed with.2
Movement III—Under Full Sail
This movement takes the place of the traditional scherzo, although its tempo mark-
ing of a dotted half note = 66 makes the music sound more like a Ländler, a sort of
folk waltz that was popular in 19th-century Austria. The structure of the movement
is a simple arrangement of three parts: Ländler I, Ländler II, Ländler I. Each of these
sections unfolds as a smaller ABA form. The mood of the piece is clearly buoyant,
optimistic, and jolly, reminding us perhaps of an Austrian pub full of happy peasants.
Here too the interval of the perfect fourth underlies the principal theme of the move-
ment (Ex. 6.10).
Ex. 6.10 Principal theme
Movement IV—Funeral March in Callot’s Manner

Funeral marches in multi-movement works had been popular since Beethoven’s op. 26
Piano Sonata (1801) and his Eroica Symphony (1804). Mahler frequently resorted to
funeral marches in order to express his obsession with death. He had grown up in a fam-
ily of fourteen children, seven of whom died in infancy, and two others in adulthood (a
brother by suicide). With so much death around him, Mahler may well have suffered what
psychiatrists call “survivor guilt,” leading him to deal with the consequent feelings of loss
in his music. This funeral march is just such a movement, aimed at denying death through
an ironic parody.
Mahler’s subtitle for this movement, “in Callot’s manner,” makes reference to Jacques
Callot, a 17th-century print maker famous in part for a series of etchings titled “Gro-
tesque Dwarfs” (Illustration. 6.1). These etchings of dwarfs playing musical instruments
are indeed grotesque exaggerations or misrepresentations of the real world. Mahler’s
reference to Callot might then be taken to suggest that this funeral march is going to
express the same qualities of grotesque distortion found in the etchings. The phrase “in
Callot’s manner” may also have been suggested to Mahler by a series of stories by E.T.A.
Hoffmann titled Fantasie Stücke in Callots Manier.3 In addition to these multiple liter-
ary and artistic associations, the more immediate inspiration for this movement, accord-
ing to Mahler himself, was a drawing by Moritz von Schwind titled “Hunter’s Funeral
Procession,” that Mahler remembered seeing in a popular children’s book. The drawing
captures the essence of irony that Mahler was trying to communicate in this funeral
march. In it we see the coffin of a dead hunter carried by a procession of forest animals,
Illustration 6.1 From Jacques Callot’s “Grotesque Dwarfs”
Illustration 6.2 Moritz von Schwind, “Hunter’s Funeral Procession”
which, of course, is exactly the opposite of the expected caravan of hunters carrying a
dead animal (Illustration. 6.2).
Irony such as this was a common technique in literature, art, and music of the 19th
century. In this sense “irony” may be understood as anything that is self-contradictory:
i.e., the presentation of anything that is not what it claims to be, often with humorous
implications. In the case of the drawing that inspired this movement, the funeral proces-
sion in not what its title might at first bring to mind.
In musical terms, Mahler captures this same sense of irony with the use of several
different compositional techniques. First, the main theme of the funeral march is a
minor-mode version of the popular children’s song “Frère Jacques” (Ex. 6.11.) This is
in itself a technique of irony because we don’t think of children’s songs as being funeral
marches.
Ex. 6.11 Funeral March Theme
Second, the presentation of this theme is, like the song on which it is based, canonic in its
structure, but one that is presented with the most unusual instruments, those which would
probably never be associated with a funeral march: solo double bass, tuba, and bassoon,
in that order. Both the source of this theme in a children’s song, and the instruments used
to set it out, are techniques that undercut the expected serious nature of a funeral march.
In other words, they contradict and parody the very nature of what the title claims this
movement to be. It may be worth noting that this funeral march also alludes to another of
the songs in Mahler’s Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen. The song “Die zwei blauen Augen”
opens with a rising third in the minor mode that climbs to the dominant over the course of
three phrases, all of which duplicates the general melodic motion of the funeral march (Ex.
6.12). In keeping with the theory that Mahler’s selection of songs for use in his symphonies
is based on their connection to the programmatic meaning of the symphony in which they
appear, one might note here that “Die zwei blauen Augen” is a song about leave-taking, of
which death is the ultimate example.
Ex. 6.12 Die zwei blauen Augen
Once the funeral march draws to a cadence, the next section of the piece moves into
a strangely sentimental style with suggestions of a Liszt Hungarian rhapsody (Ex. 6.13).
Ex. 6.13 Sentimental Style
This is then followed immediately by another contrasting theme marked “mit Paro-
die,” which confirms the ironic implications of the whole movement. Here Mahler delib-
erately trivializes the funeral march with a banal theme played by two E-flat clarinets (the
same instrument Berlioz used to trivialize Harriet Smithson in the finale of his Symphonie
fantastique), accompanied by cymbals and bass drum (Ex. 6.14)
Ex. 6.14 Parodie Theme
The contrasting middle section of this movement, makes reference to another part of
the same song, “Die zwei blauen Augen,” from which the opening of this movement
was derived. Here, however, the relationship between song and symphony is much more
literal. The part of the song text (Figure 6.3) from which this middle section of the sym-
phonic movement is drawn introduces the idea of the Linden tree, an almost universal
Romantic symbol for the idea of death as the ultimate assuager of human pain.
The melody Mahler used here in this symphonic movement is identical to that with
which he set this last part of the Wayfarer poem (Ex. 6.15). His first instinct was thus to
deny death by contradicting it in an ironic fashion, but then to embrace it as a welcome
release from pain.
Ex. 6.15 Melody in the Middle Section of the Funeral March Identical to the Last Part of the “Die
zwei blauen Augen”
Figure 6.3 Final stanza of “Die zwei blauen Augen”

The original theme of the funeral march returns to close off the movement, now in a
somewhat less unusual orchestration.
Movement V
In keeping with the programmatic intent of this movement, “From Purgatory to Para-
dise,” Mahler juxtaposed several themes that seem to suggest each side of this dichotomy.
The movement begins with three short introductory motives that are eventually combined
to produce the main theme of the movement (Ex. 6.16), which is itself a transformation of
theme 6 from the first movement.
Ex. 6.16 Primary Theme of the Finale
If the ascription of a mood of striving and struggle to theme 6 in the first movement is
tenable, then the new version of that theme used here in the last movement must represent
the hero’s struggle to escape purgatory and his striving for paradise.
This first theme (T1) is developed at some length before arriving at two new themes (T2
and T3), both of which project a totally different affect, one that is far gentler and sweeter
(Exs. 6.17 and 6.18). These themes might therefore be taken to represent paradise.
Ex. 6.17 Theme 2 (Paradise 1)
Ex. 6.18 Theme 3 (Paradise 2)
Together these three themes make up the exposition of yet another unusual sonata
form. In typical Mahler fashion, they are followed by a developmental section that both
transforms the first three themes while simultaneously introducing several new themes (T4,
T5, T6), all of which create the atmosphere of a march (Exs. 6.19–6.21). So once again
Mahler mixed thematic exposition and the process of development into something that
sounds like a re-exposition.
Ex. 6.19 Theme 4
Ex. 6.20 Theme 5
Ex. 6.21 Theme 6
Themes 4, 5, and 6 all have a bold heroic quality that results from a shared rhythmic
pattern that begins with three stately half notes. With these three themes, Mahler perhaps
suggests a victorious answer to the ominous beginning of the movement. Therefore, we
might see the movement as a collection of themes with three different meanings: the open-
ing purgatory theme (T1) suggesting the struggle to escape our darkest fears, followed by
the paradise themes (T2 and T3) offering some hope of salvation, and finally the themes of
triumphant human struggle (T4, T5, and T6) providing an optimistic confidence in man’s
ability to survive the trials and tribulations of life. From here to the end of the move-
ment Mahler presents a conflict between these theme groups, beginning with a recall of
the opening motives from the first movement (rehearsal 38), leading to a restatement of
the paradise themes (rehearsal 41), which are in turn contradicted by the return of the
purgatory theme (rehearsal 53). But closing the movement (and the whole symphony) are
restatements of the victorious Themes 4 and 6 (rehearsal 54).
To label this movement a sonata form would be to distort both the construction and
meaning of the music. With this finale Mahler created a living, dynamic structure in which
musical themes become protagonists in a drama of the human spirit. We are no longer
dealing here with expositions, developments, and recapitulations. We have before us a
symphony that reinterprets the basic human conditions of fear, hope, and triumph in a
world of orchestral sound. While elements of the process of exposition, development, and
recapitulation can be discerned throughout the movement, those processes are so fluid, so
intermixed, and so unpredictable that the usual terminology of musical analysis fails us.
While the process of a “normal” sonata form is one of statement, departure, and synthe-
sized return, Mahler created a formal design the process of which is more like statement
of conflicting elements, interaction, and dramatic outcome (which in this case, does not
involve the usual return of opening materials). One might conclude that Mahler brought
to fruition the theories of symphonic form first announced (but never quite brought to
fruition) by Liszt when he claimed that the form of a symphonic poem should be deter-
mined not by preconceived musical formulas, but should grow organically from the nature
of the program itself.
Study Questions
1. What is the connection between the songs that Mahler quotes or alludes to in his First
Symphony and the program he created to guide his listeners?
2. In what sense is Mahler’s First Symphony an autobiographical work?
Further Reading
Stuart Feder, Gustav Mahler: A Life in Crisis (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2004). A
thought-provoking psychological biography of this complex man.
Strauss and the Tome Poem

The greatest challenge to the success and reputation of Gustav Mahler as a composer
came not from Anton Bruckner, with whom he is so frequently associated, but rather
from Richard Strauss (1864–1949). Born at about the same time as Mahler, Strauss was
also active as an orchestral composer around the turn of the 20th century. In fact, from
about 1890 to 1910 Strauss was the most famous and most successful composer in Ger-
many. But much of this success came as the result of a certain notoriety he had achieved
early in his career. By the late 1890s Strauss had staked his reputation on his bold use of
dissonance for programmatic effects, the extreme difficulty of his orchestral writing, his
virtuosic sense of orchestration, and the detailed, often ego-centric programs on which so
much of his music was based.
Born in Munich, where his father was a horn player in the court orchestra, Strauss’s
musical education began with piano lessons at the age of four, followed shortly thereafter
with lessons on the violin. He composed from the age of six, several years before he had
any lessons in theory or composition. Because his early exposure to the music of other
composers was strictly limited by his ultra-conservative father who detested the music
of Wagner, most of Strauss’s early works sound somewhat like Mendelssohn or Brahms.
Among these early works are the only two symphonies he ever wrote (1880 and 1884).
But all this changed in 1884 when Strauss met Hans von Bülow, then the conductor of
the Meiningen Court Orchestra. Bülow had already seen a copy of an early Serenade for
13 winds that Strauss’s publisher had sent him. Based on this work, Bülow commissioned
Strauss to write something similar for the Meiningen orchestra (the Suite in B-flat), and
asked Strauss to conduct the work’s premiere. Shortly thereafter Bülow appointed Strauss
as assistant conductor of the orchestra, starting a long series of conducting engagements
that led eventually to the directorship of the Vienna State Opera in 1919.
As important as the connection to Hans von Bülow was to the development of Strauss’s
career, an equally significant influence on the young composer came through his friend-
ship with Alexander Ritter, one of the violinists in the Meiningen orchestra. Ritter was an
enthusiastic supporter of the music of Liszt and of Zukunftsmusik in general. He intro-
duced Strauss to the Lisztian idea of the symphonic poem, and to the theory that musi-
cal form should generate from the underlying poetic idea behind the composition. This
resulted in Strauss undertaking the composition of his own series of tone poems,4 the most
famous of which appear in Figure 6.4.
Notice that most of these tone poems fall into the decade of the 1890s, with only
two having been written after the turn of the century. If one were to look at the operas
of Strauss (the other major genre in which he worked), the opposite situation would
become apparent; that is, nearly all of his operas appeared after 1900, with only one
having been written before that date. Clearly Strauss turned his compositional attention
away from the tone poem and toward opera as his career progressed. The reason for this
has to do, perhaps, with the relationship of musical form to program in his instrumental
works. As a disciple of Liszt and the music of the future, Strauss believed all instrumen-
tal music must have a “poetic basis” following the model of the late works of Beethoven,
and therefore each new composition needed to take its formal cue from the program
on which it was based. Keeping faithful to this compositional principle, his tone poems
became, throughout the decade of the 1890s, ever more detailed in their programs and
consequently more and more narrative in their structure. This trajectory in Strauss’s
compositional career (toward more narrative, through-composed forms) may have led
quite logically to the adoption of opera as the most narrative of all genres—the one in
which musical form could (theoretically at least) be determined solely by the narrative
of the libretto.
Figure 6.4 Representative Tone Poems of Strauss
An analysis of the tone poems of Strauss, however, reveals that more abstract musical forms
were also very much in play in his programmatic tone poems. Don Juan is a fine example of
how Strauss balanced the purely musical needs of an instrumental work with the dramatic
needs of the program. While the legend of Don Juan dates far back in oral history, its first
appearance in literature was with the Spanish dramatist Tirso de Molina, whose play The
Trickster of Seville and the Stone Guest appeared in 1630. This cautionary drama painted
the picture of an amoral womanizer who eventually paid for his indecent behavior by being
dragged down to hell. Strauss took a slightly different approach to this subject, basing his
music on a more modern interpretation of the legend presented in a German verse play of
1851 by Nikolaus Lenau. In this version of the old tale, Don Juan’s seduction of women is not
motivated by the need to conquer, but rather by the more idealized desire to find the perfect
woman. As told by Lenau, Don Juan moves from one woman to the next only to find the fatal
flaw in each, until he attends a public ball at which he learns that his last lover has just commit-
ted suicide after he abandoned her. With this news, Don Juan suddenly becomes aware of the
damage his lifestyle has done to so many women, and then becomes remorseful and depressed.
In this state, he allows himself to be killed in a duel with the husband of one of his lovers.
To a large extent Strauss allowed the outline of Lenau’s story to determine the organiza-
tion of his tone poem. He begins with a heroic flourish that sets the mood for the whole
piece (Ex. 6.22).
Ex. 6.22 Opening Flourish

Strauss then presents a bold theme in E major that seems to represent the heroic nature
of Don Juan (Ex. 6.23). This is followed by two important lyrical themes that suggest the
women with whom Don Juan has been involved (Ex. 6.24).
Ex. 6.23 Don Juan Theme
Ex. 6.24 Feminine Theme 1
Ex. 6.25 Feminine Theme 2

Next we hear a new heroic theme in the horns, representing another aspect of the Don’s
heroic character (Ex. 6.26).
Ex. 6.26 Second Don Juan Theme
The “exposition” of thematic material then concludes with a theme that represents the
ball at which Don Juan gets the upsetting news about his last lover (Ex. 6.27).
Ex. 6.27 Ball Theme
Strauss arranged these themes in what might be thought of as a “dramatic” pattern, as

seen in Figure 6.5.
This arrangement of thematic material looks like a rondo form in which the two Don
Juan themes return between intervening feminine episodes. But given the key scheme of E
to B, C to G, and C to D this structure might also look like a three-part sonata exposition,
two sections of which lay out the usual tonic-dominant key relationship of a traditional
Figure 6.5 Arrangement of the Main Themes
sonata exposition. At the same time, this arrangement of themes also narrates the story of
Don Juan moving from one woman to the next until he finally arrives at the ball. In that
regard, the opening of the tone poem satisfies both the narrative demands of the program
and a listener’s expectation of a familiar abstract musical form.
Taking Lenau’s poem as a guide, the next event in the drama is Don Juan’s reminiscence
of all the women in his life, which leads to his depression and remorse. But in Strauss’s
tone poem, the ball is followed by what clearly sounds like a development of the mate-
rial from the opening of the piece. This development interrupts the narrative flow of the
music in order to do what most large instrumental works do: Develop the thematic mate-
rial presented at the outset of the piece. Only at the end of this developmental section
does the music again take up the narrative of the program with an orchestral crash that
represents Don Juan’s emotional collapse at the ball. Here Strauss brings back bits of the
two feminine themes as reminiscences of the Don’s life of infamy. Form here we might
expect the work to move directly to the duel and death of Don Juan, as does the poem.
But no, Strauss instead interpolates a full recapitulation of the two Don Juan themes from
the beginning of the work, now both in the tonic key of E major. The problem with this
recapitulation is that it seems to suggest that after his emotional breakdown, Don Juan
inexplicably has a spiritual rebirth that will enable him to return to his old life, unscathed
by previous circumstances. This, of course, is exactly the opposite of what the program
requires at this point, when Don Juan should move quickly from his depression into the
suicidal duel. But from a musical point of view, Strauss must have felt that he could not
reach the end of the piece without first sacrificing the program to the large-scale needs of
musical form, which demanded a return to the main themes of the piece. In recognizing
this conflict of musical form and narrative form in Don Juan, we can see the fundamen-
tal problem that faced all composers of tone poems. If, as Liszt suggested, the form of a
tone poem is generated by the poetic content of the program, then the music should have
a through-composed structure, in which every new event implied by the program would
find a new musical equivalent—from start to finish always renewing itself in the process of
telling a story or describing a scene. But tone poems that tell stories (and there are actually
fairly few that do) are still pieces of music, and as such, they demand a structure based
on the principles of tonal modulation, thematic development and repetition. To the extent
that narrative form and musical form are contradictory, composers of this kind of music
were always forced into compromises of the kind we see in Strauss’s Don Juan.
Part of Strauss’s reputation as a musical modernist derived from his virtuosic orchestra-
tion. Earlier in the 19th century, the musical distribution of labor among the various sec-
tions of the orchestra resulted in the strings having the most difficult and most important
parts, followed by the woodwinds, the brass, and the percussion, in descending order
of importance. Partly this was the result of the slow development of brass instrument
making, which did not bring the invention of the valve to trumpets and horns until the
decade of the 1830s. It was this invention that finally allowed brass instruments to play
diatonic and chromatic melodies instead of being limited to notes of the overtone series
that could be played on an open length of brass tubing. Schumann was one of the first to
utilize trumpets and horns with valves, and the sudden increase in the capability of these
instruments is reflected in the symphonies of nearly all composers who followed him.5
The incorporation of valves on brass instruments thus enabled composers to use these
instruments to play melodies and to participate more equally in the distribution of melodic
material in a symphony. In was not until the arrival of Mahler and Strauss, however, that
the brass section could be said to have reached parity with the strings and woodwinds.
The orchestrational techniques of both of these late Romantic composers demonstrate
a utilization of brass instruments that requires, for the first time, truly virtuosic players.
However, Strauss’s reputation as a brilliant orchestrator does not rest solely on the
writing of individually difficult parts for all the players in the orchestra. Perhaps more
than any other composer of symphonies (or tone poems), Strauss created brilliant orches-
trational effects that were usually tied to aspects of the programs from which he drew his
inspiration. In the case of Don Juan, the opening flourish in the strings, with its rapid,
sweeping rise over two octaves, seems instantly to suggest the heroic nature of the entire
piece (See Ex. 6.22). Moving at a tempo of approximately half note = 92,6 the sixteenth
notes in this passage have to be executed at a very rapid speed, and by all the string play-
ers except the double bassists. Further complicating this virtuosic passage is the fact that
it begins on the second sixteenth of the measure, which requires every player to enter pre-
cisely one sixteenth note after the downbeat without there having been previous measures
with which the players could establish the proper tempo and know exactly when to play
that first note. It is therefore unlikely that everyone in the string section will execute this
passage with the precision that the score seems to require. In fact, if one were to take a
recording of Don Juan by any major orchestra and slow down the playback to half speed,
the resulting imprecision would be astonishing. The ever so slightly different executions
of this passage among more the 40 players, in fact, results in what sounds (at half tempo)
like a glissando in the first measure of this passage.7
At this point we might be tempted to say that Strauss miscalculated the ability of his
orchestral string players by demanding something that actually couldn’t be played with
any degree of precision. However, it is far more likely that this passage was no miscal-
culation, but rather a brilliant solution to a specific orchestrational problem. I think we
can safely assume that a brilliant orchestrator like Strauss understood that asking a large
group of string players to tackle such a passage was going to result in some sloppiness
of execution, but that this imprecision in performance would produce what might be
described as a “whoosh” of sound—a glissando effect—that perfectly captured the explo-
sive energy of the hero of the tone poem.
Don Quixote
Strauss’s reputation as a musical modernist grew as the years progressed. By the time he wrote
Don Quixote in 1897, he had moved much deeper into a dissonant harmonic vocabulary,
used mostly for special programmatic effects. This particular tone poem is based on the novel
by Miguel de Cervantes (1547–1616), which is itself a parody of novels of chivalry that were
popular in the 16th and 17th centuries. The novel depicts a 16th-century nobleman who is
obsessed with novels of 12th-century knightly chivalry. So engaged is he in these novels, that
he begins to think that he too can become a knight in shining armor, who rescues damsels
in distress and defeats fire-breathing dragons, even though there were no such things in the
17th century (if in fact they ever existed at all). To capture the spirit of Cervantes’s parody,
Strauss created a tone poem that uses musical irony to project a parody of a traditional hero-
symphony.8 The title page of the tone poem calls the work “Fantastic Variations on a Theme
of Noble Character.” Here Strauss’s use of the word “fantastic” (fantastische) is intended to
suggest that the variations involve an element of fantasy, i.e., that they are free of traditional
variation techniques inherited from the past. The irony in the title comes from the fact that the
theme on which Strauss’s variations are based is not at all of a “noble character.” This theme
represents both Don Quixote and his “squire” Sancho Panza in two separate parts (Ex. 6.28a
and b), neither of which is particularly sophisticated as a thematic gesture.
Ex. 6.28a Don Quixote’s Theme
Ex. 6.28b Sancho Panza’s Theme
In order to personalize these themes for each of his two main characters, Strauss used
different solo instruments to represent the voices of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.
The solo cellist (who is often seated in front of the orchestra in performances of this
work as though he or she were a concerto soloist) along with the solo violinist take on
the voice of the Don, while Sancho Panza is represented by solo tuba, viola, and bass
clarinet—all of which are themselves ironic solo instruments used somewhat in the spirit
of and with the same ironic effect as the solo instruments that open the funeral march
in Mahler’s First Symphony. In this tone poem these instruments are the perfect vehicle
for the bumbling squire.
The tone poem opens with a lengthy introduction based partly on material drawn from
the main theme of the variations, which is not heard in its entirety at this point. The
role of this introduction is to paint a musical picture of the gradual disintegration of
Don Quixote’s mental stability as he sits by his fireplace and becomes more and more
engrossed in his books of knighthood. As Quixote gradually loses all relation to reality
and becomes convinced that he can become a knight in shining armor (even though he is
about 400 years too late to do so), Strauss’s music falls deeper and deeper into a dissonant,
nearly atonal harmonic vocabulary that represents the hero’s growing madness.
Once the variations commence, they follow selected chapters in Cervantes’s novel in the
order in which the author presents them. This creates a truly narrative musical form in
which each variation depicts a unique episode in the adventures of Don Quixote. One of
the most remarkable of these variations is that depicting Don Quixote’s encounter with
a herd of sheep. In this variation Strauss pushes the limits of tonality with the creation of
cluster chords (chords built in half-steps) enhanced by muted brass and flutter-tongued
woodwinds to depict the bleating of this group of frightened animals. But the episodic
nature of the tone poem’s structure is counterbalanced on a musical level by the continual
appearance of Don Quixote’s theme at the beginning of each variation, something that
creates a thread of musical continuity among the different episodes and prevents the piece
from becoming musically aimless. One other important exception to the otherwise strictly
narrative arrangement of the variations occurs with Strauss’s placement of the variation
representing the Don’s vigil over his armor in the middle of the tone poem rather than at
the very beginning of the work, where Cervantes’s novel clearly indicates it belongs. In the
medieval ritual of knighthood, a candidate for such an honor was first required to stand
guard over his armor the night before the official ceremony. Obviously this event takes
place before any adventures such a knight might have, and so belongs at the very begin-
ning of any piece of music arranged in a truly narrative form. So why then did Strauss
relocate this particular variation to the middle of his tone poem? The most likely answer is
that the style of that variation, which is slow and contemplative, offers some much needed
contrast in the middle of the work to the faster, more energetic music found in most of the
other variations. If that were Strauss’s reasoning for the positioning of this variation, then
this would represent yet another example of a compositional compromise between the
requirements of purely musical form and purely narrative form in Strauss’s tone poems.
In the final analysis, Strauss, like Liszt, is important in the history of the symphony
exactly because he so thoroughly avoided this genre. It has often been argued that the
symphony was a dying genre at the end of the 19th century. Compared with the remark-
able number of symphonies produced in the previous century,9 this certainly looks like
an accurate assessment of the development of the genre. But the drop in the number of
symphonies written in the late 19th century reflects both the increased size of newer
symphonies and the corresponding increase in psychic energy invested in such works
by composers like Bruckner and Mahler. Clearly the late 19th century brought with
it the same sense of confusion that plagued composers working earlier in the century
after Beethoven had challenged long-held notions of what a symphony was. Almost
eighty years later, composers found themselves confronted with the vast expansion of
the symphony in terms of both its duration and instrumental forces. How was the genre
to develop going forward? The tone poem became the most common answer to this
question throughout the last half of the 19th century. It only remained for another major
sociopolitical event in European history—the First World War—to redirect and breathe
new life into this aging genre.
Study Questions
1. What is the problem with a purely narrative (through-composed) form for a sym-
phony movement or tone poem.
2. What was the basis of Strauss’s fame as a composer of tone poems?
Further Reading
Charles Dowell Youmans, Mahler & Strauss: In Dialogue (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University
Press, 2016). A fascinating study of the parallels between these two late Romantic giants of sym-
phonic composition.
Notes
1. The Wagnerian system of leitmotifs is itself derived from the process of thematic transformation
found in Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique.
2. Recordings of this symphony that include the Blumine movement are available.
3. Schumann’s Kreislieriana is also based on these Fantasie Stücke of Hoffmann.
4. Strauss used the slightly different term Tondichtung (tone poem) instead of Liszt’s term sym-
phonic poem.
5. The major exception to this adoption of valved horns and trumpets was Brahms, who insisted
on writing his horn parts for the old valveless instruments, on which players were only able to
create diatonic notes by forcing their right hand into the bell of the instrument to alter the pitch
of an open note in the overtone series.
6. Not marked in the score, but commonly performed at that tempo, which is presumably derived
from Strauss’s own performances of the work.
7. This process of slowing down the playback of a recorded performance was much easier in the
days of reel-to-reel tape recorders that played at two different speeds.
8. Perhaps Strauss was thinking of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony or maybe some of the sympho-
nies of Mahler that are so often about a heroic life of struggle?
9. The famous 20th-century musicologist Jan LaRue compiled a Catalogue of 18th-Century Sym-
phonies that contained nearly 17,000 works (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1988).
Part III
The Symphony in the Modern Era

7 The Early 20th Century
Debussy and the Transition to the Modern Era

Because both the symphony and opera have been the most important large-scale genres
of European music since the 17th century, their development and popularity in any given
country may seem frequently to be almost mutually exclusive, as though composers had
been given a choice to devote their careers to one or the other, but not both.
As in Italy, where instrumental concert music was far overshadowed by the popular-
ity of opera, the development of the symphony in France in the 18th and 19th centuries
took a back seat to the nation-wide interest in dramatic vocal music. In the Classical era,
François-Joseph Gossec (1734–1829) wrote numerous symphonies and string quartets,
and is today often referred to as the “French Mozart.” But his music has fallen out of
the repertoire over the years (if, in fact, it was ever part of the basic symphonic repertoire
after his death). In the 19th century, Hector Berlioz made his mark as a composer of sym-
phonies, despite the fact that he only wrote four. But Berlioz’s immensely important con-
tribution to the development of the symphony outside Germany came as the result of his
frustrated early attempt to establish himself as a composer of opera. His invention of the
“dramatic symphony,” as we have seen, consisted of an unusual synthesis of operatic and
symphonic elements and grew out of his desire to work in the realm of dramatic music.
Despite the fact that only a few French symphonists after Berlioz are well known today,
several composers continued to show interest in the genre. In addition, concert organiza-
tions that had first sprung up in the 18th century (such as the famed Concert Spirituel)
continued to program symphonies, both home-grown and foreign, in the 19th century. It
was in fact just such an organization, the Société des Concerts du Conservatoire under the
direction of François Antoine Habeneck, that first introduced French audiences (including
the young Berlioz) to the symphonies of Beethoven in the 1820s. A representative sample
of French symphonists of the latter part of the 19th century appears in Figure 7.1. This
chart lists the number of symphonies, operas, and non-symphonic orchestral works each
wrote. The latter category (labelled “other”) includes tone poems, symphonic suites, sym-
phonic variations, symphonic fantasies, and all such works that composers specifically did
not label a symphony.
The importance of opera to nearly all of these composers cannot be overestimated. Both
Gounod and Saint-Saëns, especially, made major contributions to that genre. So while
these composers did write symphonies, those works seem not to have been the major focus
of their attention. Only d’Indy wrote more than a few symphonies and was not involved
in the world of opera at all. As for the others in this list, their symphonies illustrate some
common French stylistic elements: the use of cyclical form and thematic transformation
borrowed from the works of Berlioz, special attention to orchestral color (including the
use of piano and organ in the Third “Organ” Symphony of Saint-Saëns) also attributable
to the influence of Berlioz, and a reliance on chromatic harmony borrowed from Wagner.
184 The Symphony in the Modern Era
Figure 7.1 Major French Composers of the 19th Century
Claude Debussy (1862–1918)

Unlike his French colleagues, Claude Debussy left us no symphonies other than a piano
score of one movement of an early student work. Although it may seem counterintuitive
to include him in a discussion of the symphony at the turn of the 20th century, Debussy
made an important contribution to the history of this genre simply by virtue of the fact
that he wrote none.
After a couple of years of private piano lessons as a boy, Debussy entered the Paris
Conservatory at age 10. His early interest lay in a potential career as a pianist, but his
failure to win the premier prix in piano eventually led to his transferring his attention
to composition instead. In this new endeavor Debussy was far more successful, eventu-
ally winning the Prix de Rome in 1884. At that time, he found himself, like most young
French composers, engrossed in the music of Wagner. In the mid 1880s he even made trips
to Bayreuth to experience Wagner’s works first hand. But unlike his colleagues, Debussy
came, by the end of the decade, to distrust the insidious influence of Wagner on French
composers, and struck out on a path to find a uniquely French style that would not be a
slavish imitation of Wagner’s music. In the process of trying to avoid the influence of Wag-
ner, Debussy developed an antipathy for most of the great German composers of the 19th
century, including everyone from Beethoven to Brahms. The symphonies of these German
masters had, by the end of the 19th century, come to represent a serious genre often used
for the expression of some broad, philosophical message. Such works were expected to
have multiple movements, which, taken together, created a unified whole that climaxed in
a grand finale. It was exactly this kind of orchestral music that Debussy set out to replace
with a new symphonic aesthetic.
The fact that today Debussy is usually referred to as an Impressionist composer sug-
gests that the path to the new French style ran parallel to the accomplishments of sev-
eral French Impressionist painters of the late 19th century: Claude Monet, Pierre-Auguste
Renoir, and Édouard Manet. These artists promoted a new style of painting that relied on
The Early 20th Century 185
vibrant color, the avoidance of literalism in representation, and the blurring of clear lines of
demarcation—all of which have corollaries in the music of Debussy. But for whatever reason
Debussy disavowed any connection to these painters, preferring instead to call himself a
“symbolist.” In doing so, he intended to draw a link between his work and that of symbolist
poets such as Stéphane Mallarmé. As an artistic movement, Symbolism took shape as a reac-
tion against realism (verismo) in art and literature. Instead of presenting reality with brutal
honesty, Symbolism strove to represent the reality of the world indirectly through the use of
metaphors. In avoiding literalness and directness, symbolist writers were exploring some of
the same qualities of art that characterize Debussy’s music, where literal representation gives
way to suggestion, and reality is replaced by imprecise impressions of the tangible world.
The path to a new French style did not, however, rest entirely with a copy of techniques
found in Impressionist painting or Symbolist poetry, but included some important foreign
musical influences as well. The first of these came into Debussy’s life in the early 1880s, when
he travelled to Russia as a piano teacher and chamber musician for the family of Tchaiko-
vsky’s patroness, Nadezhda von Meck. In the two summers of 1881 and 1882, Debussy dis-
covered the music of Tchaikovsky, but more importantly, he may also have encountered the
music of some of the “Mighty Five.” There is little concrete evidence suggesting that Debussy
heard any of this extraordinary music in Russia, but it seems hard to imagine that at least some
of the music of Rimsky-Korsakov or Mussorgsky didn’t cross his path at that time.
Even if Debussy managed to miss the music of these important nationalist compos-
ers while he was visiting Russia, he would certainly have heard their works a few years
later when this music made its way to Paris via the Exposition Universelle of 1889. This
exhibition was something like a World’s Fair, in which countries from around the world
shared samples of their art and culture. In his search for an antidote to the reigning Wag-
nerian style, Debussy may well have found in this music of these Russian nationalists some
unusual harmonies and melodic figurations that are the product of the use of modes not
common in German Romantic music. One doesn’t have to look far in the works of either
Rimsky-Korsakov, Mussorgsky or Debussy to come across large sections of music built on
whole-tone or octatonic scales. These unusual scales and the harmonies built from them
provided Debussy with the first building block in his creation of an anti-Germanic style.
The next major influence also came to Debussy by way of the Paris Exposition Uni-
verselle. Among the various unusual kinds of music at this fair was that of the Javanese
gamelan, a Southeast Asian orchestra of mostly wind and percussion instruments. To
Debussy’s ears, this music must have represented the ultimate antithesis of modern Ger-
man music, because nothing about gamelan music corresponds in any way to the sound
of Western European music. All those parameters of music that are most important in
German music—theme, development, regular meters, rhythmic sequences, tonal cent-
ers, musical form—seem to be more or less irrelevant in Javanese music, where there
are no themes, no development of motives, no tonal-functional harmony, no percepti-
ble meters, no repeating rhythms, and no recognizable forms. Instead, gamelan music
relies heavily on color, produced mostly through the unusual sounds of the instruments
that comprise the ensemble, especially its metallic percussion instruments. Furthermore,
gamelan music is not based on the presentation of melodic ideas that Westerners would
recognize as “themes.” Rather, the music sounds to our ears like a stream of continu-
ally changing improvisations. And because there is no sense of theme, there is also no
perception of musical development and repetition in gamelan music, both of which are
essential in Western music. Lastly, gamelan music does not rely on a system of regular
strong and weak beats that make up the various meters of Western music. Therefore,
there is no sense of regularly recurring pulse in this music, and the rhythmic organiza-
tion, while actually quite strict, sounds totally improvisational.
Debussy used the most essential ingredients of gamelan music—the emphasis on color,
the lack of thematic development and musical form, and the free unpatterned rhythms—to
build his new French style in opposition to Wagner. The creation of this new music, how-
ever, did not occur overnight, and Debussy’s early music shows a lingering influence of the
German tradition he struggled to exorcise from his own writing.
Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune (1894)

One of Debussy’s earliest orchestral works was his Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun,
a tone poem inspired by a poem of the same name by Mallarmé. According to Debussy
himself, his goal was to capture the erotic nature of Mallarmé’s poem, not to represent
any particular images, events, or characters in it. What strikes one immediately about
this piece is how un-Wagnerian it sounds. This first impression is the result of sev-
eral compositional techniques borrowed from the Javanese music Debussy had recently
absorbed, as well as from the Russian music to which he had been exposed. The first
unusual sound in this work is the opening solo flute. Not only is this an unusual timbre
with which to open an orchestral tone poem, but the flute line (Ex. 7.1) is not what one
would usually call a theme.
Ex. 7.1 Opening Theme
The sinuous chromatic line, descending and ascending, does not create the kind of memora-
ble melody that would be expected of an opening theme. In addition, the rhythmic structure of
this line obscures its underlying meter. Long held notes, ties across the beat, triplets mixed with
regular duple divisions of the beat all make the perception of strong and weak impulses dif-
ficult. Everything about these first few measures seems to recall the most fundamental elements
of gamelan music: lack of theme, free rhythms, no meter, and unique timbres. But then, as
many writers have pointed out, the very first chord of the piece, in m. 4, is the same harmony
that opens Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde: an enharmonically spelled half diminished seventh
chord in first inversion. This has been used in the past to try to prove that early Debussy was
still closely tied to the sound of Wagner’s music, and this may be partly true. But it may also be
worth noting that the first chord in Wagner’s prelude is actually a common French sixth chord
in A major with a long appoggiatura in the upper G-sharp (Ex. 7.2).
Ex. 7.2 Opening Harmony of Tristan und Isolde

Thus, while the chords may sound the same, their harmonic functions are entirely dif-
ferent, with Wagner’s serving the traditional tonal function of pre-dominant harmony, and
Debussy’s acting as a coloristic effect.
At this point in his career, Debussy had one foot firmly planted in a new sound-world in
which untuneful themes, supple rhythms, obscure meters, colorful instrumental timbres,
non-Western scales, and a general lack of traditional developmental procedures supplanted
the usual Germanic approach to composition. Yet at the same time his other foot was still
deeply embedded in 19th-century principles of composition. In this regard we notice that
this piece falls into a traditional ABA form, in which the contrasting middle section is writ-
ten in the key of D-flat major and its main theme (Ex. 7.3), complete with panting accom-
paniment in the horns, recalls much of the music of Tchaikovsky (especially his Romeo and
Juliet Overture), which Debussy had encountered through Nadezhda von Meck.
Ex. 7.3 Main Theme of Contrasting Middle Section
In the opening section of Debussy’s Prélude the flute melody forms the basic motivic
material and is repeated five times. All of those repetitions begin with a literal duplication of
the original flute line, but three of them then expand in new directions. This compositional
technique reminds us of the process of “developing variation” found in the symphonies of
Mahler and other German composers before him, and to that extent illustrates how closely
Debussy was tied to the older principles of symphonic construction at this point in his career.
La mer (1905)
While the Prélude à l’après midi d’un faune demonstrates that Debussy’s early orchestral
works blend elements of the Wagnerian style with newer compositional techniques bor-
rowed from non-Western sources, his next major work for orchestra, La mer, shows a
refinement of those new techniques and a further abandonment of Germanic principles
of composition. This work has long been the subject of considerable controversy over the
Illustration 7.1 The Great Wave of Kanagawa, Woodblock Print by Hokusai c. 1830
question of whether it is actually a three-movement symphony, or, as Debussy himself
described the work, “three symphonic sketches.”1 If we take the composer at his word,
La mer would resemble the symphonic works of some of the nationalist composers of
the 19th century, who were themselves attempting to break away from the dominance of
Germanic genres, styles, and compositional techniques by creating alternative symphonic
genres such as “symphonic dances,” “symphonic pictures,” or “symphonic variations.”
La mer marks a refinement of the techniques Debussy used only incompletely in the Prélude
to manufacture an independent French style. These include the low melodic profile of the
“themes” of the work, the lack of motivic development, the emphasis on color (both harmonic
and instrumental), the use of non-Western modes, and the lack of a clear formal structure. The
first movement of La mer, “De l’aube à midi sur la mer,” (From Dawn to Mid-day on the Sea)
illustrates how Debussy put all of these characteristics to use in a work that strongly rejects
the music of Wagner. There are at least ten melodic ideas that one might call a “theme” or a
motive. These are illustrated in Ex. 7.4.
Motive 1
Motive 2
Motive 3
Motive 4
Motive 5
Motive 6
Motive 7.
Motive 8
Motive 9
Motive 10
Ex. 7.4 Motives of La Mer
Notice that with the exception of motives 8 and 10, all of these themes have a low
melodic profile. That is to say they are not tuneful melodies that are easy to remember
because they are often constructed of scale passages (both chromatic and diatonic—some-
times with modal inflections) that cover a small compass of less than an octave. Thus, like
the gamelan music on which Debussy modeled his new style, the parameter of melody
takes on a reduced importance.
Most important in Debussy’s new style is his adoption of the principle of unpatterned
formal designs. By rejecting the formal patterns of German music (especially sonata form),
Debussy created a musical structure in La mer that resembles an aural kaleidoscope in its
continually changing order of thematic presentation. Themes are stated and then repeated
while new themes are added as the movement evolves. The result is an unpredictable
sequence of thematic repetition that creates no discernable formal pattern. That is to say, the
order in which these themes appear and then reappear looks completely random. Using the
numbers associated with each motive in Ex. 7.4, the piece can be diagramed as in Figure 7.2.
Figure 7.2 Arrangement of Motives in La mer, Movement I

This arrangement of the thematic material presents new ideas in a continually unfolding
pattern that results in some of the themes not making an appearance in the movement until
the very end of the piece. Meanwhile, the repetition of old themes continually interrupts
the exposition of new material all the way to the end of the movement. The resulting form
avoids the most common compositional principle found in German music since Stamitz: The
recapitulation of opening material at the end of the piece. Although Debussy repeats motive
1 in the last measures of the movement, he does so in only the most fleeting manner, more
as an echo of the opening measures of the work than as a grand return to the tonic key of
the piece. In fact, the movement ends in a tonality different from the one in which it began.
The last important characteristic of this movement that breaks so violently with 18th
and 19th-century German compositional aesthetics is Debussy’s rejection of the process
of thematic development and transformation. When he repeats themes as the movement
unfolds, these themes remain mostly unchanged. Only theme 8 undergoes any real devel-
opment. Musical change in La mer comes only through the process of reharmonization
and reorchestration, both of which techniques modify the color of the music, emphasizing
that aspect of Debussy’s style over the usual German technique of unfolding a composition
through thematic fragmentation and sequencing.
Ultimately, the importance of Debussy in the history of the symphony lies in his reordering
of the importance of the several parameters that make up all music, replacing the elements of
theme, tonal-functional harmony, thematic development, and large-scale formal patterning that
defined German music of his time with a new emphasis on instrumental and harmonic color
(note the unusual combination of instruments that presents motive 5 in La Mer for example)
and the flexible rhythms that often obscure the underlying meter (as in motive 2). In this new
music the concept of form emerges (as Debussy himself claimed) as a macro-rhythm of chang-
ing colors instead of a pattern of thematic statement, development, and return. The impact of
this new approach to music reached far into the 20th century, where it was felt by composers
as diverse as Anton Webern, Olivier Messiaen, and Karlheinz Stockhausen, to name just a few.
Study Questions
1. What was Debussy’s attitude toward Richard Wagner?
2. What were the foreign influences at work in the formation of Debussy’s new French style?
Further Reading
Ralph P. Locke, “The French Symphony: David, Gounod, and Bizet to Saint-Saëns, Franck, and
Their Followers,” in The Nineteenth-Century Symphony, ed. D. Kern Holoman (New York, NY:
Schirmer Books, 1997), 163–94.
Brian Hart, “The French Symphony After Berlioz: From the Second Empire to the First World War,”
in The Symphonic Repertoire, Vol. 3B, The European Symphony from ca. 1800 to ca. 1930:
Great Britain, Russia, and France, ed. A. Peter Brown and Brian Hart (Bloomington, IN: Indiana
University Press, 2007), 5277–22.
The Unique Path of Sibelius

Despite the fact that Jean Sibelius (1865–1957) composed from c. 1890 through the first
two decades of the 20th century, he seems generally to be viewed today as someone whose
symphonies mark the end of an era rather than the beginning of a new one (demon-
strated by his inclusion in the last chapter in D. Kern Holoman’s valuable edition of col-
lected essays The Nineteenth-Century Symphony (New York, NY: Schirmer Books, 1997),
417–49. His seven symphonies grow partly out of the tradition of 19th-century nation-
alism as represented in Eastern Europe by such composers as Dvořák and Smetana and
partly out of the broader tradition of the late-19th-century Austro-Germanic symphony as
established by composers such as Bruckner and Mahler. Yet given these familiar stylistic
boundaries, Sibelius produced a body of work that, if not exactly avant-garde, was at the
very least truly unique and personal.
Since his death in the middle of the 20th century, Sibelius has become something of
a national hero in Finland. Born in the small city of Hämeenlinna in the southern part
of the country in 1865, he became involved with music through his study of the violin
at an early age. But an interest in composition ran parallel to his love of the violin
all through his early years. The actual study of composition, however, remained a
self-directed activity until after Sibelius dropped out of law school in 1886 and took
up several years of formal study of music with Martin Wegelius, a composer/conduc-
tor who had opened the Helsinki Music Institute in 1882, the first such school of
music in Finland. It was during these years of study with Wegelius (1886–89) that
Sibelius steeped himself in the myths, legends, and poetry of Finland as found in the
Illustration 7.2 Jean Sibelius c. 1940

Kalevala, a collection of folk tales published in 1835. From this work, which gradu-
ally assumed the status of a national epic, Sibelius drew much of the inspiration for
his early tone poems such as Kullervo (1892, a giant five-movement quasi-symphony
with voice) and the four related tone poems known as the Lemmenkainen Legends
written between the years 1893–95 (1. Lemmenkainen and the Maidens of the Island,
2. Lemmenkainen in Tuonela, 3. The Swan of Tuonela, 4. Lemmenkainen’s Return).
Sibelius’s interest in national subjects emerged as a result of political and cultural
circumstances enveloping Finland during his lifetime, not unlike those seen in Europe
a generation earlier.
As far back as the 13th century what is now Finland was under the control of Sweden
(as a section of that country known as Österland). In the early 18th century, war broke
out between Sweden and Russia, with Finland caught in the middle and eventually ceded
to Russia as that country’s spoils of victory. Finland remained a part of the Russian empire
(as a “grand duchy”) until 1917, when the Russian Revolution put an end to tsarist rule
in that country. It was thus not until the end of the First World War that Finland finally
became an independent country. During the time Finland was ruled by Russia, a feeling of
nationalist pride began to emerge from under the foreign oppression, especially with the
publication in 1835 of the Kalevala. For Sibelius (and many other nationalist artists and
writers) the most immediate source of a native Finnish spirit lay in a southeastern region
of the country known as Karelia (now a part of Russia) where the geographical remote-
ness of the area contributed to the conservation of the most authentic folk traditions.
Of special interest to Sibelius was the native singing of “runes” (poems) drawn from the
Kalevala. Some years after making a visit to this remote part of the country, he collected,
edited, and published some of these native folk melodies. The ethos of Finnish national-
ism found in these musical materials continued to inform the compositional style of all of
Sibelius’s music throughout his entire career, mostly in the form of the use of minor keys,
modal colorations of melody and harmony, and rhythmic characteristics borrowed from
traditional rune singing.
Along with the nationalist inclinations found in the music that Sibelius composed in
the 1890s, his mature style eventually embraced additional musical influences derived
from two years of study abroad, first in Berlin and then Vienna in 1890–91. Here Sibe-
lius came into closer contact with the important German composers of the 19th cen-
tury, including Beethoven, Wagner, Bruckner (whose music Sibelius especially liked) and
Strauss. In these years abroad, Sibelius also heard for the first time the nationalist tone
poem Aino by the Finnish composer/conductor Robert Kajanus. This experience may
have served as the catalyst for Sibelius’s writing of his own nationalist tone poems upon
his return to Finland in 1891. The closer connection with European composers, styles,
and traditions may also have spurred Sibelius to delve into the genre of the abstract
symphony. In the 1890s Sibelius made his reputation with the composition of several
patriotic tone poems, but in 1899 he turned to the writing of his First Symphony. Both
this and his Second Symphony continued the nationalist style of his early tone poems,
although neither symphony was advertised as having a specific program, nationalist or
otherwise.
Overall the trajectory of Sibelius’s seven symphonies takes us from fairly traditional
structures and a nationalist style as found in his tone poems of the 1890s to a far
more idiosyncratic interpretation of symphonic form in his later works. While many
of Sibelius’s early symphonies either use, or make fairly obvious reference to, sonata
forms of some kind, the later symphonies begin to exhibit new formal solutions that
allow the musical materials at hand to dictate their own growth, development, and
organization. So while the size of Sibelius’s orchestra and the harmonic vocabulary
he employed both create the superficial sense that he was writing fairly traditional
symphonies, the manipulation of his thematic materials places Sibelius in the same
modern category as someone like Gustav Mahler. Accordingly, Sibelius relied on the
same technique of “developing variation” that Schoenberg first pointed to in the music
of Brahms, and which was then carried further as the fundamental structural prin-
ciple in the symphonies of Mahler. In the symphonies of both of these composers,
thematic material is introduced at the outset and then subjected to intervallic manipu-
lations that generate new but related thematic material later in the piece. This new
thematic material serves as both a variation and development of the original themes
that produce an organic relatedness between all sections of any particular movement.
In the case of Sibelius’s application of this compositional technique to the writing of
symphonies, the statement of thematic material often takes the form of a setting out
of short motives that only later begin to reveal their melodic potential as they are
expanded and reinterpreted in variations that follow.
A fine example of this unique approach to symphonic structure can be seen in the first
movement of Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony, written in 1915 and twice revised in 1916 and
1919. On the whole, the symphony divides into three large movements, but as we will see,
the first movement is actually two contiguous movements welded into one.2 The opening
motivic idea consists of an upward skip of a perfect 4th, a major second, and another per-
fect 4th, all of which add up to an octave (Ex. 7.5). From this simple idea emerges nearly
all the principle thematic material of the entire symphony.
Ex. 7.5 Motive 1, First Movement
To this gesture, Sibelius quickly adds a turn of 16th notes as seen in Ex. 7.6., which is
then expanded into a motive of its own (motive 2) based on an expansion of the interval
of the third in the turn (Ex. 7.7).
Ex. 7.6 Motive 1 Decorated
Ex. 7.7 Motive 2, The Turn Expanded
The third important motive appears in the flutes two measures before rehearsal C and
begins with an inverted statement of the first three notes of the opening idea. This results
in a downward skip of a perfect fourth to which is added a descending second (Ex. 7.8).
Ex. 7.8 Motive 3 Combination of Part of Motive 1 and the Turn
Shortly thereafter (at rehearsal D) the melodic turn bracketed in Ex. 7.6 is transformed
via rhythmic augmentation in the strings and woodwinds as seen in Ex. 7.9, essentially
producing what sounds like yet another new thematic idea, here labeled motive 4.
Ex. 7.9 Motive 4
Beginning at rehearsal E, Sibelius repeats all of this motivic material one more time,
but as he cycles through it this second time, he now treats everything with slight modi-
fications. The fact that he revisits all of the themes in their original sequence makes this
section of the movement sound like a “re-exposition,” recalling the sonata form technique
of Mahler, whose Resurrection Symphony (No. 2) employs the same compositional tech-
nique. However, as in Mahler’s symphonies, this new section of Sibelius’s first movement
is modified just enough to also produce the effect of a traditional development section.
At three measures after letter L the tempo changes to largamente as Sibelius introduces
a new transformation of motive 3 (motive 3a, Ex. 7.10), which shortly thereafter culmi-
nates in yet another version of this motive (motive 3b, Ex. 7.11) derived from a retrograde
inversion of the first three notes of m. 2 in Ex. 7.10.
Ex. 7.10 Motive 3a
Ex. 7.11 Motive 3b
These transformed restatements of motive 3 give this section an even greater sense of
development than what we heard in the “re-exposition.” The last of these versions of
motive 3 brings the movement back to a restatement of the opening motive of the work,
giving it a sense of return that at least alludes to what might be called a truncated recapitu-
lation. But this return is illusory as Sibelius quickly changes the tempo to allegro moderato
and the meter from the original 12/8 to 3/4. The change of meter signals the juncture at
which the original two opening movements of the symphony were joined to make one
continuous movement. While this new section exhibits many of the characteristics of a
scherzo, its opening theme (Ex. 7.12), like so much of the rest of this symphony, represents
yet another version of various elements of the movement’s opening gestures, including
Motive 1 and the interval of the third from Motive 2.
Ex. 7.12 Opening Theme, “Scherzo”
Before long we recognize that the function of this “scherzo” is that of a development
section within this opening movement, with an unordered presentation of extensions and
modifications of all of the material from the beginning of the piece. One of these modifica-
tions (of the melodic turn in Ex. 7.6) results in a thematic transformation that produces
what is one of the most important new themes of this scherzo-like section, first heard in
the trumpets (Ex. 7.13).
Ex. 7.13 New theme
Careful analysis also reveals that the first two measures of this trumpet theme are sim-
ply a retrograde of the first three notes of motive 3, now with the addition of one new
note—the G.
The remainder of the “scherzo” continues to develop the first four motives of the
opening “movement,” leading eventually to a coda-like section that brings back
Motive 1 in several recapitulatory restatements that close the movement. Overall,
the opening movement presents the listener with the processes of thematic exposi-
tion, development, and restatement that characterize any traditional symphony, but
alters these fundamental symphonic procedures to produce both new themes (through
transformation) and contrasting sections that mimic the effect of different movements
connected attacca. Sibelius’s symphonic technique is perhaps reminiscent of the unu-
sual form of Schumann’s Fourth Symphony: modern in its organization and develop-
ment of basic thematic material through a process of organic growth (the extension
and transformation of small motivic bits of material), but traditional in its superficial
similarity to familiar multi-movement forms based on related but contrasting move-
ments or large sections.
Sibelius may often be referred to as a 20th-century nationalist, but this characterization
is more applicable to his work as a composer of tone poems. As a symphonist, Sibelius is
far more universal than someone like Dvořák. While his Fifth Symphony employs some
of the techniques heard in the nationalist music of the 19th century (modally inflected
harmonies, and the frequent use of themes built on melodic parallel thirds for instance),
Sibelius’s symphonies are, in general, far less Finnish in style than they are simply personal
in a way that sets them apart from those of European and Russian composers of the late
19th and early 20th centuries. Writing at a time when European music had turned decid-
edly avant-garde in the hands of Stravinsky and Schoenberg, Sibelius rejected the “eman-
cipation of the dissonance” in favor of continuing the exploration of the symphony as
a traditional genre with a long, rich history, but one that could be modernized to create
something new, unique, and very personal.
Study Questions
1. How is Sibelius related to the nationalist composers of Czechoslovakia who preceded
him?
2. It is often said that Sibelius’s symphonic style is very “personal.” What does that
mean? Would you agree with that assessment?
Further Reading
Daniel M. Grimley, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Sibelius (New York, NY: Cambridge Univer-
sity Press, 2004). A collection of essays dealing largely with Sibelius’s “Finnishness.”
Notes
1. See François Lesure and Roger Nichols, eds., Debussy Letters (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Uni-
versity Press, 1987), 141.
2. In the first version of the symphony dating from 1915, this opening movement was originally
two separate movements.
8 Masters of the 20th Century
From Ives to Shostakovich
Ives as Symphonic Iconoclast

Charles Ives (1874–1954) brought the aesthetic of modernism to American music in the
early 20th century, when few composers in this country showed any interest in contempo-
rary styles and techniques. Professionally trained in composition at Yale University, Ives
deliberately chose to keep music-making as an evenings and weekends activity, squeezed
into his busy life as an insurance executive. Ives was born in Danbury, CT, and grew up
in a musical family. His father, George, a band-leader in the Union Army during the Civil
War, had settled into the position of organist and choir director at the local church in
Danbury after the war. But George did much more than serve as a church musician. He
led the town band and gave lessons in almost any instrument one might want to learn
to play. He was also young Charles’s first music teacher, from whom the boy learned the
concept of “stretching the ear” to accept new and unusual sounds. George Ives spent
most of his career as a musical “jack of all trades” in Danbury, where his experiments
with new sounds as the fundamental source of all music earned him the reputation of a
musical crackpot. These experiments took the form of ear-training exercises (designed for
young Charles) that included singing a tune in one key while accompanying oneself on
the piano in another key, attempts to duplicate the sound of a church bell by untuning a
piano in order to produce microtones, poly-rhythmic and poly-metric music, fugues with
all subjects stated in different keys, and more. George also developed a philosophy of
music, later adopted wholeheartedly by Charles, that emphasized the distinction between
what George called “substance” and “manner” in music. As he saw this issue, “manner”
was the actual process of making musical sounds in a performance, while “substance”
referred to the ideas, feelings, and intent of the music quite apart from what emerged in
a performance. Substance was the heart and soul of music as it appeared on the page or
in someone’s mind. Later in life Charles related a now famous story about how his father
made this philosophy work on a daily basis:
Once a nice young man (his musical sense having been limited by three years of inten-
sive study at the Boston Conservatory) said to Father, “how can you stand to hear
old John Bell (the best stone mason in town) sing?” . . . Father said, “He is a supreme
musician.” The young man was horrified. “Why he sings off key, the wrong notes and
everything; and that horrible raucous voice—it’s awful!” Father said, “Look into his
face and hear the music of the ages. Don’t pay too much attention to the sounds—for
if you do, you may miss the music.”1
This understanding of music as something spiritual led Ives himself to respond to a

violinist who dared to suggest a change in one of Ives’s violin sonatas in order to make
it sound better, “My God!” bellowed Ives, “What has sound got to do with music?”2
All along, Ives thought of music not as a form of aural entertainment for polite concert
audiences. Rather, he saw his music as simply a collection of dots and lines inked onto
a page of manuscript paper—notes that had a life quite apart from any potential perfor-
mance that would turn them into actual sounds. He made this attitude quite clear in the
postface to his “114 Songs” published at his own expense in 1920, where he speaks of
his songs as if they had a life of their own with certain “rights” just like any of the rest
of us. Ives also believed that the substance of music grew out of its ability to express a
philosophy of life; and the philosophy he had in mind was that based on the tenets of
the 19th-century New England Transcendental writers, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry
David Thoreau, and Nathaniel Hawthorne. While there has been some debate about
what Ives understood by the term “Transcendentalism,” we know that it seems to have
represented in his mind the innate goodness of mankind and the divinity of nature. In
essence he saw life as a complex texture of many disparate threads woven together for
better or worse; and his philosophy of life was based on an acceptance and love of this
diversity of existence. Therefore Ives’s music functions as an aural impression of his
world, or more accurately, of his father’s world—the world of 19th-century American
vernacular music.3
From the musical training he received as a boy with his father, Ives went on to major
in music at Yale University in 1892. There he studied composition with Horatio Parker,
one of the “deans” of serious American music in the late 19th century. Parker himself had
been trained in Europe at the Hochschule für Musik in Munich, and returned to the States
in the 1880s eventually to take up a professorship at Yale University. Ives’s descriptions
of his interactions with Parker make for amusing reading in his memoirs. Stories of Ives
bringing Parker examples of his early works written under his father’s tutelage remind us
of how traditional a composer Parker was, and how his horrified reaction to his student’s
experimental music represented the standard understanding of “good” music in late 19th-
century America. Eventually Ives realized that his survival at Yale depended on his adopt-
ing a more “normal” compositional style. This resulted in his first symphony, written as a
graduation exercise in 1895, a symphony that sounds more like Dvořák than anything we
might consider to be the product of the real Charles Ives.
Once free of Parker, however, Ives gradually reverted to his own style of music. Thanks
to his father’s rather free-wheeling attitudes toward what music could be, Charles devel-
oped a style of composition that prioritized dissonance over the sweet sound of conso-
nant harmonies. Throughout his life he equated dissonance with strength of character.
In his memoirs he hints at the embarrassment he felt at the prospect of pursuing a career
in music, which in America in the 19th century was still considered to be a feminine
endeavor.4 On page after page, he refers to the “emasculation” of music at the hands
of various famous composers, all modern audiences, and the classical music business in
general. He exhorts music lovers who have trouble with dissonance to “stand up and
use [their] ears like a man.” And anyone who can’t do that is immediately classified as a
musical sissy, for whom Ives adopted the pseudonym “Rollo.”5 Clearly dissonance was
equated in his view with masculinity, and no one was ever going to be able to accuse him
of writing sissy music. This need to assert his masculinity may even explain Ives’s eager
involvement in his college years in the sports of football and baseball, which are usually
associated more with men than with women.
After graduating from Yale in 1898, Ives mixed a musical career as a church organist
with work in the insurance business. But by 1902 he gave up his organ playing to con-
centrate on the world of insurance, and by 1907 he was able to open his own agency.
The reason for the move from a career in music to one in the world of business had
partly to do with his thinking ahead to the possibility of marriage and a family. Such
thinking led him to posit the question: “How could I [as a composer] let my children
Masters of the 20th Century 199
starve on my dissonances?”6 With this in mind Ives threw himself into his new busi-
ness, became immensely successful, and married Harmony Twitchell in 1908. Music
now fell to the status of an activity that took place in the off hours of his daily life. But
as a result of not needing to feed his family on proceeds from his music, Ives suddenly
found himself free to pursue the experimental music that was closest to his heart. This
almost outrageously dissonant music placed Ives at the forefront of the avant-garde
movement in the early 20th century. But the dissonance of Ives’s music is not the same
as the dissonance in the music of someone like Schoenberg. Ives’s music uses a compo-
sitional technique that could be labeled “collage-quotation” to create his characteristi-
cally dissonant sound. Like any collage in the art world, Ives’s music consists mostly of
a collection of bits and pieces of “found objects” stitched together to form a discordant
whole. For Ives, these found objects consisted of the vernacular music he knew as a
boy—hymn tunes, marches, patriotic songs, and parlor songs (i.e., Stephen Foster)—cut
up and pasted together (often simultaneously) in multiple diatonic keys, and multiple
meters. These quotations from the music of his youth, when treated as a collage, create
a multi-layered, complex texture of dissonant sounds. Unlike the dissonance in Schoen-
berg’s free atonal style c. 1908, the dissonance in Ives’s music has a philosophical basis
in his desire to represent in sound the Transcendental complexity of the world in which
he lived.
As a composer of orchestral music (symphonies or similar genres), Ives was quite pro-
ductive over a period of almost 30 years. A list of his major orchestral works includes
many that use the generic title “symphony,” others that do not, and some that combine
the word “symphony” with a more detailed title (see Figure 8.1).
A fine representation of Ives’s symphonic style is his Three Places in New England, of
which we can sample two movements. This three-movement work reminds us of Debussy’s
La mer, in that it is not a symphony in the traditional sense of the word, but is rather a col-
lection of three tone poems on a single subject. Ives’s second movement in this set is titled
“Putnam’s Camp, Redding Connecticut.” A lengthy program printed in the score at the
head of this movement explains that it tries to capture Ives’s recollection of a town picnic
held in a Revolutionary War memorial park in Redding. The opening section, which is
full of various kinds of patriotic songs, depicts the noise of the picnic activity. Following
that, the music moves into a contrasting section, the style of which is slower and softer.
According to Ives’s program, this represents a boy who wanders away from the picnic into
the memorial park, where he falls asleep and dreams of the hardships of the Revolutionary
War soldiers who occupied the grounds now marked only by stone camp fireplaces. The
work finishes as it began, with the boy returning to the raucous activity of the picnic and
the noisy games of the town children.
The work has no particular formal structure beyond the obvious three-part form out-
lined in the program. The music avoids thematic development altogether. In fact, one
would be hard pressed to even find a “theme,” in the usual sense of that word, any-
where in the movement. Bits and pieces of popular 19th-century American tunes such as
“Columbia the Gem of the Ocean,” “Turkey in the Straw,” “Yankee Doodle,” and more
are woven together, often in simultaneously different keys, meters, and tempi to produce a
cacophony of sound.7 In addition, the subject of traditional symphonic form is one about
which Ives had nothing but derogatory things to say. In general he claimed that sonata
form was “unnatural” because any form that generates from a preconceived pattern of
key relationships and thematic repetition is doomed to sound artificial. The “well-con-
structed” concert symphonies of 19th-century European composers, he says, have little
meaning for common Americans.
The last movement of Three Places in New England recreates a moment from the time
of Ives’s marriage to Harmony in 1908. Their Honeymoon was spent in Stockbridge,
Figure 8.1 Selected Orchestral Music of Charles Ives
Illustration 8.1 The Mature Ives
CT, where Ives was out walking along the Housatonic River early one fall morning. He
describes in the program associated with this movement how a mist rose over the river,
and the sound of a choir rehearsing before the morning service could be heard from a
distant church. Before writing this movement of the symphony, Ives had already captured
this autobiographical scene in a song, set to a poem by Robert Underwood Johnson that
begins with the lines:
Contented river! In thy dreamy realm

the cloudy willow and the plumy elm:
Thou beautiful! From ev’ry dreamy hill
What eye but wanders with thee at thy will.
The equivalent orchestral movement in Three Places is essentially an instrumental tran-

scription of that song. It begins quietly, with clusters of string sounds that represent the
mist over the river. Superimposed on this is a hymn tune that recalls the image of the
distant church Ives mentions in his program. The movement then builds to an extremely
dissonant climax, only to finish on a major triad as the river flows on out “to the adven-
turous sea.”
Much, if not most, of Ives’s music is programmatic on a general level, but it is also music
that attempts to capture moods in musical images, much as Debussy’s impressionistic music
tries to capture fleeting images of the real world. Because of this parallel, we might think of
Ives as an American Impressionist. At the same time, his heavy reliance on musical materi-
als drawn from the American vernacular tradition to serve as themes for his symphonies,
reminds us of Mahler’s similar use of marches, hymns, dance music, folk songs, etc. as the
basis of his own work in this genre. And Ives’s compositional technique, while daringly
new, suggests an aesthetic of music that is primarily aimed, like Mahler’s, at expressing a
philosophy of life—one that is essentially pantheistic. Ives may have been shocked to hear
anyone refer to his music as being closely related to the very music he so despised from his
immediate European contemporaries, but these connections place Ives firmly in a line of
symphonic development at the turn of the 20th century, and give us reason to understand
why such a revolutionary and anti-establishment composer was still using the term “sym-
phony” despite its strong association with the past that he himself so wanted to disavow.
Study Questions
1. In what way is Ives’s music related to that of the European nationalists, Debussy, and
Mahler?
2. Explain the distinction Ives made between “substance” and “manner” in music.
3. Explain the concept of “collage-quotation” technique in Ives’s music.
Further Reading
J. Peter Burkholder, ed., Charles Ives and His World (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press,
1996). Includes an extensive selection of letters as well as essays on a variety of topic related to
Ives.
Stuart Feder, Charles Ives, My Father’s Song: A Psychoanalytic Biography (New Haven, CT: Yale
University Press, 1992).
Prokofiev and the Neoclassical Style

Sergey Prokofiev (1891–1953) entered the St. Petersburg Conservatory in 1904, at the age
of 13, and spent the next ten years studying composition, piano and conducting. His reputa-
tion as both a pianist and a composer was from the start one of an enfant terrible. Disillu-
sioned with what he saw as the uninspired teaching of such old masters at the Conservatory
as Rimsky-Korsakov, Prokofiev quickly adopted a compositional style that many viewed
as “futuristic”—a reaction to the saccharine Romanticism of the Russian nationalists and
even the more modern Russian composers like Alexander Scriabin and Rachmaninoff. In
both his music and his piano playing Prokofiev promoted a percussive style that infuriated
conservative audiences and critics, a style characterized by rhythmic propulsion, hair-raising
dissonance, and an absence of melody. In short, Prokofiev became a prominent member
of an avant-garde movement in St. Petersburg that promoted the new music of Schoen-
berg and Stravinsky, which had previously been unheard in Russia. Prokofiev’s new acerbic
style is best exemplified by some of his early short piano compositions, such as Suggestion
diabolique and Élan, both from a set titled simply Four Pieces (1908).
Prokofiev explored the genre of the symphony fairly early in his career with an unpub-
lished childhood work written at age 11 and another unpublished work from 1908 that was
revised as his Fourth Piano Sonata. The numbered symphonies began in 1917 with the writ-
ing of what Prokofiev called his “Classical Symphony.” According to the composer himself,
this symphony was meant as an experiment designed to replicate the style of Haydn had he
lived an additional hundred years. As such, Prokofiev’s First Symphony set the standard for
the newly emerging Neoclassical style of the next decade. As the name implies, Neoclassicism
resurrected the compositional characteristics of the late 18th century. Accordingly, this new
20th-century style completely contradicted the exaggerated size, lush orchestration, volup-
tuous chromaticism, heavy-handed programmaticism, and generally over-emotional sound
of late-Romantic composers such as Mahler and Strauss. In its place, Neoclassicism offered
a leaner, smaller, more transparent music without programmatic associations—the kind of
music Haydn and Mozart wrote almost 150 years earlier. This new Classicism of Prokofiev
marked the end of the reigning style of Russian Romanticism just as the political turmoil
that overspread Russia between the protests of 1905 and the revolution of 1917 spelled the
end of a Russian society based on the rule of the Tsars.
The Neoclassical revolution brought to music of the early 20th century an adaptation of
most of the principles of the high Classical style of the past. These included the use of small
orchestras consisting of strings, pairs of woodwinds, pairs of trumpets and horns, and tim-
pani. The consequence of this move to an 18th-century-sized orchestra meant that sym-
phonies regained the textural transparency and limited timbres of an era when woodwind
and brass instruments contributed far less to the sound of an orchestra. Neoclassicism
also required a far simpler tonal style, again in contradiction to the complex harmonic
vocabulary of Mahler or the brashly dissonant sound of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring and
Schoenberg’s free atonal music. In addition to the use of small orchestras and a more tonal
harmonic vocabulary, the Neoclassical style was modeled after the music of Haydn and
Mozart in other ways. The overall formal design of a Neoclassical symphony, for exam-
ple, would consist of four movements in the usual sequence of fast−slow−dance−fast. And
these movements would necessarily adopt the forms of the Classical symphony, with a
reliance on regular two- or three-theme sonata forms, theme and variations, minuets, and
rondo-sonata finales. Lastly, the presence of easily perceived themes and periodic phrase
structures in a Neoclassical symphony also recall the style of the late 18th century.
With these “prerequisites” in mind, only a handful of symphonic works of the 20th
century qualify as truly “Neoclassical,” despite the fact that this term is frequently used
to describe many works that involve some, but not all, of these characteristics. One can
fairly easily find symphonies by 20th-century composers that are basically tonal and rely
on sonata form as a basic structural design. Some of the later symphonies of Prokofiev or
those of Hindemith fall into this category. But many of these works are written for rather
large Romantic orchestras with expanded brass and woodwind sections and additional
percussion instruments that Haydn and Mozart would never have seen or used. While
some scholars like to refer to such works as Neoclassical, it might be best to think of them
simply as conservative extensions in the 20th century of Romantic compositional styles
(Neoromantic rather than Neoclassical). A truly Neoclassical symphony should remind
the listener of the 18th-century in as many ways as possible.
Symphony No. 1 “Classical” (1917)

The orchestra for Prokofiev’s First Symphony duplicates that used by Haydn in his Lon-
don symphonies: pairs of the standard woodwinds (flutes, oboes, clarinets, bassoons), two
trumpets, two horns, timpani, and strings. The work is clearly written in the key of D major
and the first movement utilizes a simple sonata form. The exposition consists of two dif-
ferent themes in the tonic key (Exs 8.1 and 8.2), the first of which utilizes a rapidly ascend-
ing arpeggiated line with a crescendo from piano to forte, making obvious allusion to the
“rocket” themes found in so many Mannheim symphonies of the early Classical period.
Ex. 8.1 First Primary Theme, Movement I
Ex. 8.2 Second Primary Theme
The Secondary theme (Ex. 8.3) appears in the expected key of A major, but features
some extremely large leaps that illustrate how Neoclassicism is not just a replication of
the style of Mozart and Haydn, but is rather a modern reinterpretation of 18th-century
styles. Clearly this is not a melodic line one would ever find in a Haydn symphony.

There follows the usual development section, but again with a bit of a twist that we
might only see in the sonata form movements of Haydn’s last London symphonies. Here
we find a clever section of canonic writing between the trumpets and first violins based
on the head of the Secondary theme, which occurs just before rehearsal 15 in the score
(Ex. 8.4).
Ex. 8.4 Development Section
Prokofiev’s second movement surprises no one with its slow tempo, although its
quasi rondo form (A-B-A-B1-A) is unusual for a Classical second movement. The
A section is based on a theme that appears in m. 5 (Ex. 8.5). This theme exemplifies
the “stretching” of Classical techniques that characterizes the Neoclassical style, as
no Classical composer would have dared to write a first violin part starting in such a
high register.
Ex. 8.5 Main Theme of the A Section, Second Movement
The contrasting B section of the movement begins with a non-descript series of march-
ing 16th notes in the lower strings and bassoons (Ex. 8.6) that is eventually combined with
another melodic idea divided between oboes and bassoons (Ex. 8.7).
Ex. 8.6 Contrasting B Section
Ex. 8.7 Contrasting B Section Continued

Most Classical third movements take the form of a minuet, which is a popular court
dance of the 17th and 18th centuries. But Prokofiev dropped the usual minuet in this sym-
phony in favor of another courtly dance: The gavotte. This change means that the third
movement of the symphony is now in duple meter instead of the expected triple meter
characteristic of a minuet. The principle theme is heard at the outset (Ex. 8.8).
Ex. 8.8 Primary theme, Third Movement
As in many Mozart symphonies, the finale of Prokofiev’s Classical Symphony emerges as a

standard sonata form in a fast tempo and a lively mood. The principle theme appears in Ex. 8.9.
Ex. 8.9 Primary Theme of the Finale
After a lengthy development of this idea, a contrasting second theme makes its appear-
ance in the dominant key as expected (Ex. 8.10).
A traditional double bar marks the end of the exposition, and is followed by a short
development section and a regular recapitulation. Although one could argue whether
Prokofiev achieved with this symphony his stated goal to write something in the style of
Haydn had he lived into the 20th century, the work remains perhaps the best demon-
stration of how composers early in the century thought the Classical style of the 18th
century could be utilized to create a new symphonic sound in the early 20th century.
If nothing else, it offered an alternative to the lush, gigantic symphonies of the late
Romantic period. Much in the way Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony presented compos-
ers who followed him with a dilemma regarding how the symphony as a genre could
possibly develop beyond that monumental work, the orchestral music of late Romantic
composers such as Mahler and Strauss created a similar dilemma in the early 20th cen-
tury. Symphonies had become so long and so complex (both musically and program-
matically), and orchestras had grown so large (as in Mahler’s Eighth Symphony) that
there seemed to be no room for further growth in the genre. Neoclassicism thus marks
a retrenchment of symphonic form and style as one possible way to move forward with
this 200-year-old genre in the new century. The transparent textures, clear forms, simple
tonal harmony, and smaller orchestral sound of this new style opened the door to other
experiments with the symphony in the years immediately ahead, even if Neoclassicism
itself had a limited life span.
Observations on Prokofiev’s Remaining Symphonies

The First Symphony turned out to be an anomaly among Prokofiev’s seven symphonies.
Never again did he deliberately delve into the Neoclassical style, despite his continued
use of tonality and regular Classical forms in some of his later works. The “Classi-
cal Symphony” stands in marked contrast to Prokofiev’s Second Symphony, which was
written in Paris in 1925 after a four-year tour of the United States (1918–22). Paris in
the 1920s had become a center of avant-garde art, music, and literature. Painters such as
Marcel Duchamp, Pablo Picasso, Georges Braque, and Marc Chagall; writers including
Jean Cocteau, Ernest Hemingway and Gertrude Stein; composers like Igor Stravinsky,
Arthur Honegger, Aaron Copland, and Virgil Thomson—all contributed to the active
world of cultural experimentation that made Paris the place to be if one were interested
in new art of any kind. Into this environment stepped Prokofiev in 1922, remaining
there on and off until 1936. Prokofiev’s Second Symphony reflects the modernism of
Paris in the twenties. It is cast in only two movements: The first a sonata form, the sec-
ond a theme and variations. The opening of the first movement is extremely dissonant,
although it retains the trademark rhythmic propulsiveness of Prokofiev’s style in gen-
eral. The piece is constructed with themes that are not highly differentiated, making the
immediate perception of the form somewhat difficult. The second movement is far softer
in terms of its harmonic and rhythmic style, but again the theme and variation form is
not easily noticed on a casual hearing.
The Third Symphony (1928), drawn from parts of Prokofiev’s opera The Fiery Angel,
returns to a more tonal and accessible style in four contrasting movements.
The Fourth Symphony (1930) was likewise drawn from materials found in a stage
work: the ballet The Prodigal Son. This symphony—today one of the most popular of the
seven symphonies—continues Prokofiev’s use of tonality and easily recognizable themes,
but again within a rhythmically driving style. The whole symphony contains many remi-
niscences of the Classical Symphony with sections written in a lighter style and thinner
textures. This symphony also consists of a traditional arrangement of four contrasting
movements, although the third is in duple meter, albeit with a scherzo-like joviality.
The Fifth Symphony (1944) dates from the time that Prokofiev returned to his home-
land of Russia. This was a time of extreme Soviet scrutiny of all Russian composers and
of a general condemnation of any music that sounded even remotely modern and didn’t
glorify the party doctrine.8 As a result the Fifth Symphony is the most melodious and
tonal of Prokofiev’s symphonies since his first work in this genre more than 25 years
earlier. It too contains four movements with the scherzo-like movement placed in the
second position. To please the Soviet government, Prokofiev concocted a vague program
referring to the “grandeur of the human spirit,” presumably of the Russian people.
The simpler, more tonal style of this symphony has led many to insist that it represents
a return to the Neoclassical approach of the First Symphony. But Prokofiev’s use of a
large orchestra produces a sound nothing like that of Haydn or Mozart, and the Fifth
Symphony must be classified simply as a work that bears a significant relationship to the
symphonic tradition of the 19th century, resulting in a fairly conservative 20th-century
approach to this genre.
The Sixth Symphony (1947) emerged during a time when the Soviet government again
began to clamp down on experimentalism in the arts. This three-movement symphony
projects an almost oppressive sadness in the first two movements before emerging into a
scherzo-like finale. Despite what might be seen as a piece that both lamented the Second
World War and celebrated the Russian victory over the Nazis just two years earlier, the
Sixth Symphony was blacklisted by the head of the Soviet Composers Union just one year
after its premiere.
The Seventh Symphony (1952), written just a year before Prokofiev’s premature death
on the very same day that the infamous dictator Joseph Stalin passed away, is yet another
exercise in the disguised sadness that all Russian composers felt during these years of
continual official condemnation of their work. The first movement of this symphony con-
tains one of Prokofiev’s most beautiful themes—first introduced by horns and cellos in
unison and then expanded into the violins in octaves with the horns. This is music of
a broad sweeping heroism, but perhaps a personal heroism growing out of the strug-
gle with oppression. The second movement is the typical triple-meter dance movement,
which sounds generally gracious and optimistic. But these good feelings are continually
undermined by sections of angry music that accumulate momentum building to a raucous,
dissonant ending. A pensive third movement leads to Prokofiev’s attempt to end the sym-
phony on a note of jovial celebration growing out of a perpetual rhythmic motion that
recalls many of his earlier symphonies.
Overall, Prokofiev seems to have been one of the more traditional composers of
symphonies in the 20th century, although the change from the dissonant style of his
early works to the conservative tonal style of his last works suggests that the influ-
ence of governmental intervention in the arts during the rule of Stalin may have
played an important role in the general trajectory of his changing style between 1924
and 1950. While we like to find external influences at work in the development of
symphonic styles of important composers, there is also the possibility that the move
to a more conservative symphonic style in Prokofiev’s case was simply the result of
his natural maturation from an enfant terrible in the 1920s to a wise old man after
the Second World War.
Study Questions
1. What are the elements of symphonic composition that define the Neoclassical style?
2. Are any of Prokofiev’s later symphonies Neoclassical?
3. What was special about Paris in the 1920s as far as music was concerned?
Further Reading
Louis Biancolli, Serge Prokofieff and His Orchestral Music (New York, NY: Philharmonic-Sym-
phony Society of New York, 1953).
The Changing Symphonic Face of Stravinsky

At the turn of the 20th century, the symphony had begun to fade in importance after nearly
150 years of growth and dominance (especially in Germany) in the world of instrumental
music. In support of this assertion, we could begin by listing the most historically significant
and influential composers of the early 20th century, those who created a revolution in the world
of music and pointed the way toward new styles and techniques in the modern era. Such a
list would include composers such as Igor Stravinsky (1882–1971), Béla Bartók (1881–1945),
Claude Debussy (1862–1918), and Arnold Schoenberg (1874–1951). But among the major
works of these prominent composers, we find almost no symphonies. Debussy wrote nothing
that he called a symphony. The closest Bartok came to writing a symphony was with his Con-
certo for Orchestra. Schoenberg wrote two works that he called “chamber symphonies,” but
these are pieces for small instrumental forces that clearly do not utilize an orchestra of the kind
we usually associate with the symphony. Among the many works of Stravinsky with the word
“symphony” in their titles, only three are actually genuine examples of this genre.
The question of why so few composers embraced the symphony after the turn of the
20th century has no easy answer. One possibility is that the late Romantic symphony,
as represented by someone like Gustav Mahler, simply collapsed under the weight of
its own inflated proportions (both length and size of the orchestra), at which point an
inevitable reaction emerged out of the necessity to move music in new directions. One
of those new directions can be seen in the birth of a Neoclassical style with the first sym-
phony of Prokofiev in 1917. But it seems clear that a return to the symphonic styles of
the 18th century was not a sustainable path forward for the genre, and few composers
picked up on the Neoclassical approach to symphonic composition. Another possible
reason for the avoidance of the symphony among the most innovative composers of the
early 20th century may simply have had to do with the fact that these composers were
self-consciously revolutionary in their approach to new music. For them, the symphony
might well have represented a heavily tradition-laden genre that brought with it too
much “baggage” in terms of what the genre meant for composers and audiences alike.
The new musical language of Schoenberg and Stravinsky required, in a sense, the inven-
tion of new forms and genres that rejected the past in every possible way. Lastly, the
new styles explored by composers of the early 20th century brought to music a level
of complexity that challenged both performers and audiences. Because audiences for
orchestral concerts tended to be familiar with the symphonic repertoire stretching from
Haydn to Brahms, they represented, for the most part, a fairly conservative segment of
the concert-going public. As such, their negative reaction to a dodecaphonic symphony,
or to a new symphony in the style of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring, might well have been
anticipated by any composer wishing to move the genre of the symphony in a truly new
direction. Furthermore, an orchestra of 60 to 100 players makes a rather unwieldy per-
formance medium in which to teach players to deal with the complexities of any new
musical vocabulary. Smaller chamber ensembles proved to be a more fertile environment
for the cultivation of the revolutionary styles of the modern era.
As one of the most innovative composers of the new century, Stravinsky came to public
attention with the three ballets he wrote for Sergey Diaghilev’s Ballet Russe in Paris: Fire-
bird (1910), Petrushka (1911), and The Rite of Spring (1913), all of which employ Russian
folk materials enmeshed in a harmonic vocabulary of growing dissonance and rhythmic/
metric innovation. But before this, Stravinsky had already written his First Symphony in
1908. This work was the youthful product of his studies with Rimsky-Korsakov. Its tradi-
tional form and Brahmsian style mark it as a youthful exercise in compositional technique
rather than an expression of Stravinsky’s mature musical voice. Following Symphony no.
1 came another work with the word “symphony” in its title: Symphonies of Wind Instru-
ments (1920). But this one-movement work for 24 winds used the word “symphonies” in
its etymological sense of “sounding together,” without intending to imply any connection
with the traditional genre of the symphony. The next work to invoke the “symphony”
appeared ten years later in the Symphony of Psalms (1930). Here too Stravinsky’s title is
misleading, because this is actually a choral work with orchestral accompaniment, based
on a selection of Biblical psalms.
Finally in 1940 Stravinsky wrote his Symphony in C, a three-movement work for a
mid-19th-century size orchestra (pairs of all winds plus piccolo, two trumpets, four horns,
three trombones, tuba, timpani, and strings) that some historians like to refer to as a
Neoclassical symphony. While this work does employ a fairly regular sonata form, and is
tonal (with the key of the piece clearly named in the title and defined at the outset), the size
of the orchestra reminds us more of Brahms than of Mozart. But in many regards the Sym-
phony in C affirms Stravinsky’s dedication to Neoclassical techniques of composition, and
certainly places him in a different world than the one with which he made his reputation
in Paris between 1910 and 1913.9 The Symphony in C reestablishes many of the traditions
of past symphonies. After opening with fragmentary motives in the strings, the Primary
theme of the sonata-form first movement appears in the oboe (Ex. 8.11)
Ex. 8.11 Primary Theme, First Movement
Several new melodic ideas follow this theme, the most prominent of which is the tran-
sitional theme that appears after rehearsal 13 in G minor (Ex. 8.12) and the Secondary
theme in F major (Ex. 8.13).
Ex. 8.12 Transition Theme
A traditional development section starts at rehearsal 30 and leads to the expected reca-
pitulation at rehearsal 45 to complete this standard sonata form movement.
The last three movements also follow to some extent the outline of a Classical symphony.
The second movement, marked larghetto, is an ABA form in the usual Classical key of the
subdominant, with each section written in severely contrasting tempi and rhythmic styles.
The opening A section features a prominent, languid oboe melody over an accompaniment
of steady 16th notes divided between the second violins and violas (Ex. 8.14).
Ex. 8.14 A section, Second Movement
The middle section moves at a tempo twice that of the opening, and sounds somewhat
reminiscent of themes from the first movement: the viola part alludes to that movement’s
transitional theme, and the oboe melody partly duplicates the rhythmic pattern of the
Primary theme in the first movement (Ex. 8.15).
Ex. 8.15 Contrasting Middle (B) Section
These parallels create an audible association between the first two movements, creating
the kind of unity within contrast that has characterized the genre of the symphony since
the late Classical era.
The third movement imitates the usual Classical scherzo form with three large sections
in 4/8 meter marked allegretto—meno mosso—tempo I, plus a short coda at the end. This
movement has no clear themes, but is built instead on complex rhythms and changing
meters (5/16, 3/8, 7/16) reminiscent of The Rite of Spring.
The finale, as expected, returns to the tonic key of C. The movement is one of perpetual
rhythmic motion beginning with the theme shown in Ex. 8.16.
Ex. 8.16 Opening Theme of the Finale
There follows fairly quickly thereafter a theme that repeats the rhythm of the Primary
theme from the first movement but does so with a new melodic shape (Ex. 8.17). This
interesting procedure creates a partially cyclical symphony without a literal repetition of
a theme from earlier in the work.
Ex. 8.17 Rhythm From P in First Movement With New Pitches
The remainder of the movement consists of several new motives that form the basis of
a sectional approach to the structure of the movement. Only at the end (rehearsal 169)
does the opening motive (from Ex. 8.16) reappear. Stravinsky closes the symphony with
another fleeting reference to the main theme of the first movement, now in augmentation
in the winds at rehearsal 177 (Ex. 8.18). With these restatements of material from the
opening movement, Stravinsky places his symphony at least partly within the realm of the
Romantic symphonies of the late 19th century while simultaneously leaning heavily on the
new Neoclassical style of composition.
Ex. 8.18 Augmentation of the Primary Theme From Movement I
Altogether, the Symphony in C is a fine example of the quasi-Neoclassical direction

taken by some 20th- century composers in an attempt to revitalize the symphony after
years of bloating in the 19th century. This symphony is lighter, leaner, and more energetic
in a way that pays homage to the genre as it existed prior to its expansion of size in the
Romantic era.
In 1945 Stravinsky wrote his last “symphony,” titled Symphony in Three Movements. This
work demonstrates how the more revolutionary composers of the 20th century struggled to
come to grips with the writing of a genre as tied to tradition as was the symphony. Here we
have a contemporary symphony that deviates markedly from our conventional definition of
that genre. Traditionally a symphony had always been, in the broadest sense, a large-scale
composition for orchestra in multiple movements of contrasting tempo, meter, and key. Addi-
tionally the first movements of most symphonies had always presented at least two contrasting
thematic ideas (melodically and harmonically) that are developed and finally synthesized in
one key at the end of the movement (as in a sonata form). Further, the symphony, as it devel-
oped in the 19th century, usually involved some kind of over-arching musical structure grow-
ing out of the process of thematic development and some kind of inter-movement connection,
often in the form of cyclical structures and thematic transformations.
Stravinsky’s Symphony in Three Movements challenges this definition of the genre.
While this work consists of the three contrasting movements, the compositional technique
at work in each of the movements involves little thematic development, and is instead
more closely related to the formal processes Stravinsky developed in his ballet The Rite
of Spring, wherein large sections of the piece are built from unrelated thematic material
(what might be called a sectional form). The first movement especially reminds us of
Stravinsky’s technique of building a work out of layers of ostinatos. This movement opens
with a glissando gesture in the strings, piano, and lower winds (Ex. 8.19). Thereafter, it
unfolds as a series of ostinatos, each of which is accompanied by its own melodic motive
(essentially another ostinato). These ostinatos succeed one another without attention to
repetition or development. Then toward the end of the movement Stravinsky begins to
repeat a few of these ostinatos to round out the musical form. At rehearsal 88 ostinato
no. 2 returns, at rehearsal 97 ostinato no. 5 returns, and at the very end of the movement,
Stravinsky brings back the introductory gesture with which he opened the movement.
Ex. 8.19 Opening Gesture, First Movement
Ex. 8.20a Ostinato No. 1: Rehearsal 5
Ex. 8.20b Ostinato No. 2: Rehearsal 7
Ex. 8.20c Ostinato No. 3: Rehearsal 16
Ex. 8.20d Ostinato No. 4: Rehearsal 22

Ex. 8.20e Ostinato No. 5: Rehearsal 38
Typical of Stravinsky’s compositional style are the numerous ways in which he manages
to contradict the notated meter by creating rhythmic patterns that conflict with each other
and with the underlying meter of the movement (as in Ex. 8.20b and d).
The slow middle movement of this symphony, like the first, involves little actual devel-
opment of thematic material, instead forming itself into an ordered collection of discrete
sections. Each of its various parts begins with the ideas presented in Ex. 8.21.
Ex. 8.21a Section A, Second Movement
Ex. 8.21b Section B
Ex. 8.21c Section C
Ex. 8.21d Section D
These sections are arranged in the pattern ABCDCA. Note that the overall pattern ABA
is interrupted after B by the insertion of a different three-part section consisting of CDC.
This creates an interesting structure in which a smaller ABA form is nested inside a larger
one. Or the pattern might be understood as an incomplete retrograde form that moves
from A to D and back to A, with only the B section missing in the retrograded second
half. Connections to the first movement seem not to have been a major concern of the
composer, as only the rhythmic repetition of a single note in the first section of this move-
ment recalls (vaguely) one of the ostinatos from the first movement (compare Ex. 8.20e
with Ex. 8.21a).
The finale of the Symphony in Three Movements imitates closely the style and form of
movement 1 in its rhythmic propulsion and changing meters. And like the first movement
this one is built in sectional form without any obviously repeating elements. The open-
ing section recalls the bold quarter note gesture with which the first movement opened.
(Compare Ex. 8.22 with Ex. 8.19.)
Ex. 8.22 Opening of the Finale
Each of the sections involves new material, and is set off from the others by a double
bar and changes of meter, rhythm, and texture. The second of these discrete sections of the
movement begins in a new, faster tempo with a bassoon duet (Ex. 8.23).
Ex. 8.23 Opening of the Second Section, Rehearsal 148
The third section of the movement begins with a group of four quarter notes some-
what reminiscent of those with which the movement began (Ex. 8.24), but as this
part of the piece unfolds the music that emerges is much different from that of the
opening.
Ex. 8.24 Opening of the Fourth Section, Rehearsal 164
One final section, again of new material, closes the movement (Ex. 8.25).
Ex. 8.25 Opening of the Fourth Section, Rehearsal 182
In terms of its form and compositional techniques, Stravinsky’s Symphony in Three

Movements falls outside the boundaries of the symphonic tradition as practiced in Ger-
many for over 150 years for the following reasons:
1. The symphony demonstrates few of the connections between movements that we have
come to expect in any multi-movement symphony.
2. The thematic materials used in each of the movements are not subjected to the usual
symphonic development.
3. The design of each movement depends little on the process of thematic repetition to
create its form. Therefore, Stravinsky’s last work in this genre marks a modern rein-
terpretation of what it means to write a symphony in the 20th century.
Study Questions
1. How are the two mature symphonies of Stravinsky different from one another?
2. Explain what a “sectional” symphonic form is.
3. In what way is the Symphony in Three Movements similar to The Rite of Spring?
Further Reading
Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, Conversations With Igor Stravinsky (Garden City, NY: Double-
day, 1959). One of the most famous books on Stravinsky in general.
Jonathan D. Kramer, “Discontinuity and Proportion in the Music of Stravinsky,” in Confronting
Stravinsky: Man, Musician, and Modernist, ed. Jann Pasler (Berkeley, CA: University of Califor-
nia Press, 1986). An essay dealing with Stravinsky’s idiosyncratic sectional forms.
Hindemith and the Nazis

Although the frequency with which the symphonies of Paul Hindemith (1895–1963) are
performed has diminished in recent years, he remains the most important and most pro-
lific German composer of the early 20th century. Early in his career, composition shared a
place in his life with performance as a professional violinist (and later violist) in prominent
orchestras and chamber ensembles. This direct connection to the world of performing
musicians most likely resulted in the idiomatic writing found in all of Hindemith’s instru-
mental music. In his compositions written before 1920, he cultivated a quasi-Romantic
style that showed influences from several different 19th-century masters. It was not until
the early 1920s, and under the influence of Schoenberg, that he moved away from the
Romanticism of his early works, and began adopting a more linear and dissonant style.
His Piano Suite op. 26 and the Third String Quartet are fine examples of this new more
modern approach to composition, which paralleled trends in the music of so many other
composers working in the 1920s.
More than many of his colleagues, Hindemith gradually began in the late 20s to assess
the state of contemporary music, and to worry about its impact on, and reception among,
listeners. His concern with this potential problem resulted in an attempt to reach an audi-
ence of amateur players by writing pieces in a deliberately simple manner that we usually
refer to as “Gebrauchmusik” (useful music), or as Hindemith sometimes referred to it,
“Sing und Spielmusik” (sing and play music). Because Hindemith’s goal was to acclimate
his audience to a contemporary musical vocabulary, these works were simple only in terms
of the technique needed to perform them, not in terms of their harmonic and melodic
style. This general concern for the role of the composer and his art in society would later
form the background to his opera Mathis der Maler and the symphony drawn from it.
Like Stalin in Russia, the Nazis (National Socialists), who came to power in Germany
in 1933, were ever vigilant about trying to suppress contemporary music. Even though
Hindemith’s compositional style had by then taken a turn toward a modern interpreta-
tion of tonality, the Nazis decided that he was a dangerous threat to their control over
German society, and mounted a campaign against his music that culminated in a ban on
performances in Germany. This ban angered one of Hindemith’s important supporters,
the conductor Wilhelm Furtwängler, who wrote a passionate defense of the composer
in the Deutsche allgemeine Zeitung in 1934. For this, the Nazis relieved Furtwängler
of his conducting positions, and denounced Hindemith as a composer of “cultural bol-
shevism.”10 The significance of this accusation became patently clear in 1937 when the
Reichsmusikkammer (the State Music Bureau, a cultural arm of the Nazi Party), then
under the direction of Richard Strauss, endorsed the earlier ban on Hindemith’s music.
Much of the antagonism Hindemith created with the Nazis grew not so much out of
the fact that he was seen as a composer with modernist tendencies, but rather out of
his intense dislike (which he made little attempt to hide) of the fundamental principles
endorsed by the Nazis. His most egregious “mistake” was to compose a parody of
a popular Nazi military march in one of the movements of the Fifth Kammermusik
(1927).11 Having thus made his political opinions public in his music, Hindemith suf-
fered the almost inevitable ban on his music, based on the alleged amorality of some
of his operas, his association with Jews, his membership in an organization of atonal
composers, and his outspoken anti-Nazi politics. Like Schoenberg and Stravinsky, Hin-
demith eventually escaped the growing Nazi menace in Europe by emigrating first to
Switzerland in 1938, and then to the United States in 1940, where he was appointed to
the music faculty of Yale University one year later.
In the 1930s Hindemith became interested in the science of musical acoustics as it relates
to the process of composition. In 1937 he published a book titled The Craft of Musical
Composition, a study of the relationship of intervals and chord types to an underlying tonal
principle embodied in the overtone series. In this book he created a series of intervals organ-
ized from most stable to least stable (beginning with the octave and moving toward the
minor second), and a series of 12 notes ordered in terms of their acoustical closeness to
an original pitch. With these two series, he was able to create categories of chord types
arranged from most stable and consonant to least stable and most dissonant. With these
chord types, Hindemith could then plot the ever-changing harmonic tension of a composi-
tion. The move to a more tonal style of composition, however, began well ahead of the
publication of The Craft of Musical Composition, and can be seen as early as the writing of
his opera Mathis der Maler and the symphony he drew from parts of that score (both 1934).
Throughout most of the rest of his career Hindemith clung to the conviction that tonality
was a fundamental necessity in music (one might almost say a biological necessity) based in
the science of acoustics.
The Symphonies
Not surprisingly, Hindemith’s formulation of a new tonal style of composition coincided
almost exactly with his decision to write symphonies. So once again, the production of a
work titled “symphony” suggests the acceptance on the part of some composers of certain
fundamental aspects of a long tradition associated with this genre. In Hindemith’s case,
that tradition included the acceptance of tonality and traditional forms, along with a host
of other compositional techniques, such as fugal counterpoint, drawn from music of the
past. The symphonies of Hindemith include the following:
Mathis der Maler (1934)—see discussion in the following paragraphs

Symphony in E-flat (1940)
Symphonic Metamorphosis on Themes of Carl Maria von Weber (1943)
Sinfonia serena (1946)—a one-movement concerto grosso
Harmonie der Welt (1951)—based on the opera by the same name on the subject of
Johannes Kepler
Pittsburgh Symphony (1958)—commissioned for the 200th anniversary of the found-
ing of the city of Pittsburgh (PA)
The symphony Mathis der Maler was built out of material drawn from Hindemith’s
opera of the same name. This opera was an allegorical work that dealt with the dilemma
surrounding the role of an artist in a time of war and struggle. The opera portrays epi-
sodes in the life of the famous 16th-century German painter Matthias Grünewald, who
painted the altarpiece in St. Anthony’s Church in Isenheim Germany. The main part
of that altarpiece is a triptych consisting of a depiction of the crucifixion of Christ in
the center with two smaller paintings on either side depicting the martyrdom of Saint
Sebastian and the temptation of St. Anthony. But the altarpiece includes nine paintings
in total, with the six additional scenes contained in wings that were kept closed during
most of the liturgical year. Two of the additional paintings include the Annunciation of
Christ by a chorus of angels, and the Entombment of Christ. These paintings are the
allegorical source of some of the scenes in the opera, in which Matthias sees the peas-
ants around him in revolt against the government, and is forced to question the value
of his art in a time of war. At one point he is reprimanded by one of the leaders of the
revolution who asks him:
If all is destroyed, you will stand before your pictures and paint what no one wants to
look at. Have you fulfilled the task God laid upon you? Is what you shape and paint
enough? Are you not then intent only on your own advantage?12
Matthias then becomes involved in the revolution, but succumbs to disenchantment when
the peasants are defeated and the possibility of change seems to have eluded them.
The first movement of Hindemith’s symphony takes as its inspiration Grünewald’s rep-
resentation of a “Concert of Angels.” In the sixth tableau of the opera, Matthias and his
girlfriend Regina flee into a forest to escape capture. Regina is tormented by the memory of
the death of her father, and Matthias comforts her with a description of a concert of angels.
For the movement based on this scene, Hindemith writes a fairly conventional sonata form
with an introduction primarily based on a Lutheran chorale melody (Ex. 8.26).
Ex. 8.26 Lutheran Chorale Tune “Es sungen drei Engel,” First Movement
This is followed by an exposition with three themes related to this scene in the opera
(Exs. 8.27–8.29)
Ex. 8.27 Primary Theme (T1)
Ex. 8.28 Secondary Theme (T2)
Ex. 8.29 Closing Theme (T3)

Fragments of these themes produce a standard development section that culminates
in a polymetric combination of the chorale tune from the introduction with the first two
themes of the exposition. This kind of contrapuntal craftsmanship characterizes much
of Hindemith’s music, and is something for which he was especially famous. The move-
ment closes with a recapitulation that presents the main themes in the order T1, T3, T1,
T 2, T 1.
Hindemith’s second movement is equivalent to the traditional slow movement in a sym-
phony. It is based on a scene at the end of the opera, when Matthias and Regina return to
his studio where she lies dying. This movement corresponds to the scene in Grünewald’s
altarpiece depicting the Entombment of Christ, and consists of nothing but the presenta-
tion of two themes that form an orchestral interlude in the opera (Exs. 8.30 and 8.31)
arranged in a simple ABA pattern.
Ex. 8.30 Theme A, Second Movement
Ex. 8.31 Theme B
The third movement is based on a scene in the opera in which Matthias dreams he
is being tempted away from the true path of art by the ghosts of other characters in
the opera, all disguised in the allegorical forms of Greed, Luxury, and Prostitution. The
painting in Grünewald’s altarpiece on which this scene is based is the “Temptation of St.
Anthony.” The movement takes shape as a three-part form based on a slow introduction,
three main themes (Exs. 8.32–8.35), a slow interlude (Ex. 8.36) in place of the usual devel-
opment section, and a grand fugal conclusion.
After the interlude, the recapitulation is stated backwards from T3 to T1, with each of
these themes now appearing in slightly altered form. But the real tour de force of the entire
Ex. 8.32 Introduction to the Finale

Ex. 8.33 Theme 1
Ex. 8.34 Theme 2
Ex. 8.35 Theme 3
Ex. 8.36 Slow Interlude
symphony lies in the coda of this finale, where Hindemith created an example of the kind
of contrapuntal ingenuity for which he had gained international recognition. This section
begins with a perpetual motion fugue in running eighth notes (Ex. 8.37) over which is
superimposed in the clarinet a faster version of the introductory theme from the opening
of the movement.
Ex. 8.37 Perpetual Motion Fugue Subject
To this combination Hindemith then adds an additional layer of melody with a Grego-
rian sequence for Corpus Christi “Lauda Sion Salvatorem” (a Catholic hymn in praise of
God and the Eucharist) played by the woodwinds in long notes (Ex. 8.38).
Ex. 8.38 Gregorian Melody Lauda Sion with Fugue Subject and Theme from the Introduction to
Movement 3
In its contrapuntal sophistication, this culmination recalls the great chorale preludes
of J.S. Bach, in which a chorale melody in long notes is accompanied by a contrapuntal
texture of faster moving lines underneath it. The entire coda then concludes with a brass
statement of an alleluia melody sung by St. Anthony and St Paul at the end of the sixth
tableau of the opera (Ex. 8.39).
Ex. 8.39 Allelulia Melody in Unison Brass
The form of this last movement follows a fairly traditional sonata structure, with the
exception of the interlude that replaces the usual development section, and the recapitu-
lation that transforms all three of the main themes and reverses their original order of
presentation. It can be diagramed as in Figure 8.2.
Figure 8.2 Last Movement Form

The clearly tonal ending of this symphony indicates how Hindemith’s system of tonal-
ity with modulating levels of dissonance as laid out in his Craft of Musical Composition
actively informed his compositions in the 1930s. With Mathis der Maler we see a perfect
example of the traditional symphony alive and well in the 20th century.
Study Questions
1. How did Hindemith get into trouble with the Nazis in the 1930s?
2. What is the allegory that Mathis der Maler represents in Hindemith’s own life?
Further Reading
Paul Hindemith, The Craft of Musical Composition: Book I: Theoretical Part, tr. Arthur Mendel
(London: Schott & Co. Ltd., 1945).
The Enigma of Shostakovich

Among the famous composers of symphonies in the 20th century, Dmitry Shostakovich
(1906–75) ranks as one of the most prolific (with a total of 15) and one of the most sig-
nificant in terms of the breadth of his conception of what it means to write such works in
the modern era.13
Like many great composers, Shostakovich, at age nine, began his musical studies with
piano lessons. In 1919 he enrolled in the St Petersburg Conservatory where he studied
piano until 1923, and composition until 1925. As part of the requirements for his compo-
sition degree, Shostakovich produced his First Symphony, a work that marked the begin-
ning of a life-long involvement with this genre. Part of this journey of musical exploration
led him through the years of Soviet governmental oppression and censorship under the
rule of Joseph Stalin (1878–1953), and like other Russian composers of this era, Shosta-
kovich’s works reveal the direct impact of his lack of total freedom in the middle years of
his career.
Symphony No. 1 (1925)

This symphony brought Shostakovich immediate success and attention as a promising
young composer of the 1920s. In the years immediately after the communist revolution
that brought Vladimir Lenin to power in 1917, the Soviet government declared that “art
belongs to the people” and should align with the Marxist worldview. But throughout the
decade of the 20s this fairly vague artistic directive was never enforced in any systematic
way. So modern, experimental music, promoted by organizations such as the Association
for Contemporary Music, thrived in the Soviet Union, as can be seen from some of the
early works of Prokofiev, and from performances of some of the most avant-garde music
of composers such as Hindemith, Berg, and Stravinsky.
The First Symphony of Shostakovich did not threaten any of the new Soviet prescrip-
tions regarding the style and purpose of new music, and does not even approach the kind
of avant-garde experimentalism found, for instance, in some of the early symphonies and
piano sonatas of Prokofiev, also written in the 20s. Instead, Shostakovich adopted a more
traditional style in his First Symphony, producing a work in some ways reminiscent of
Prokofiev’s “Classical Symphony.” Despite the large orchestra, much of the work involves
quite transparent textures based on a limited use of orchestral resources. The first move-
ment, especially, demonstrates an almost Neoclassical style.
The slow third movement has a mournful mood that was to become characteristic of
many of Shostakovich’s slow movements throughout his career. Most interesting in this
regard is the fact that the style of these slow movements, when they appear in Shostako-
vich’s later symphonies, is always said to represent his lament over the death of artistic
freedom during the Stalin years. But well before those difficult years of musical oppres-
sion, Shostakovich was already writing slow movements in this mournful style.
Symphonies Nos. 2 and 3

For his second and third symphonies Shostakovich moved into the world of program
music, creating two works for which he invented titles related to recent Russian history:
Symphony no. 2—To October: A Symphonic Dedication, and Symphony no. 3—The First
of May. These are works that announce Shostakovich as an experimental composer look-
ing for ways to reinterpret the genre of the symphony in the 20th century.
Symphony no. 2 (1927) was the product of a government commission for a work to
commemorate the tenth anniversary of the Russian Revolution of 1917. Shostakovich
provided a work in only two movements and in a boldly modern style that contradicted
nearly everything found in his First Symphony. This new symphony rejected the standard
symphonic forms of the past, relying instead on new sectional forms that do not depend
on thematic development and recapitulation.14 The first movement opens with a largo
introduction that concerns itself only with textures of orchestral sound instead of with
themes per se—a remarkably bold step forward in the history of symphonic composition.
The second and final movement is a choral setting of a poem by Alexander Bezymensky
that recalls the heroic choral style of Mahler’s Second Symphony, but in a far more dis-
sonant language.
Symphony no. 3 (1929) likewise celebrates another important date in modern Russian
history, May Day. Shostakovich here reverted to a more traditional arrangement of a
work in four movements, the last of which is again a choral setting of a poem, this time by
Semyon Kirsanov, that glorifies the power of the Russian people. In this regard the Third
Symphony complies with the new Soviet guidelines for modern Russian music. But like the
Second Symphony, this one abandons the standard symphonic forms of the past in favor
of a more sectional formal design and a mostly atonal harmonic vocabulary. However,
the driving rhythms in a clearly march-like meter create a more familiar sound for this
symphony, and some of the melodic material might even be described as “theme-like.”
Both of these obviously experimental works fell within the first decade of Soviet rule when
experimental music was still tolerated, especially if it had some connection to Soviet phi-
losophy and policies. In the case of both the second and third symphonies of Shostakovich,
that connection was established in the choral finales, whose texts glorified the Russian peo-
ple and/or the Communist Revolution of 1917. Later in life, Shostakovich disowned these
symphonies as two of his weakest, and described the poetry he set in each as uninspiring.
Symphonies No. 4 (1936) and 5 (1937)

After completing the Third Symphony, Shostakovich returned to writing opera and theater
works, which had occupied much of his compositional energy since 1927. This led in
1932 to the production of the opera Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District, a work deal-
ing with moral and sexual decadence. This opera had tremendous success both in Russia
and abroad, until a performance attended by Joseph Stalin in 1936 prompted an angry,
scalding review titled “Muddle Instead of Music,” which appeared in Pravda, the official
Soviet Party newspaper. The opera was suddenly denounced as primitive and vulgar, and
Shostakovich was accused of being a dangerous “disciple of foreign modernists,” whose
music violated the tenets of Soviet artistic policy. Suddenly experimentalism in Soviet
music was actively discouraged, anything avant-garde was labeled “capitalist formalism,”
and modern European music was banned in Soviet Russia, including the music of Bartok,
Stravinsky, and Hindemith, which had previously been welcomed.
New directives, issued by the Soviet Composers’ Union in 1932, defined with much
greater specificity the kind of music the government was encouraging composers to write.
It was now made clear that new Russian music should conform to what the government
called “Socialist Realism,” a style of music that had a socialist theme and happy endings,
glorified the party doctrine, and was tonal, simple, and popular—in short, a prescription
for a kind of dumbed-down musical propaganda for the proletariat.
Pravda’s reprimand of Shostakovich in 1936 came just as he was working on his Fourth
Symphony. Recognizing the danger he was in,15 Shostakovich chose to say nothing. Instead
he infused his new symphony with encrypted musical ciphers that would hide his com-
plaint against government interference in the arts. These ciphers appear mostly in the form
of allusions to works by other composers that had relevant programmatic meaning for
Shostakovich and the situation in which he found himself. For example, Shostakovich’s
Fourth Symphony is written for an extremely large, late-Romantic-size orchestra that
recalls the colossal symphonies of Mahler, many of whose works concern themselves with
the subject of death and the meaning of life. In keeping with this Mahlerian association,
Shostakovich began the third and final movement of his Fourth Symphony with a funeral
march that virtually duplicates the funeral march in Mahler’s First Symphony, suggesting
that this symphony of Shostakovich is about suffering, mourning, and loss. Furthermore,
the huge climax near the end of the first movement of Shostakovich’s symphony, repli-
cates, albeit in a far more dissonant harmonic idiom, many of the chorale-like finales in
Mahler’s symphonies. Solomon Volkov, the editor of Shostakovich’s memoirs, carries this
idea of musical ciphers even further, suggesting that the finale of this symphony (written
after the condemnation) features a section near the end that alludes to the part of Stravin-
sky’s Firebird ballet that deals with the triumphant celebration of the death of the evil
wizard Kashchei the Immortal, who is most likely a metaphor for Joseph Stalin, the evil
Soviet dictator under whose reign of terror all Russian artists suffered.16
While the Fourth Symphony is certainly a loud, dissonant work, there is also something
familiar in the march-like beginning of the first movement and the occasional references
to a tonal center. Despite these fleeting connections to tradition, Shostakovich must surely
have recognized how revolutionary this symphony was, and how it too might offend the
watchful eyes (and ears) of the government. He therefore wisely agreed to withdraw it
from a scheduled performance in Leningrad, and, as a result, the symphony was not heard
until 1961, long after Stalin died.
Under these circumstances, Shostakovich turned to the much safer arena of film
music, where he had already garnered considerable success producing several scores
for films made by the government. Then in 1937 he returned to the symphony and
produced his most famous work in this genre, the Fifth. Shostakovich again took up
a standard four-movement structure, but now using Classical forms. In many regards,
the Fifth Symphony is almost Neoclassical in its design, its use of real melodies, and
its clearly expressed tonality. At the work’s premiere in Leningrad, the audience was
reported to have cheered and wept openly over this new symphony. One suspects that
the tremendous release of audience emotion described by Volkov in Shostakovich and
Stalin17 might be interpreted in either of two different ways: as a recognition of the sub-
tle anti-Soviet message embedded in the symphony, or as a joyful relief over the fact that
Shostakovich had apparently reformed and redeemed himself with the writing of a true
“people’s’ ” symphony. A contemporary newspaper article claimed that Shostakovich
himself called this work “a Soviet artist’s creative response to just criticism,” although
that admission may have been forced upon the composer, and even it were not, was
surely an attempt to deflect further possible governmental denunciations of his new sym-
phony, more than it was a genuine recognition of the commission of any earlier artistic
offenses. In Shostakovich’s memoirs (titled Testimony), Volkov quotes the composer
as having explained the strong emotional reaction to this symphony by suggesting that
the audience “understood what was happening around them and they understood what
the Fifth was about.”18 From that rather cryptic comment we can perhaps extrapolate
the implication that, like the Fourth Symphony, this too was a cleverly disguised criti-
cism of the Soviet government and of Stalin’s reign of terror. In Shostakovich and Stalin,
Volkov offers evidence to support this assertion by detailing the many quotations in the
Fifth Symphony of other more obscure vocal works of Shostakovich, the texts of which
all refer to parallel instances of human suffering.19
The first movement is cast clearly in the key of D minor and in a fairly standard sonata
form. The Primary group of themes includes four related ideas (Ex. 8.40) all of which share
the rhythmic pattern of a dotted eighth and two thirty-second notes (or its augmentation
as a dotted quarter and two sixteenths), and all of which appear within the first 37 meas-
ures of the movement.
Ex. 8.40a Primary Theme Group, Motive 1.
Ex. 8.40b Motive 2
Ex. 8.40c Motive 3
Ex. 8.40d Motive 4
These themes lead to a change of key (E-flat minor) and texture that includes two more
themes (Exs. 8.41 and 8.42) that might be thought of as the standard Secondary and
Closing themes of a sonata exposition. The first of these has a shape that suggests perhaps
motive 1 in a vastly augmented transformation.
Ever since the late Romantic period, sonata forms have encompassed many more themes
than what we find in the symphonies of Haydn and Mozart. By the time Mahler came
to write symphonies, an exposition might contain as many as eight different themes, and
often in contemporary symphonies it no longer serves our understanding of the form to
refer to these themes with the old terms “Primary,” “Secondary,” and “Closing.” But in
the case of this Fifth Symphony of Shostakovich, a clear change in the key center along
with a change of texture seems to suggest that the traditional idea of Primary and Second-
ary functions is still applicable. This collection of six themes then functions as the basis
Ex. 8.41 Secondary Theme, Motive 5
Ex. 8.42 Closing Theme, Motive 6
of a typical development section, before returning to a unison restatement of the Closing

theme (motive 6) to clearly initiate the recapitulation.
The second movement functions as the traditional scherzo movement with the usual
ABA design. The opening theme can be seen in Ex. 8.43.
Ex. 8.43 Opening Theme, Scherzo
A contrasting theme announced in the horns (Ex. 8.44) presents a similar melodic con-
tour in a new rhythm.
Ex. 8.44 Contrasting Theme
The role of the traditional trio in the scherzo movement is played by a jovial theme
introduced in the solo violin (Ex. 8.45).
Ex. 8.45 “Trio” Theme
This leads back to a restatement of the opening themes that duplicates what would
normally be the return of the scherzo section.
The emotional center of many of Shostakovich’s symphonies lies in the slow movement,
the one that is usually said to best express the anguish of the broken and oppressed com-
poser. The slow third movement of the Fifth Symphony takes shape as a modified sonata
form whose long, sinuous main theme (Ex. 8.46a) is the source of most of the thematic
development that takes place throughout the movement. Both the opening of this theme
and its conclusion 24 measures later (Ex. 8.46b) clearly restate the basic gesture (brack-
eted) of Motives 1a and 1c from the Primary theme group of the first movement, as does
the flute solo that grows out of it (Ex. 8.47).
Ex. 8.46a Primary Theme 1, Third Movement
Ex. 8.46b Primary Theme 1, Conclusion
Ex. 8.47 Primary Theme 2
A contrasting theme, perhaps functioning as the Secondary theme of this exposition

appears in the solo oboe at m. 70 (Ex. 8.48).
Ex. 8.48 Theme 3, Functioning as the Secondary Theme

This theme is repeated in the flute and then followed by a developmental section that
fragments most of the main thematic ideas in turn before climaxing in a fortissimo restate-
ment (m. 131) of both the Secondary theme (T3, Ex. 8.48) and the Primary theme (T1, Ex.
8.46a) appearing here as a reverse recapitulation. But unlike a traditional recapitulation,
the keys in which these important themes reappear at the end of the movement are not
the same as those heard at the opening. The movement closes with a quiet conclusion
that includes hints of the Primary theme (Ex. 8.46a) in a shimmering orchestration that
includes harp harmonics and celeste.
The finale of the Fifth Symphony has, more than any other part of this work, confused
audiences for years. Because the symphony is a purely abstract work, listeners have had
no guidelines for interpreting the music. However, some indication of what the composer
was trying to communicate can be extrapolated from various external circumstances sur-
rounding the writing of this movement along with comments made by Shostakovich at the
time of composition and many years later.
One frequently reads that this is yet another sonata form movement, but its material falls
more easily into a broad three-part form. The opening march theme (Ex. 8.49) sets out the key
of D minor that paints the aggressive quality of the music with a tinge of darkness.
Ex. 8.49 March theme, Finale
If Shostakovich intended for the Fifth Symphony to repair his damaged reputation with
the Soviet government, then he would surely have wanted the basic mood of the finale to
be interpreted as a joyous triumph of the proletariat. Indeed, this is exactly how the com-
poser himself described his new symphony in a newspaper article that appeared around
the time of the work’s premier:
The theme of my symphony is the making of a personality. . . . I saw a man in all his
experiences. . . . The finale resolves the tense and tragic moments of the earlier move-
ments in a joyous and optimistic fashion.
Despite this avowal of joyous optimism, the minor mode in which the finale begins implies
a different affect here. Again Volkov points to some experts who have suggested that this
march is similar to the “March to the Scaffold” from Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique.20
The somewhat tenuous parallel between these two marches lies in the fact that each is
based on the presentation of a diatonic scale, one rising, the other descending. If this
similarity constitutes another allusion to the works of other composers that continue to
emerge in Shostakovich’s symphonies, then the meaning of the march in this finale might
lie in the implication of some kind of wrong-doing that deserves punishment by death, as
it does in Berlioz’s symphony.
As the tempo of the march increases, a second soaring theme first heard in the trumpet
(Ex. 8.50) emerges in long notes from the rhythmic tension of the opening.
A quieter, more relaxed middle section of the movement begins with a solo horn repeating
the trumpet theme heard earlier, but then introduces two new themes (Exs. 8.51 and 8.52).
Ex. 8.50 Second Theme
Ex. 8.51 New Theme 1
Ex. 8.52 New Theme 2
These new themes are eventually combined with elements of those from the first section
of the movement in a quasi-developmental fashion.
A major change of mood accompanies the return of the original march theme, as it now
turns to D major. Symphonies that begin in D minor and finish in D major, are numerous
throughout the 19th century, and all seem to refer back to the Ninth Symphony of Bee-
thoven. Even by the end of the century, when Mahler used this technique of modal inter-
change in his First Symphony, it was clear that the emergence of the major mode stood
for a triumphal victory celebration of the human spirit. And that was how most listeners
understood the finale of Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony. Many years later, however, in
one of the few direct references Shostakovich ever made to this work, he contradicted
his original contention that the finale had a joyous conclusion. Writing in his memoirs,
Testimony, he said,
I never thought about any exultant finales, for what exultation could there be [in
1937]? I think it is clear to everyone what happens in the Fifth. The rejoicing is forced,
created under threat. . . . It’s as if someone were beating you with a stick saying “Your
business is rejoicing.”21
Whatever complaints Shostakovich may have been making with this symphony, they
were cleverly couched in a style that could easily pass as “Socialist Realism,” as a review
by Alexei Tolstoi clearly indicated:
A major example of realistic art in our era. . . . Glory to our era, that it throws out into
the world such majesty of sounds and thoughts with both hands. Glory to our people,
who give birth to such artists [as Shostakovich]22
In this way Shostakovich may have successfully duped the government into accept-
ing his new style as a kind of musical apology for his earlier “formalist” music, while
simultaneously giving himself a canvas on which to paint his distress about life under the
Stalinist regime of the time.
Symphony No. 6 and Beyond—Where Is the Real Shostakovich?

Once Shostakovich recognized the need to soften the compositional style of his second,
third, and fourth symphonies in order to avoid further condemnation by the communist
party, the question then became one of deciding what kind of symphonies he could write
going forward from 1937. Clearly, governmental scrutiny of the work of every Russian
composer continued unabated throughout the reign of Stalin. But when Stalin died in
1953, some of the pressure to write simple music for the people was lifted, leaving Shos-
takovich freer to pursue his own style, whatever that might be. The fundamental question
for us today becomes one of trying to determine if the real Shostakovich was a composer
with an avant-garde approach to the symphony, whose music was “detuned” for political
reasons, or whether he was a composer, like Hindemith, who abandoned his early atonal
style in favor of a more traditional musical language later in his life. If that were the case,
Shostakovich’s first few symphonies would have to be understood as the product of youth-
ful exuberance and the composer’s need to make his mark writing “modern” music. What
follows is a summary description of the remaining symphonies of Shostakovich, attempt-
ing to trace the development of his style to the end of his career.
Symphony no. 6 (1939) departs in significant ways from standard symphonic principles
of construction. The work consists of only three movements, the first slow and fairly long (c.
18 minutes), the second and third both short scherzo-like movements (between six and seven
minutes). The opening movement consists of two large contrasting sections that are simply
repeated in varied form—something like a simplified rondo form (ABAB). The musical style
again adopts what might be called “expanded tonality,” which is to say the music is not exces-
sively dissonant and contains many melodic and harmonic gestures that suggest recognizable
tonal centers. The shorter movements that follow concern themselves with rhythmic motion
more than with themes, although there are instances of melodic ideas that have been derived
from the first movement, a device that Shostakovich used frequently, giving his symphonies a
relationship to past compositional practices aimed at creating long-range continuity.
Symphony no. 7, the “Leningrad,” was the product of Shostakovich’s reaction to the
Second World War. It instantly became a very popular work because it was written during
the Nazi siege of Leningrad in 1941, and Shostakovich himself prepared a program for the
work that announced it as a symphony of resistance and victory. But to friends in private
he admitted that this interpretation was a ruse, saying the symphony was conceived as a
work about “all forms of terror, slavery, and the bondage of the spirit.”23 Most perplex-
ing is the development section of the first movement, which contains a very ordinary little
tune repeated over and over in ever changing orchestrations, all superimposed on an osti-
nato rhythm in the snare drum (painfully derivative of Maurice Ravel’s Boléro of 1928).
The continual repetition of this meaningless tune produces a mind-numbing monotony
that may have been Shostakovich’s way of illustrating the effects of “the bondage of the
spirit.”24 The most engaging movement of this symphony is certainly the third (adagio),
which features a chorale in the woodwinds in dialogue with a string recitative. Overall, the
Seventh Symphony continues Shostakovich’s traditional approach to writing symphonies
under the watchful eye of the Soviet government. In his own way Shostakovich seems to
have tried to straddle the fence between writing in a style that was simple and tonal, while
simultaneously allowing himself room to express, on a deeper hidden level, his pain and
frustration with artistic life in the Soviet Union.
Symphony no. 8 (1943) like Shostakovich’s Seventh Symphony was a product of the
War years. Hoping perhaps to use the horrors of the war as a cover or excuse for writing
a symphony of anguish and depression over life in Soviet Russia, Shostakovich used this
symphony to test the limits of governmental oversight of composers’ works. The symphony
is indeed bleak and full of an expression of suffering, the logical justification for which
was the effect of the War on the Russian people. But the Soviet authorities eventually saw
through this ruse, and in 1948 denounced the symphony as violating the principles of
social realism. This governmental intervention was aimed not only at Shostakovich, but
at most other Russian composers as well, including Prokofiev. Shostakovich was forced to
issue a formal apology for the formalist tendencies in his recent music, and thanked the
Party for its “just criticism” of his work.
New to this symphony are both the more linear compositional thinking and the sparser
textures of the first movement. Yet despite the fact that the government found this symphony
offensive, the whole piece actually falls within the domain of a traditional symphonic design
carried out, with the exception of a few climactic moments, in a tonal harmonic idiom. So it
was clearly the message rather than the medium that upset Party watchdogs.
Like the Sixth Symphony of Beethoven, Shostakovich’s Eighth has five movements, the
last three of which are linked attacca (again like Beethoven). The second movement is an
angry, sardonic scherzo in sonata form. The third movement adopts a perpetual motion
style, but is every bit as grotesque as its predecessor. After an explosive opening, the fourth
movement settles into a quiet, contemplative passacaglia that rarely rises above a piano
dynamic. This passes directly into the finale, which occasionally sounds like another of
Shostakovich’s falsely celebratory culminations, similar to that which ends the Fifth Sym-
phony. But the movement brings the work to a quiet, perhaps resigned, close that fails to
relieve the general mood of desolation. Years later, in his memoirs, Shostakovich admitted
that both the Seventh and Eighth Symphonies were actually requiems to commemorate
the victims of the Second World War and also those of Stalin’s reign of terror both before
and after.25
Symphony no. 9 (1945) surprised everyone who had been led by the composer to expect
a grand symphony of victory at the end of the war. Instead, Shostakovich produced a
symphony of near Neoclassical proportions in five movements, the last three of which are
played without pause. In keeping with the almost Neoclassical style of this work, Shosta-
kovich’s harmonic vocabulary is more tonal and traditional than that found in any of his
other symphonies except the first.
Symphony no. 10 (1953) was written in the same year that both Stalin and Prokofiev
died. It had been eight years since Shostakovich had written a symphony, and five years
since the government launched a mass condemnation on all Russian composers in 1948
for deviating from the party line on acceptable musical style. It is not likely that Shostako-
vich thought the passing of Stalin was going to make an instant difference in what com-
posers were able to write, so this work, like its predecessors, is tonal and uses standard
symphonic forms. The most interesting movement may be the exciting and rhythmically
driven second, which Shostakovich himself claimed was a musical portrait of Stalin. One
might say that this symphony marked a slow, careful return to writing large orchestral
pieces after the condemnation of 1948. As in so many of his symphonies, the several
movements are linked by thematic transformations that suggest a traditional, large-scale
cyclical organization. And here for the first time, the composer interjected the motive D-S-
C-H (derived from the musical letters of his name—D, E-flat, C, B) as an important the-
matic element. But this sudden direct reference to himself in his music may well have been
Shostakovich’s way of announcing his independence from the terror of the Stalinist years.
Symphony no. 11 “The Year 1905” (1957) was written to commemorate the 40th anni-
versary of the Communist Revolution of 1917, even though the titles associated with the
symphony and all its movements make reference to the bloody confrontation between
Russian workers and the Tsar’s troops in 1905. Here again, Shostakovich seems to have
tried to use the horrors of history to cover his desire to describe the tortured circumstances
of life in Russia in the 1950s. The symphony is constructed in four continuous movements
that owe almost nothing to traditional symphonic forms. Each movement involves the
statement and later repetition of thematic sections in what amounts to a very free struc-
ture. Many of the themes are real workers’ songs that Shostakovich wove into the texture
of the symphony. In addition, most of the movements share thematic material in a cyclical
fashion. The harmonic language of this symphony continues Shostakovich’s usual quasi-
tonal style that rises to high levels of dissonance at climaxes. However, the incorporation
of folk materials into the thematic structure of the work gives it an easy familiarity that
other Shostakovich symphonies don’t always have.
Symphony no. 12, The Year 1917 (1961), again takes up a familiar Soviet theme—a
commemoration of the Revolution of 1917. Four attacca movements, all with titles, depict
aspects of the Revolution in the same quasi-tonal style Shostakovich had employed in ear-
lier symphonies. The use of traditional forms and an extensive use of thematic transforma-
tion create a symphony much in keeping with the long history of this genre.
Symphony no. 13, Babi Yar (1962), departs significantly from any of Shostakovich’s
earlier symphonies by virtue of the fact that this work is a setting for bass and male
chorus of five poems by Yevgeny Yevtushenko about prejudice, fear, and the strength of
the Russian people. The anti-government tone of these poems led to scrutiny by Soviet
officials, and eventually to censorship that forced changes in the first of the poems before
the premiere of the symphony. Shostakovich titled the work a “symphony” despite the
fact that it appears to be a song cycle. The reason for this designation lies, perhaps, in the
relationship of this symphony to Mahler’s orchestral song cycle Das Lied von der Erde,
which itself looks like a collection of songs rather than a symphony. Despite the fact that
Mahler did not title his work a “symphony,” both it and Shostakovich’s 13th Symphony
are built on basic symphonic forms and techniques. The first song in this symphony is, for
instance, cast in a sonata form, while other movements take on rondo-like structures. The
final three movements are all played without pause, and are unified by a single “motto”
theme heard at the outset of the third movement.
Symphony no. 14 (1969) is a very special work among the 15 symphonies of Shos-
takovich. First, it is a setting of 15 poems on the subject of death by a variety of poets,
making it essentially an orchestral song cycle with only minimal thematic connections
between the movements. Second, it marks a departure from the composer’s usual world of
quasi-tonality, making it the only truly atonal symphony he had written since early in his
career. Third, the orchestration strays farthest from traditional symphonic scoring: strings,
percussion, and alternating soprano and bass voices. The poems on death served to carry
what Shostakovich himself later said was a condemnation of those who cause violent
death (i.e., the Soviet regime). In fact, government officials must have understood this
because they did all they could to prevent the premiere of this symphony. One might ask,
of course, why Shostakovich dared to write such a provocative work, which so blatantly
flew in the face of the “socialist realism” required of all new Russian music, and how he
was able to avoid an outright governmental ban on his work. Three possible answers
come to mind:
1. Shostakovich wrote this symphony in 1969 when he was hospitalized for treatment of
a strain of polio. His health had generally not been good throughout the 1960s, and
he may have felt he was looking at immanent death and had nothing to lose by writing
whatever he wanted.
2. After Stalin’s death, Nikita Khrushchev came to power in Russia and immediately
reversed most of the policies of his predecessor, relieving many of the government’s
old restrictions on artists working in the 1960s.
3. By 1969 Shostakovich was too famous around the world for the government to do
more than make mild attempts to control his compositional style, resulting in a free-
dom that he may not have had earlier in his career. By then he had become a national
hero in the world of music and a valuable treasure in the Soviet Union.
Shostakovich’s last symphony, no. 15 (1971), alludes to various aspects of his career as
a symphonist as well as to the history of 19th-century music in general, all in a four-
movement abstract work for medium sized orchestra with an expanded percussion sec-
tion. Shostakovich adopted the more transparent textures, clearer tonality, and traditional
forms found in his Fifth and Ninth Symphonies, but also incorporated a quote from
Rossini’s famous Overture to William Tell. This quotation has often been referred to as
a “joke,” but one wonders if the fact that Tell was a Swiss patriot who fought for the
liberation of his people from Austrian oppression is in any way parallel to Shostakovich’s
view of his own life as a dissident in Soviet Russia. The third and fourth movements make
reference to Shostakovich’s Fourth Symphony, and the personal motto theme DSCH, first
heard in his Tenth Symphony, reappears here in the third movement. Finally, the last
movement contains multiple quotes from Wagner’s Tristan and the Ring Cycle. In this
manner, Shostakovich ended his career with a traditional symphony that calls attention to
revolutionary, historical characters, both real and fictional, who battled the forces of evil
and oppression, and refused to accept the status quo, as Shostakovich himself had done
for so many years.
Despite the fact that here and there among the 15 symphonies of Shostakovich we
can find works that have a dissonant, experimental quality about them, it seems unlikely
that he ever thought of himself as an atonal, avant-garde composer. Rather, the fact that
he chose to write symphonies at all suggests a strong relationship to the past traditions
associated with this genre. All of his symphonies are designated with specific keys in their
titles, and many of them use sonata forms and rondo forms that give the music a famil-
iar structure. In addition they are all multi-movement works (sometimes played without
pause) that form a coherent whole, often with thematic relationships between movements.
But the question remains as to whether this traditional style of composition was the direct
result of Soviet governmental intervention in the arts. Was Shostakovich’s traditional
approach to the writing of symphonies forced upon him by external circumstances? The
answer to this question came in a letter Shostakovich wrote to a friend who asked if his
work would have been different without what she called “Party guidance.” To which
Shostakovich responded:
Yes, those were desperate times. Things are a bit easier now; but goodness, how they
managed to contort us, to warp our lives. You ask if I would have been different with-
out “Party guidance.” Yes, almost certainly. No doubt the line I was pursuing when
I wrote the Fourth Symphony would have been stronger and sharper in my work.
I would have displayed more brilliance and used more sarcasm. I could have revealed
my ideas openly instead of having to resort to camouflage.26
This remarkable insight into the development Shostakovich’s musical style does not mean,
of course, that he felt his true calling was to adopt a musical style similar to that of Sch-
oenberg or even Stravinsky. Neither of those composers concerned themselves much with
a genre as loaded with tradition as was the symphony. The fact that Shostakovich wrote
15 such works speaks volumes about his relationship to tradition in general and to the
history of this genre in particular. But the last few symphonies, written when Shostako-
vich had nothing to lose, do indicate an interesting move toward using voices to clarify
the meaning of his music. These works also adopt a less tonal harmonic style similar
to that which he had earlier employed in his second, third, and fourth symphonies, all
of which were written before Stalin denounced his work. In summary the question of
whether Shostakovich would have continued the more experimental style of his earliest
symphonies seems to be answered by the experimental nature of some of his last works,
leaving those in the middle of his career as products of an enforced adaptation to external
circumstances.
Study Questions
1. In what way did the Soviet government influence the style of Shostakovich’s
symphonies?
2. Explain what aspects of Shostakovich’s symphonic style create a direct link to the
overall tradition of this genre.
Further Reading
Solomon Volkov, Shostakovich and Stalin, tr. Antonina Bouis (New York, NY: Knopf, 2004).
Notes
1. Charles Ives, Memos, ed. John Kirkpatrick (New York, NY: W.W. Norton, 1972), 132.
2. J. Peter Burkholder, Charles Ives: The Ideas Behind the Music (New Haven, CT: Yale University
Press, 1985), 51.
3. See Stuart Feder, Charles Ives, My Father’s Song: A Psychoanalytic Biography (New Haven, CT:
Yale University Press, 1992).
4. Ives, Memos, 130.
5. Rollo was the hero of a series of 19th-centtury novels by Jacob Abbott, in which the lead char-
acter was a boy of perfect manners. These were didactic novels written to encourage the inculca-
tion of good, polite, behavior in children. For Ives, Rollo represented the perfect musical sissy.
6. Ives, Memos, 130. Although there is some evidence that Ives successfully interested a few per-
formers in playing his music early in his career, most such attempts to reach out to professional
artists resulted in disastrous encounters of the kind he describes in his Memos: A professional
violinist, invited to read through the First and Second Violin Sonatas, plays a few lines of the
music, puts down his violin and declares what Ives wrote to be “not music,” at which point he
leaves the house in a huff. From such incidents, Ives learned early on to avoid the professional
musical establishment and to develop the attitude that it mattered little whether his music was
performed or not.
7. An interesting question arises here as to whether the recognition of these popular tunes is essen-
tial to an understanding of what Ives was trying to communicate in his music. One might argue
that the meaning (i.e., the “substance”) of the music resides in a listener’s familiarity with the
source materials upon which Ives was drawing to create his music.
8. For more details on the intervention of the Soviet government into the arts see Chapter 8 on
Shostakovich.
9. Stravinsky’s Neoclassical period is usually said to have lasted (with some exceptions) from the
dramatic play L’histoire du soldat in 1918 to his writing of the opera The Rake’s Progress in
1951.
10. This was the term used by Joseph Goebbels, the Nazi Minister of Propaganda. The term is
somewhat ironic, given the fact that the Bolsheviks were the party of the “people” in Russia, and
were the intended audience for Stalin’s “music of the people,” which was to be simple, tuneful,
and tonal.
11. Hindemith wrote seven works titled Kammermusik, which were solo concertos for various
instruments and chamber orchestra. No. 5 featured the viola.
12. In Tableau 1, scene 2.
13. It should be noted that another Russian composer, Nikolai Miaskovsky (1881–1950), outdid
Shostakovich’s productivity as a symphonist with a total of 27.
14. This new approach to symphonic form was also adopted by Stravinsky in his Symphony in
Three Movements (1945).
15. A close literary colleague of Shostakovich, whose writing had suffered the same condemnation
as that of the composer’s opera, was arrested and later executed as an enemy of the people.
These were extremely dangerous times for artists in Russia.
16. For further details regarding these musical ciphers, see Solomon Volkov, Shostakovich and Sta-
lin, tr. Antonina Bouis (New York, NY: Knopf, 2004), 137–38.
Such an interpretation of what Shostakovich was doing, while fascinating, is difficult to substan-
tiate, and the veracity of much of Volkov’s writing on Shostakovich has been called into question
by modern scholars.
17. Ibid., 150–51.
18. Dmitri Shostakovich, Testimony: The Memoirs of Dmitri Shostakovich, ed. Solomon Volkov, tr.
Antonina Bouis (New York, NY: Harper & Row, 1979), 135. The authenticity and reliability of
these memoirs has long been debated. Critics insist that while the book purports to be a recrea-
tion of conversations between Shostakovich and Volkov, much of what Volkov claims Shosta-
kovich told him was actually invented by Volkov himself. For details regarding this controversy,
see Malcolm Brown, ed., A Shostakovich Casebook (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press,
2004), Chapters 1 & 2.
19. Volkov, Shostakovich and Stalin, 150–52.
20. Ibid., 148–49.
21. Shostakovich, Testimony, 183.
22. Volkov, Shostakovich and Stalin, 151–52.
23. Elizabeth Wilson, Shostakovich: A Life Remembered (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press,
1994), 185.
24. This is the same melody that Bartok appropriated for the purpose of ridiculing Shostakovich in
the “Interrupted Intermezzo” of his Concerto for Orchestra.
25. Shostakovich, Testimony, 136.
26. Wilson, Shostakovich, 481.
9 Contemporary Views
of the Symphony
20th-Century Reinterpretations of the Symphony: Messiaen, Penderecki,

and Lutosławski
The study of the symphony in the second half of the 20th century frequently stumbles over
the most fundamental of questions: what is a symphony? Given the fact that there were so
many kinds of music written for full orchestra after 1950, what does it mean when a com-
poser attaches the title “symphony” to a large orchestral work? What conclusion can we
draw from the fact that the most innovative composers of the early 20th century (Stravin-
sky, Schoenberg, Debussy, Bartok, etc.) wrote relatively few symphonies? And what does
it mean that the most prolific composers of symphonies (Shostakovich, Prokofiev, Roy
Harris, Sibelius, Vaughan Williams) all created works that one could say only occasionally
strayed from the straight-and-narrow path that this genre had followed for over 200 years.
Did the more avant-garde composers find something incompatible between their musical
language and the genre of the symphony? Among the more revolutionary new works for
full orchestra, why are some of these (such as Atmospheres, Chronochromie, or Venetian
Games) not called a “symphony,” while other works by these same composers (Gyorgy
Ligeti, Messiaen, and Witold Lutosławski, respectively) do take the title “symphony”?
What is the distinction these composers were trying to make between orchestral works
that are symphonies, and those that are not?
These are not easy questions to answer. But if we are going to understand the most modern
iterations of the symphony, we must grapple with the fundamental question of what that term
means to a composer who sits down to write such a large orchestral work in the last 50 years
of the 20th century. Let’s begin this exploration of new (or by now “newish”) symphonies by
creating a definition of a traditional symphony that is broadly inclusive of everything written
through the middle of the 20th century: “a large-scale work for orchestra, usually in multiple
movements or sections of contrasting tempo, meter, and key, which also demonstrates some
kind of connection stretching across the whole work.” Implied in this basic definition is the
requirement that the various parts of a symphony make a unified whole that is more than just
a collection of its parts. This concept may be less applicable to the symphonies of Mozart and
Haydn than to the masterpieces of the 19th century, but even the earliest symphonies pre-
sented a group of movements that created a satisfying pattern of interrelationships.
Some samples of pieces that contemporary composers call a “symphony” may help
clarify what this genre has become in the course of its long history. Olivier Messiaen
(1908–92) occupies a position of central importance in the history of 20th-century music,
although his name is not often associated with the symphony. As the inventor of a colorful
new sound based in part on a long tradition of French interest in free rhythms and unusual
instrumental timbres, Messiaen is best known as a composer who delved into total serial-
ism, but whose music also embraced a wide range of non-Western influences in terms of its
form, pitch content, and rhythmic/metric organization. His one and only symphony, titled
Contemporary Views of the Symphony 239
Turangalila Symphony (1948), was commissioned by Serge Koussevitsky and the Boston
Symphony. The title of the work is drawn from two Sanskrit words, turanga, which means
“movement and the rhythm of time,” and lila, which has a double connotation of “love”
and “the game of life and creation.” Messiaen meant for the symphony to be a depiction
of corporal love (in contrast to the theme of spiritual love found in so many of his religious
works). The work contains ten separate movements, all with titles:
1. Introduction
2. Chant d’amour I
3. Turangalila I
4. Chant d’amour II
5. Joie du sang des étoiles
6. Jardin du sommeil
7. Turangalila II
8. Dévelopement de l’amour
9. Turangalila III
10. Final
The unique sound of this work derives from Messiaen’s use of both a piano and an Ondes
Martenot in the orchestra. The latter is a purely electronic instrument capable of playing both
fixed pitches and of making electronic glissandos.1 The ten movements that comprise this work
make it one of the longest and most unusual symphonies in the 20th century. Among these
movements one can find numerous musical attributes that connect the Turangalila Symphony
directly to the long tradition that this genre represents. To start, Messiaen’s original plan for
this work was to have a traditional arrangement of four movements. To those movements
(nos. 1-the introduction, 4-the scherzo, 6-the slow movement, 10-the finale) he later added the
remaining six movements, functioning as contrast and/or development of several basic themes
that run through the entire symphony. In his own analysis of the work, Messiaen identified
four principle themes, the most important of which are what he called the “statue” theme (Ex.
9.1, meant to represent the “oppressive brutality of ancient Mexican statues”) and the “love”
theme (Ex. 9.2, meant to recall the famous legend of Tristan and Isolde).2
Ex. 9.1 “Statue” theme
Ex. 9.2 “Love” theme

The statue theme appears in the first movement of the symphony after a brief 30 second
introduction. Messiaen’s allegiance to traditional symphonic principles becomes apparent
in this work when a transformation of the “statue” theme reappears in a faster tempo and
an altered rhythm at the opening of the fifth movement, “Joie du Sang des Étoiles” (Joy of
the Blood of the Stars—Ex. 9.3).
Ex. 9.3 Opening of the Fifth Movement
Messiaen described this movement as a wild dance that depicts the union of two lov-
ers. Unlike much of the harmonic vocabulary of this symphony, which is clearly atonal,
this fifth movement presents the listener with a far more familiar tonal sound and a more
traditional process of thematic development.
The statue theme makes one further appearance at the end of movement 7, “Turangalila
II,” the most dissonant and atonal movement of the entire symphony. Such repeated use of
one theme throughout a multi-movement symphony, of course, indicates an indebtedness
on Messiaen’s part to the tradition of the cyclical symphony as it evolved in the hands of
many 19th-century composers, and links his contemporary sounding work to principles
of construction that might be said to define the symphony as a genre, regardless of the era
in which any specific composer worked.
Further evidence of the symphonic tradition to which the Turangalila Symphony contin-
ually makes reference lies in the second movement, titled “Chant d’amour” (song of love).
This movement evolves in a recognizable rondo-like pattern growing out of the continual
repetition of two principal themes (one fast and vigorous, Ex. 9.4, the other slow and lyri-
cal, Ex. 9.5) in juxtaposition with contrasting material.
Ex. 9.4 Vigorous opening theme, Chant d’amour
Ex. 9.5 Contrasting lyrical theme
Messiaen’s “love” theme from the first movement forms the center of movement 6, the
slow movement of the original four-movement conception of the symphony. Here this
important theme (see Ex. 9.2) is elaborated in counterpoint with Messiaen’s famous bird
calls, heard in the piano throughout the movement.
The original finale of the symphony, which eventually became movement 10 as Mes-
siaen gradually expanded his initial conception of this work, was at one point described
by the composer as being (or perhaps alluding to) a sonata form something, however, that
listeners are not likely to easily perceive. Again keeping to the tradition of cyclical sym-
phonic construction, the second theme of this “sonata” is a variation of the “love” theme
heard in movement 6.
Overall then, the Turangalila Symphony exhibits many of the large-scale organizational
principles found in traditional symphonies despite its frequent lack of tonal centers, its
lack of an easily audible formal design, and its non-traditional instrumental coloring. If a
symphony is a multi-sectional orchestral work in which the several parts are related in a
way that allows a long-range design to emerge, then the Turangalila Symphony qualifies as
a modern continuation of this ages-old genre by virtue of the fact that its overall structure
is still based on the principles of thematic statement, development, and repetition stretch-
ing over ten movements with a duration of approximately 80 minutes.
Looking further into the 20th century we find two important Polish composers:
Lutosławski (1913–94) and his younger compatriot Krzysztof Penderecki (b. 1933). The
careers of these two composers seem to have progressed in mirror directions—one from
tradition to modernism, the other from modernism to tradition. After graduating from
the Warsaw Conservatory in 1937, Lutosławski first ran afoul of the suspicious eye of
the Nazis, who had occupied Poland in 1939, and, like the Communist Party in Russia,
declared that music belonged to the “people,” meaning of course that it needed to be sim-
ple and tonal. Then after the war, when the Russians occupied Poland, this ban on modern
music continued as the Russian government censored all the arts in Poland just as they did
at home. It was at exactly this time (1947) that Lutosławski began writing symphonies. In
his first he adopted a style reminiscent of the music of Bartok, which was modern enough
to cause the government to declare Lutosławski a disciple of Western formalism, and to
ban performances of the work.
The next step in the development of Lutosławski’s compositional style came in the 1950s,
when he began adopting elements of Schoenberg’s 12-tone system of pitch organization.
But Lutosławski took a personal approach to this style by organizing his 12 pitches around
a limited number of intervals (such as a perfect fourth and a minor second). This style
lasted about a decade, when in the 1960s he became interested in the aleatory techniques
of John Cage. But again, the employment of the techniques of indeterminate music resulted
in a specialized and more limited use of aspects of performer freedom. Lutosławski’s Sec-
ond Symphony, which dates from 1967, employs sections of music that are fully notated,
but which allow each player to determine the tempo of their own parts without regard to
coordination with other players around them. The resulting sound, of course, has little to
do with any kind of traditional symphonic music, as clouds of sound replace recognizable
themes and lead to almost total aural confusion. Yet Lutosławski was devoted to what
might be called the Hegelian principle of formal organization, which simply meant creat-
ing unity and synthesis out of the conflict of contrasting materials. These contrasting mate-
rials need not involve what we traditionally think of as themes or tonal centers. Rather the
conflicting materials may involve contrasting instrumental sounds or changes in texture or
attack density (the number of notes attacked within a given unit of time). This kind of musi-
cal organization underlies the first movement of Lutosławski’s Second Symphony, which
begins with what sounds like random, uncoordinated pitches and rhythms in the brass sec-
tion alone. Suddenly these sounds are replaced by a similar texture in the flutes and percus-
sion. The following section then relies primarily on the timbre of double reed instruments.
This is music that avoids not only traditional concepts of theme and development, but also
the fundamental idea of recognizable meters and patterned rhythms. In other words, this
symphony presents a totally athematic, atonal style of music that is completely foreign to
the ears of most concertgoers, even today. So in what way does this “symphony” represent
a continuation of the tradition of this genre? In what way is it a symphony? The work has
only two movements labeled respectively “Hésitant” and “Direct.” Lutosławski explains
that the two are related in a cause and effect partnership. Hésitant is the prelude to Direct,
and as such, not only leads to the concluding section, but actually demands fulfillment in
and determines the material and structure of the latter. In other words, the closing move-
ment complements the opening movement. In this case that relationship takes the form of
the first freely indeterminate movement leading to a far stricter concluding movement that
involves no indeterminacy, and consequently a less random sound.
The Third Symphony of Lutosławski, written on commission from the Chicago Sym-
phony in 1983, is again in only two movements, the first of which enables or motivates
the second. Here the opening movement consists of three sections of contrasting attack
densities: Fast, slower, slowest. Each section begins with the same loud chord in the full
orchestra stated in the rhythmic pattern of four quickly repeated notes. This leads to
the second movement, which the composer said “alludes to” a sonata form. Unlike the
first movement in which meter is completely absent, the second movement adopts a clear
meter, organized rhythms, and even pitches that seem to suggest real themes. Furthermore,
the repeated chord that was so important in delineating the sections of the first movement
returns at the end of the second movement as if to create a large cyclical structure of the
kind that was so popular with symphonists in the 19th century. We might conclude that
this symphony again demonstrates that some contemporary composers continued to think
of this genre as being heavily laden with tradition, a genre with specific characteristic rela-
tionships between its various parts or movements.
Krzysztof Penderecki (b. 1933)

While Lutosławski began his symphonic career by copying fairly traditional models of
large-scale orchestral music and then migrated into a more modern style while still try-
ing to retain elements of what he considered to be the important defining characteristics
of the genre of the symphony, the other important Polish composer of the 20th century,
Krzysztof Penderecki moved in exactly the opposite direction. Penderecki came to promi-
nence in the 1960s with his orchestra work Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima, a
modernist work for 52 strings using aleatory techniques based on clusters of sound rather
than actual themes. This early style was based on an attempt to find new sound sources
and to manipulate them in a dramatic fashion. But by the 1970s Penderecki had moved
consciously toward a more traditional style and technique. This is when he began writing
symphonies, as if to suggest that the genre was incompatible with the techniques he had
employed in his Threnody. Between 1973 and 2005 Penderecki wrote eight symphonies
(although the last is more an orchestral song cycle than a symphony), nearly all built
around some aspect of the traditional symphony of earlier centuries.
Symphony No. 2—“Christmas Symphony” (1980)

Commentators often describe the style of this symphony as “Neoromantic,” meaning that
it incorporates allusions to many of the most important late Romantic symphonists. As
Penderecki himself said about his work at that time, “Elements of Romantic music were
present in my work during the 1980s. . . . In my symphonic works you can find elements
of Beethoven and Bruckner through Prokofiev and Shostakovich and, of course, Sibel-
ius.”3 The Second Symphony breaks into five sections, that to some extent imitate the
movements of a standard symphony, but as in the tone poems of Liszt, the five sections
also add up to one large “compound” sonata form movement. The work contains several
themes that have an easily perceived melodic character. Especially interesting in terms of
the referential element of the work is the first theme, which sounds (mostly because of its
harmonization) almost as though it could easily have been lifted out of any of the sym-
phonies of Bruckner (Ex. 9.6).
Ex. 9.6 First Theme
The first six minutes of the work are based on this material, which includes a statement
of a few measures of the Christmas carol “Silent Night” (from which the work derives
its nickname). Penderecki explained the inclusion of this seemingly incongruous bit of
vernacular material by saying that the symphony was begun on Christmas Eve of 1979,
and that Christmas was a significant holiday for him. Eventually the thick textures of the
opening dissolve into a slow section of music featuring solo horn and oboe lines that seem
to suggest a traditional contrasting second theme in a sonata form (Ex. 9.7).
Ex. 9.7 Horn Solo as the Second Theme
At about nine minutes into the symphony (beginning what might be called the second
large section of the work), Penderecki initiates what sounds like a scherzo in a faster
tempo (Ex. 9.8).
Ex. 9.8 Scherzo-Like Section
This leads to a change of tempo to lento and the beginning of a large slow section, some-
what equivalent to the slow movement of a traditional symphony. This section, which is
announced by a repetition of the opening theme of the symphony in the solo oboe, con-
tains another quote of “Silent Night.”
At about 22 minutes into the symphony (rehearsal no. 34), Penderecki places a very
clear restatement of the opening theme in the same instruments used at the outset of the
symphony, creating the effect of a clear recapitulation. This grows into a polyphonic sec-
tion that eventually brings back the scherzo material from section 2 (at rehearsal no. 41).
The work closes with a tonal climax and one last bit of “Silent Night,” along with several
quiet restatements of theme 1 (Ex. 9.6).
In evaluating the symphonic style of Penderecki, we might conclude that a work
like the Second Symphony represents the general principles of Romanticism that
guided his compositional style in this genre, at least at the end of the 20th century.
This particular symphony falls into a modified sonata form by creating a clear pat-
tern of thematic repetition and development that makes allusion to that standard
form. While the symphonies of Penderecki retain many elements of traditional music,
such as meter, patterned rhythms, occasional tonal moments in the harmony, and
melodic writing that sometimes creates real, recognizable themes, they also represent
a contemporary interpretation of those traditional symphonic elements. Underlying
all of his symphonies is a devotion to a tradition that stretches back to Haydn, in
which the various parts of a symphony create both contrast and connection with
each other. In some of the other symphonies of Penderecki, such as no. 4, we see the
technique of developing variation, inherited from Brahms and others, in full effect.
A basic intervallic pattern (not really a theme per se) seen in Ex. 9.9 is modified in
later appearances as seen in Ex. 9.10. So regardless of the overall formal design of
the work, its fundamental compositional unfolding borrows one of the most basic
principles of the 19th-century symphony.
Ex. 9.9 Symphony No. 4 Basic Interval Pattern of the Seventh and Ninth at the Opening of the
Symphony
Ex. 9.10 Altered Permutations and Rhythmic Variations of Those Same Intervals in the Measures
that Follow
Overall, Penderecki’s symphonies make a fascinating and instructive example of how

the elements of style and form that made the symphony a unique genre for over 200 years
can still remain relevant in a modern interpretation of this genre.
Study Questions
1. In a modern musical vocabulary, how did composers of the later 20th century manage
to maintain a relationship to the tradition of the symphony as established for over
200 years?
2. What aspects of Messiaen’s Turangalila Symphonie establish a link to past symphonic
traditions?
Further Reading
Peter Hill and Nigel Simeone, Messiaen (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005).
Irina Nikolska, Conversations With Witold Lutosławski, 1987–92 (Stockholm, Sweden: Melos,
1994).
Postmodern Symphonies and Gender Issues

The history of the symphony painted thus far in these pages (in admittedly rather broad
strokes) constitutes a vital, continuing musical tradition that spans nearly 300 years.
Within those three centuries, the genre has undergone some remarkable transformations
at the hands of many great composers. But where does the symphony stand today, two
decades into the 21st century? What living composers are still writing symphonies, and
what is the nature of these new works in this old genre? A small sample of the most recent
symphonies drawn from a select group of living, working composers may give some idea
of what the symphonic repertoire looks like today.
Noticeably absent thus far in this survey of the symphony are the names of any female
composers. But since the last half of the 20th century, the absence of women in the his-
tory of this genre has changed dramatically, and women are now counted among the most
active composers of contemporary symphonies. Therefore, this may be the appropriate
time to look at the history of women who have contributed over the years to the writing
of symphonies, and to assess their role in the development of this genre, especially within
the last 50 years.
While women have dotted the landscape of serious music for centuries, their work
as composers has generally been neglected in most of the major histories of Western
music until fairly recently. To this day, we still relegate women who compose music to
specialized history courses, to specialized concerts, to specialized organizations, and
to a specialized area of musicological inquiry. And when it comes to the symphony,
the situation takes on new dimensions of prejudice that extend back to the very birth
of the genre. Of course, excuses can be made (and often are) for overlooking female
composers in courses that survey the general history of music. In such courses, usually
lasting 28 to 30 weeks of an academic year and having to cover everything from the
Middle Ages to the 20th century, many professors will argue that they would have to
omit one of the major male composers in order to make room for a woman such as
Fanny Mendelssohn, Clara Schumann, or Cécile Chaminade. And in the case of the
more limited history of a single genre like the symphony (sometimes taught in only one
semester), the problem of fitting female composers into such a course stems from the
fact that surveys of a single genre tend to highlight the most revolutionary changes in
musical styles throughout the ages, and those changes tended, until recently, not to be
driven by the music of women.
At least part of the reason female composers have not been more prominent in the his-
tory of music has had to do, of course, with social stigmas long associated with women
who pursued careers of any kind. For centuries women had little access to education,
and even less access to professional job opportunities. In the world of music, women
attended conservatories in Italy as far back as the 17th century, but only for train-
ing as singers, especially in opera. Women who composed, such as Francesca Caccini
(1587−c.1645), or Elisabeth Jacquet de la Guerre (1665–1729) did so only because they
grew up in families of professional musicians, where they could secure private instruc-
tion in both performance and music theory/composition. This tradition of women com-
posers emerging from musical families continued well into the 19th century, when both
Fanny Mendelssohn and Clara Schumann succeeded at least partly by virtue of the sup-
port of, and connection to, male family members who were themselves well established
professionals in the world of music.
In addition, women composers in past centuries tended to limit themselves to smaller
genres: songs, piano works of various kinds, violin sonatas, chamber music (mostly with
piano), small-scale choral works, and so forth. Only rarely did they try their hands at
writing a large-scale genre such as an opera or a symphony. Among the women of past
centuries whose works have survived to the present day, only Francesca Caccini and Elisa-
beth Jacquet de la Guerre can be credited with the composition of an opera, but both
had musician fathers who promoted their work and support that grew out of important
connections with aristocratic courts in Italy and France. In the absence of such influential
support, women simply never had the opportunity to write in larger genres such as these.
Theaters would never commission a woman to write an opera, and publishers had no
interest in printing “feminine” symphonies. Without access to the large performing forces
required for opera and symphony, there was no way for a female composer to gain experi-
ence writing for large ensembles.
Even as female composers became more numerous in the 19th century, old theories
about women being unable to compose because they lacked the creative DNA of their
male counterparts lingered on, becoming so entrenched in musical society that even
women themselves occasionally repeated these myths. Thus Clara Schumann, one of the
few successful female composers of the 19th century, commented on her own work say-
ing, “I once believed that I had creative talent, but I have given up this idea: a woman
must not wish to compose—there was never one able to do it.”4 Later, speaking of her
Piano Trio, she parrots the sexist thinking that had so long discouraged women from even
trying to become composers when she admitted that in this piece “there are some pretty
passages. . . . [but] naturally it is still only [a] woman’s work, which always lacks force
and occasionally invention.5 And those rare reviews of women’s music that expressed a
favorable opinion almost inevitably complimented the “manly” sound of the music and
the lack of an “effeminate” spirit in the works under review.
In general, we can safely say that the symphony was one of those large-scale genres
in which women almost never worked. From the birth of the genre around 1730 to the
death of Haydn (i.e., the entire Classical period) there are no prominent female symphon-
ists. Even in the 19th century, when the industrial revolution began to alter the prejudices
against women in the workplace, only Fanny Mendelssohn and Clara Schumann had
successful careers. Even then, their reputations rested, as had those of most women musi-
cians who preceded them, on their accomplishments as performers, not as composers. And
neither Fanny nor Clara was able to break out of the stereotype of women as only capable
of writing in the small genres of solo piano, songs, and chamber works.
One of the first successful female composers to write symphonies was Louise Farrenc, a
prominent French pianist who lived from 1804 to 1875. After studying piano at the Paris
Conservatory, she became the first female professor of piano at that famous institution
in 1842. Throughout her distinguished career she composed piano music (including a
total of 87 etudes), chamber works (including 2 piano quintets, 2 piano trios, and a very
popular nonet), and 3 symphonies (1841, 1845, 1847), all of which were published and
performed regularly in Paris and elsewhere. Her symphonies are marked by a high level
of craftsmanship and musical invention, cast in standard symphonic forms of the period
from about 1810 to 1840. They capture some of the drama of the middle period sympho-
nies of Beethoven, the formal clarity of someone like Mendelssohn, and the orchestral
lushness of Schumann. Her symphonies are remarkable examples of what a woman who
wanted to work in the larger orchestra genres was able to create. They are in no way infe-
rior to the symphonies of any of her make colleagues, and fully deserve to be resurrected
in performances today.
Another example of a woman who dared to write a symphony in the 19th century
was the American, Amy Beach (aka, Mrs. H. H. A. Beach).6 Born Amy Cheney in New
Hampshire in 1867, this remarkable child prodigy was composing at the age of 4 while
also studying the piano, first with her mother and then between the ages of 9 and 15 with
a professional pianist in Boston. Her last two years of piano lessons also included private
theory instruction that surely encouraged her efforts in composition. However, Amy made
her early reputation as a dazzling pianist, until, at the age of 18, she married Dr. Henry
Harris Aubrey Beach, a distinguished Boston surgeon in his 40s. Her new husband put
an immediate halt to her public performances because such public display reflected badly
on a woman of society. Fortunately Dr. Beach allowed his young wife to compose, only
because that did not involve her appearing in public. This enforced absence from the stage
resulted in the redirection of Beach’s creativity and an outpouring of compositions, both
small and large, over the next 25 years. Only after her husband died in 1910, was Beach
released to restart her career as a pianist.
Among the more important works from her pen, we have the “Gaelic” Symphony,
premiered by the Boston Symphony in 1896. Some sense of Beach’s success as a female
composer can be measured from the fact that her symphony had drawn the attention and
support of the conductor of one of the most respected orchestras in the United States. The
work is in four traditional movements, scored for an average size Romantic orchestra.
The general style of the first movement recalls that of Dvořák, whose symphony no. 9,
“From the New World” had recently been composed (1893) during his stay in the United
States as Director of the short-lived National Conservatory of Music in New York from
1892–95.7 Beach’s Gaelic Symphony takes a similar approach to the process of build-
ing themes from folk-like materials that give the work a nationalist flavor. Beach’s first
movement adopts a classical sonata form that organizes two simple melodic ideas in a
traditional key relationship of E minor and G major. The harmonic vocabulary speaks to
Beach’s mastery of the late-Romantic chromatic style of Brahms. The second movement is
marked “Alla Siciliana” but has a contrasting middle section marked allegro vivace. There
follows a slow movement based on the elaboration of several themes, and a fast sonata-
form finale. Overall Beach’s one and only symphony shows how a female composer with
little practical experience writing in large genres could hold her own against her male col-
leagues. Beach was an immensely gifted composer, whose symphonic experiment may be
of greater value as a historical milestone than as an actual piece of performable orchestral
music. But it is at least as good as anything that was being written by any of her male col-
leagues, including John Knowles Paine (1839–1906), George Chadwick (1854–1931), or
Horatio Parker (1863–1919), none of whom produced any large-scale orchestral works
of lasting significance.
Ellen Taaffe Zwilich (b. 1939)

Not until much later in the 20th century did women composers begin to tackle large
genres like the symphony with any regularity. This new-found confidence to move
into uncharted compositional territory was surely the byproduct of the feminist
movement in the last part of the 20th century as well as the huge increase in women
attending conservatories and university music departments to study something other
than voice, piano, or violin. Along with greater access to compositional training
came greater opportunities for women to have their music performed. The improv-
ing status of women composers can be measured by the increasing frequency with
which they now receive important commissions and awards. This trend began in
1983 when Ellen Taaffe Zwilich became the first woman to be awarded the Pulitzer
Prize in composition for her First Symphony (1982). This honor came only a few
years after Zwilich became the first woman to earn a D.M.A. degree in composition
from the prestigious Juilliard School (New York City) in 1975. Being a student at
The Juilliard School brought Zwilich into contact with Pierre Boulez, the influential
director of the New York Philharmonic and The Juilliard School orchestra. Boulez
boosted her career by programming an orchestra piece by Zwilich titled Symposium
for Orchestra in 1975. Such was the success of her early works for orchestra that she
developed a popular following that eventually led to her being appointed composer
in residence at Carnegie Hall in New York City from 1995–99. Zwilich’s Second and
Third Symphonies (1985 and 1992) both grew out of commissions from the New
York Philharmonic. Symphony no. 4 “The Gardens” for chorus, children’s chorus,
and orchestra was commissioned by Michigan State University in 1999, and her most
recent symphony, no. 5, subtitled “Concerto for Orchestra” was commissioned by
the Juilliard School in 2008.
Zwilich’s early works relied on a mostly atonal style of composition, but after the
death of her husband in 1979 she began to adopt what might be called a more “post-
modern” style of music in an attempt to make her work more generally accessible. In
general Zwilich’s early symphonic style involves the process of introducing basic motivic
material, often in the form of pitch cells, which are then subjected to a process of con-
tinuous development and restatement. Large sections based on these pitch cells are then
arranged into contrasting sections. In her First Symphony this general symphonic prin-
ciple is carried out within a basically athematic style that substitutes the reiteration and
development of particular intervals for the more traditional presentation and manipula-
tion of themes. In the case of the First Symphony, the fundamental intervals on which
the work is based are the minor third and the major seventh. The first movement begins
with a repetition of the minor third A−C, followed by the frequently heard pattern A−
C−C-sharp−G-sharp, which brings the interval of the major seventh into play as well.
Several iterations of these basic thematic intervals of the third and the seventh can be
seen in Ex. 9.11.
Ex. 9.11 Manipulation of Intervals of the Third and Seventh (Second) in the First Movement
1a
1b
1c
1d
This movement begins slowly in cut time with the half note marked at 32 beats/minute.
But throughout the movement the tempo accelerates to half note = 100 before slowing down
again at the end. This progression of the tempo changes in the movement becomes as much
a part of its overall form as are the various manipulations of the intervallic structure.
For the second movement, Zwilich adopted a traditionally slow tempo of quarter
note = 52. This movement begins like the first, by presenting the intervals of the third and
the seventh (Ex. 9.12).
Ex. 9.12a Basic Intervals of the Second Movement
Ex. 9.12b Further Manipulation of the Basic Intervals
In the process of introducing new variations of this interval, Zwilich suddenly returns
in m. 22 to a rhythmically altered restatement of the material that opened the first move-
ment (Ex. 9.13).
Ex. 9.13 M. 22, Second Movement (Compare to Ex. 9.11a)
With this cyclical technique the two movements gain a level of connection that goes
beyond the sound of the minor third. Here the exact reiteration of the symphony’s opening
measures makes that melodic gesture into something that constitutes an actual “theme.”
The third movement of this symphony completes the classical tempo sequence of fast−
slow−fast, now in a compound meter. Aspects of this movement suggest that its function is
to recapitulate the material of the first movement. For instance, the pattern of two minor
thirds linked at the interval of a major seventh/half step (A-C-C#-E) appears in this move-
ment in a reduction that takes the first three notes and produces a chord of a minor third
and a major seventh at m. 29 (Ex. 9.14).
Ex. 9.14 M. 29 of the Last Movement.

This pattern continues in an altered presentation in the first violins in m. 35, in which
the first triplet consists of a descending minor third between the first two notes and a
major seventh between the first and last notes. That exact pattern of intervals is then pre-
sented in retrograde inversion in the next triplet (Ex. 9.15).
Ex. 9.15 M. 35 of the Last Movement
The clearest connection between the first and last movements is heard at m. 124
where the main “theme” of the first movement (Ex. 9.11a) reappears exactly as it did
at the opening of the piece, including the same instruments: viola and harp. The sys-
tematic use of repeating intervallic material throughout the entire symphony points to
what seems to be a deliberate intent on the part of the composer to revive traditional
symphonic procedures of thematic transformation and cyclical form in an atonal and
basically athematic style. In this regard Zwilich’s work answers the most basic ques-
tion that can be posed about contemporary symphonies (whether by men or women):
what does it mean to write a “symphony” in the late 20th century? And most impor-
tantly, her work as a symphonist puts to rest the long-held and ridiculous prejudice
that women do not possess the creative DNA that enables men to write in large genres
like the symphony.
Judith Lang Zaimont (b. 1945)

In many ways the First Symphony of Ellen Taaffe Zwilich, written well before the
turn of the century, represents the last stage of “modernism” in symphonic composi-
tion. It is atonal, ametric, and athematic, all of which creates some aural difficulty
in following such a work, even if on the page its structure is clearly evident. A more
representative example of the “postmodern” era of symphonic composition that this
chapter wants to address might be the symphonies of Judith Lang Zaimont. She began
her musical studies at the piano, eventually teaming up with her sister, Doris, to form a
professional piano duo. After her studies in composition at Columbia University, Zai-
mont went on to teach composition at the Peabody Conservatory of Music and later
the University of Minnesota. Over the years she has developed an award-winning style
of composition in many genres, including the symphony. To date, Zaimont has written
six symphonies, half of which were the result of commissions from various orchestras
or musical organizations.
The fourth of these (2013) makes a fine example of the more contemporary approach
to writing symphonies in this century. Like so many of her colleagues, Zaimont’s style
is based on the concept of pluralism—the willingness to combine dissonant, athematic
music with a tonal, homophonic, and melodic style without finding these different kinds
of music incompatible. Zaimont refers to herself as a “modern Romantic,” most likely
because her music relies on a traditional use of meter, rhythm, and what might be called
orchestral gesture (i.e., a traditional deployment of orchestral instruments to create
phrases and textures that sound familiar). In short, her music reminds us of the great
orchestral symphonies of the past.
Zaimont’s Fourth Symphony is titled Pure, Cool (Water), and each of its five move-
ments has a sub-title that suggests different manifestations of water:
I. In a Current (The River)

II. As a Solid (Ice)
III. Falling Drops (Rainshower)
IV. Still (The Tarn)
V. In Waves and Torrents (Ocean and Waterfall)
The overall style of this music is what might be termed “quasi-tonal,” meaning that an
underlying sense of tonality is clouded by complex, often dissonant harmonies that pro-
duce thick orchestral textures. Zaimont’s melodic style in this symphony seems to be
based mostly on short instrumentally conceived gestures that appear and disappear in a
variety of orchestral textures. At the same time, there are moments (mostly in the slower
movements like “The Tarn”) when her melodies take on an expansive, even soaring qual-
ity in the style of some of the great Romantic symphonists of the past (Ex. 9.16).
Ex. 9.16 Opening Theme of “The Tarn”
The subject of the musical relationship among the various parts of a modern sym-
phony seems to be one on which the very definition of this genre depends. In the case of
her Fourth Symphony, Zaimont points to the existence of a rhythmic motive consisting
of a short-long pattern (as in the rhythm of the word “water”) that helps to unify the
entire composition. She also explains that this rhythm is characteristic of a saraband,
which is the style of her fourth movement, “The Tarn.” Beyond the use of this unify-
ing rhythmic motive, one can clearly hear that each movement of Pure, Cool (Water)
contrasts with its neighbors just as do the movements of any traditional symphony. And
these contrasts produce some obvious allusions to the sequence of movements found in
many earlier symphonies, including a scherzo-like perpetual motion in “Falling Drops,”
and the familiar symphonic slow movement (the saraband) cast as a theme and variation
form in “The Tarn.”
Within each of the movements of this symphony, Zaimont adopts fairly common formal
patterns. The first movement, for example, is a simple ABA form, in which the contrast-
ing middle section takes the form of a woodwind scherzo. All three sections are based
on a melodic motive consisting of the basic short-long rhythmic motive set to a rising
half or whole step followed by a leap up of a fifth or sixth to another long note. This
basic shape is then repeated and expanded in various ways throughout the entire move-
ment. This motive can be heard as a fundamental element in other movements as well,
but often altered in ways that make its perception difficult. The second movement “Ice,”
for example, manipulates this motive as in Ex. 9.17, where the three-note motive of the
first movement now appears in the clarinet as a motive that is essentially the same idea in
retrograde inversion.
This, of course, is an expansion of the traditional technique of developing variation
found as far back as the symphonies of Brahms, but in this particular atonal movement,
a listener is not likely to pick up aurally on motivic manipulations that are this complex.
Ex. 9.17 Movement II, “Ice”
Because of the modern sound of the melodies in Zaimont’s symphony, even those move-
ments built on some of her most broadly lyrical lines can be difficult to follow as they are
repeated and transformed. The flute melody that begins the last movement (Ocean) makes
an instructive example of this situation (Ex. 9.18).
Ex. 9.18 Opening of the Fifth Movement “Ocean”
This rather disjunct melody is brought back (in parts or in transformations) throughout
the movement, but because the original line was so angular, the melody does not etch itself
in a listener’s aural memory, making the recognition of its return and development nearly
impossible. This, in turn, causes the entire movement to sound as though it is through-
composed, without any specific formal organization.
Clearly Zaimont’s Fourth Symphony leans heavily on the techniques of symphonic writ-
ing practiced for hundreds of years, and in that sense the work is very much part of a
long tradition of symphonic composition. Addressing this question of what constitutes a
“symphony” in the mind of a 21st-century composer, Zaimont herself suggests that a true
symphony requires a broad musical scope and a development of its musical materials:
In my mind, a symphony takes its time to have its say—and it says a number of things,
not just one or two in a relatively brief manner. A symphony also extrapolates related
“commentaries” from the core materials, items engendered as the piece develops.8
She also believes that shorter orchestral works like John Adams’s A Short Ride in a Fast
Machine or Jennifer Higdon’s Blue Cathedral are far more common in the orchestral rep-
ertoire these days because, quite apart from their intrinsic musical quality, their program-
matic titles make them easier to sell to today’s concert audiences, and presumably easier to
listen to than an abstract work labeled simply “symphony.” But while these smaller works
might be thought of as tone poems, they are not, in her opinion, symphonies—at least not
as she construes that term.
Although women now make up a much larger percentage of composers who are writ-
ing symphonies today, men still dominate this musical arena. However, the composition
of symphonies now seems to occupy the attention of fewer and fewer composers (of either
gender) than ever before. As Judith Lang Zaimont pointed out, the newest symphonic
repertoire has been augmented by a growing number of shorter one-movement, often
programmatic works for orchestra that composers are not calling “symphonies.” This
phenomenon may be a by-product of economic conditions that pertain to the music busi-
ness in the 21st century. As the British conductor Kenneth Woods astutely observed about
the relationship of today’s audiences to contemporary music:
In the absence of an audience fully equipped to track an atonal musical narrative

over a long time, orchestras have commissioned shorter and shorter pieces and done
all they could to make them digestible to their audience; hence the modern scourge
of works of less than ten minutes duration, laden with catchy titles, ingratiating pro-
grammatic outlines, and program notes that often take longer to read than it takes to
listen to the piece.9
Nevertheless, the symphony is still alive and thriving in concert halls around the world,
thanks mostly to commissions from professional orchestras and various other musical
organizations responsible for supporting contemporary music in large concert halls.
Philip Glass (b. 1937)

While not exactly a new name in the world of music, Philip Glass has been more active
as a symphonist throughout his career than most concertgoers realize. More commonly
associated with his various musical theater pieces (operas) written in the minimalist style
(e.g., Einstein on the Beach, 1976), Glass has now produced 11 symphonies, and shows
no signs of stopping there. Many of these works were, as is so often the case these days,
the result of commissions from major orchestras.
Symphony no. 10 (2012) is somewhat unusual among the symphonies of Glass because
it was a work originally conceived as background music for a fireworks festivity and was
composed for the original Glass Ensemble.10 Thinking that the first realization of this
work deserved a larger medium for its performance, Glass reworked the piece as a five-
movement symphony for full orchestra upon receiving a commission from Dennis Russell
Davies, the conductor of the Orchestre français des jeunes.
No one who knows the minimalist style that has marked Glass’s music for decades will
be surprised to hear much of the same in this symphony. Although his minimalist style
is not nearly as extreme as it was in the 1960s and 70s, his is still a music characterized
by the concept of long repetitions of ostinato-like passages in a severely limited diatonic
harmonic vocabulary. These ostinatos are usually arranged in a fashion that contradicts
the underlying meter of the piece. Ex. 9.19 illustrates a hypothetical superimposition of
ostinatos similar to what can be heard throughout the fifth movement of this symphony.
Ex. 9.19 Typical Rhythmic Patterning in the Fifth Movement
Glass’s musical style is not one that ever depended on the modulation of tonal centers or
the repetition and development of themes, and to that extent it presents a listener with the
same problems of aural perception as do the symphonies of most contemporary composers
from Lutosławski to Zwilich, where other musical elements such as texture, orchestration,
and attack density (or tempo in works that still rely on a perceptible sense of meter) become
the form-building devices that bring cohesion to a large scale work like a symphony. In Glass’s
Tenth Symphony some of these same techniques of formal organization can be discovered in
the music. But the greatest cohesion among the five movements of this symphony is produced
by the simple metric conflict of 2 against 3, which underlies each of its movements.
Christopher Rouse (1949–2019)

Another composer active in the writing of symphonies in the 21st century was Christopher
Rouse, who served as composer in residence with the New York Philharmonic from 2012
to 2015. At the time of his death in 2019 he had composed six symphonies, the fourth of
which was commissioned by the New York Philharmonic in 2013. This work has only two
movements, Felice (happy) and Doloroso (sorrowful), the titles of which clearly suggest a
program that lies behind this symphony. The composer himself affirms this programmatic
association, but has always refused to reveal any further details about the exact meaning of
those titles.
Like the compositional style of Judith Lang Zaimont, Rouse’s music embraces a post-
modern aesthetic in which multiple styles co-exist more or less simultaneously. The first
movement of this symphony involves a rhythmic foundation of perpetual motion over
which short melodic fragments are laid in what sounds like a through-composed form.
Rapidly changing textures emerge from the contrast of sections written for full orchestra
and those that feature more soloistic writing. In fact, Rouse’s masterful deployment of
the orchestra reminds one of the style of Bartok’s Concerto for Orchestra. The second
movement, “Doloroso,” utilizes some far more dissonant harmonies superimposed over
an underlying fabric of tonal harmony, all in a slow tempo. Both movements seem to
exhibit a basically narrative, through-composed style of formal organization that gives the
impression of music that depicts some kind of mental drama, much the way a film score
narrates a motion picture. Because the two movements of this symphony represent the
opposite sides of one emotional coin, one might say they imitate the two-movement form
of Lutosławski’s Second Symphony, in which the first movement sets up the expectation
of a concluding movement by introducing materials that demand further development or
even contradiction in the finale. Therefore, Rouse’s symphony continues the idea that this
genre involves the accumulation of multiple contrasting parts that form a unified whole.
John Corigliano (b. 1938)

John Corigliano is one of the most respected composers active in America today, but the
symphony is not a genre usually associated with his name. In fact, he himself has asserted
that his intention as a young composer was never to write a symphony because there were
already so many great symphonies in the orchestral repertoire. Nevertheless, he has on
three occasions broken his promise not to write a symphony. The first of these came in
1987 when he served as the first composer in residence with the Chicago Symphony. The
second occurred in 2000 when he was commissioned by the Boston Symphony Orchestra
to write a symphony for its 100th anniversary. On that occasion Corigliano decided, like
Philip Glass, to create a symphony by reworking an earlier piece, in this case his string
quartet of 1995. His third and last symphony was commissioned in 2003 for the wind
ensemble of the University of Texas at Austin.
Corigliano is yet another composer who embraces a pluralistic style of composition in
which dissonant atonal music can be freely mixed with old-fashioned tonal harmony that
sounds like Bach or Mozart. The Second Symphony exhibits this multiplicity of stylistic
approaches to the symphony. Its five movements are cast in a large-scale arch form that
recalls many of the works of Bartok, wherein the first and last movements are related, the
second and fourth movements are related, and the middle movement stands alone at the
center of the composition.
The first movement illustrates Corigliano’s use of divergent compositional techniques,
starting with a section of aleatoric glissandos without metric organization, which alternate
with sections of triadic, homophonic writing. The second movement, however, bears a far
greater relationship to past symphonic traditions with its clearly scherzo-like style of strong,
repeated, dissonant chords and running-note passages. The third movement, which serves
as the emotional center of the work, is a Nocturne that imitates the traditional symphonic
slow movement. This relationship with the past continues with the fugal fourth movement,
which states its subject in various simultaneously different rhythmic compressions. But this
fugue also makes a connection to the preceding movement by embedding in its subject the
same pitch cell of a minor third and a minor second that formed the basis of the Nocturne.
The interval of the minor third returns prominently in the last movement, which then ends
by restating the opening glissandos of the first movement in retrograde motion, thus cre-
ating a large cyclical return of the kind commonly found in symphonies since Beethoven.
Lastly, Berlioz’s use of the idée fixe in every one of the symphony’s five movements made
this the most thoroughly cyclical composition in the history of the symphony thus far.
Many of these 21st-century composers of symphonies have adopted the postmodern
philosophy of stylistic pluralism, unabashedly infusing their music with elements of both
tonal harmony and modern dissonance. Many of them, like Corigliano, Rouse, Zwilich,
and Zaimont, seem as well to be concerned with the traditional inter-relatedness of the
different movements of a symphony. In effect, the genre of the symphony seems to be
alive and well in a multiplicity of manifestations, many of which are modernizations and
reinterpretations of the long and varied history of this genre. As for the old debate about
the value of music written by women, we can now see that with the advent of educational
opportunities that women had so long been denied, their music is indistinguishable from
that of their male counterparts. Therefore, as Judith Lang Zaimont likes to insist, there is
no reason to place the adjective “woman” before the noun “composer” in order to catego-
rize and perhaps even stigmatize that particular subset of composers.
Study Questions
1. What were the factors that prevented women from writing symphonies before the
20th century?
2. How can a symphony that has no themes still imitate some of the traditional tech-
niques of symphonic composition?
3. What is “postmodernism” in music?
Further Reading
Jane Bowers and Judith Tick, eds., Women Making Music: The Western Art Tradition, 1150–1950
(Chicago, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1986).
Notes
1. Invented in 1928 by Maurice Martenot.
2. See Peter Hill and Nigel Simeone, Messiaen (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005), 133,
171–73.
3. Ray Robinson, ed., “Conversations at the End of the Millennium, 1997,” in Krzysztof Pend-
erecki: His Life and Work (Chapel Hill, NC: Hinshaw Music, 1998), 72, 90.
4. Nancy B. Reich, Clara Schumann: The Artist and the Woman (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1989), 229
5. Quoted in Jane Bowers and Judith Tick, eds., Women Making Music: The Western Art Tradi-
tion, 1150–1950 (Chicago, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1986), 268.
6. Besides Beach and Farrenc, the other 19th-century woman who composed symphonies was
the British composer Alice Mary Smith (1839-84). See Christine Ammer, Unsung: A History of
Women in American Music (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1980), 262, fn. IV/34.
7. The National Conservatory ceased operations c.1930, a victim of competition from the Juilliard
School and the financial collapse of the Great Depression.
8. In personal correspondence with the composer, 5 November 2018.
9. Kenneth Woods, conductor of the English Symphony Orchestra, Musical Opinion
(January−March 2016).
10. An ensemble of electric keyboards, synthesizers and amplified saxophones and flutes put together
by Glass in the 1960s specifically to play his music.
Index
ABA form: Debussy 187; Dvořák 147; Haydn 107, 111, 115, 121, 127, 129, 132, 138n11,
40, 41, 46; Hindemith 220; Liszt 137; 160–1, 206, 231; Pastoral Symphony 82–4,
Mahler 165; Schubert 90; Schumann 118; 96n10, 103, 115, 138n1, 143, 145, 233; and
Shostakovich 228; Stamitz 18; Stravinsky Schubert 90, 93–4, 95; and Schumann 111,
210, 214; Tchaikovsky 154; Zaimont 252 115, 126–7
Abel, Karl Friedrich 3, 50–2 Berg, Alban 224
Adams, John 253 Berlin 19–20, 113, 164, 192
aleatory music 241–2 Berlioz, Hector 77, 85, 99–109, 183; and
anti-Semitism 158 Beethoven 102–3; and Brahms 128;
attacca 10–11, 20–1, 22–3, 81, 88, 111–12, connection to opera 100; dramatic
116, 137, 195, 233–4 symphony 100, 104, 107–8; Grande
audience relations 3–6, 22, 28, 39, 43–5, 51–2, symphonie funèbre et triumphale 10; Grand
54, 57–8, 60–1, 65–7, 69, 71, 84, 106, traité d’instrumentation et d’orchestration
159–60, 183, 198, 203, 209, 217, 226, 230, moderns 102; Harold en Italie 106–7; idée
253–4 fixe 101–3; La damnation de Faust 131;
autobiographical music 72–3, 80, 88, 95, 100, and Liszt 106, 108, 121–2, 131; and Mahler
106, 108, 115–16, 123, 135, 201 167; and Mendelssohn 110–11; narrative
avant-garde 46, 88, 91, 99, 106, 115–16, form 105; orchestration 102, 104–6;
120–2, 123, 130, 131–2, 140, 158, 191, 196, Paganini 106–7; Roméo et Juliette 107–8;
199, 203, 207, 224–5, 232, 235, 238 Shakespeare 107; Symphonie fantastique
100–6, 128, 230; thematic transformation
Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel 14, 20–4, 29, 102–3
34–5, 59 binary form 7, 10, 12, 16, 18, 21, 23, 31–4, 40,
Bach, Johann Christian 3, 50–2, 56 46, 48, 62, 79, 119
Bach, Johann Sebastian 4–6, 132, 255; on Bohemia 14, 158
Brahms 123; on Hindemith 222; influence on Bonaparte, Napoleon 73, 78–9, 108, 139, 157
Beethoven 68; on Mendelssohn 110, 113; on Borodin, Alexander 149; In the Steppes of
Mozart 59, 63, 65; on Schumann 116 Central Asia 150–1
Balakirev, Mily 149, 151 Boulez, Pierre 248
Ballet Russe see Diaghilev, Sergey Brahms, Johannes 122, 123–30; and Beethoven
Bartók, Béla 209, 225, 237n24, 238, 241, 124, 127; developing variation 128; and
255–6 Dvořák 123; and Liszt 124–5; orchestration
Beach, Amy 247–8 123; and Schumann 124; Symphony no. 1
Beethoven, Ludwig van 66, 110, 113, 123, 124–30; use of brass instruments 129
183, 192; and Berlioz 102–4, 107–8, 115, brass instruments 3–4, 9, 15, 28, 36, 44, 54,
138n2; biography 67–8, 71–2; and Brahms 71, 106, 121, 129, 138n6, 147, 152, 155,
124, 126, 129, 130n2, 138n16; as conductor 158, 161, 175–7, 204, 222, 241
72; deafness 71–2; drama in 72, 75–8; and Breitkopf and Härtel 25, 36, 50
Dvořák 143, 145, 147; Eroica Symphony Bruckner, Anton 158, 172, 178, 191–2, 242–3
73–80, 82, 108, 154, 165, 179n8; Fifth Bülow, Hans von 127, 132–3, 172
Symphony 80–2; First Symphony 68–71; and Byron, Gordon Lord 106–7, 132
Haydn 67–9; Heiligenstadt testament 71, 83,
88; immortal beloved 84; influence on others canonic writing 33, 39, 41, 61, 65, 167, 205
124, 126–7, 132, 137, 142, 152, 154, 158, characteristic music 29–31, 82–3, 145, 154,
160, 165, 172, 178, 206, 231, 242, 247; and 156–7, 192, 252
Mozart 66, 68–9; Ninth Symphony 85–7, collegno see string instruments
Index 259
concert pitch 10 galant style 5–6, 10, 16, 18, 21, 23, 25, 27,
Concert Spirituel 3, 54, 61, 69, 183 29–30, 33–4, 58
conductors 4, 8, 72, 121, 124, 127, 158, 160, Gebrauchmusik see Hindemith, Paul
172, 191–2, 217, 248, 254 Glass, Philip: Symphony no. 10 254–5
Corigliano, John: Second Symphony 255–6 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 29, 88, 110, 135–7
counterpoint 5; Haydn 25, 30–1, 33; Mozart Gossec, François-Joseph 78, 183
60, 63, 65; Beethoven 68, 85; Borodin 151; Gounod, Charles 183
Hindemith 218, 222; Mendelssohn 110;
Messiaen 241; Schubert 89; Schumann 116; Habeneck, François Antoine 183
Tchaikovsky 155; see also canonic writing harmony 5, 21, 32, 88, 140, 150, 158, 183;
cyclical form 88, 183; Beethoven 82, 85; 3rd related keys 91, 93–4, 123, 126, 134,
Berlioz 106–7; Brahms 124; Corigliano 154; Beethoven 70, 74, 76–7, 82, 85; cluster
256; Liszt 135, 137; Lutoslawsky 242; chords 177; dissonance 70, 76, 172, 176, 196,
Mendelssohn 113; Messiaen 240–1; Schubert 198–9, 203, 209, 223, 234, 256; enharmonic
91; Schumann 117–20; Shostakovich change 90; modal 90, 94, 140, 146, 150,
233–4; Smetana 140; Stravinsky 211–12; 156, 189, 192, 195, 231; Neoclassical 207;
Tchaikovsky 156; Zwilich 250–1 octatonic 185; whole tone 185
harp 102, 123
dance suites 5, 7 Haydn, Joseph 25–49; Breitkopf edition of
Debussy, Claude 183–90; gamelan music his symphonies 25, 36; experiments with
185–6; Impressionism 184–5; La mer form and orchestration 36–7, 104; humor
187–90; Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune 28, 34, 43; Paris Symphonies 38; Sturm und
186–7; and the Russian Nationalists 185; Drang symphonies 29–35; “popular” style
Symbolism 185 38–9; Symphony no. 6 “Le matin” 26–9;
developing variation technique: Brahms 127–9; Symphony no. 44 “Trauer” 30–4; Symphony
Debussy 187; Dvořák 146; Haydn 46; Liszt no. 92 “Oxford” 38–43; Symphony no. 104
134; Mahler 163; Penderecki 244; Sibelius “London” 45–9; Turkish style 44–5
193; Zaimont 252 Haydn, Michael 50, 56
Diaghilev, Sergey 209 Heiligenstadt see Beethoven, Ludwig van
divertimento 6, 36 Higdon, Jennifer 253
Dvořák, Antonín 123, 142–8, 151, 157, 191, Hindemith, Paul 204, 217–23; counterpoint
195, 198, 248; numbering of his symphonies 221–2; The Craft of Musical Composition
142–3; Symphony no. 8 143–8; see also 217–18; Gebrauchmusik 217; Joseph Stalin
nationalism 217; Mathis der Maler 217–23; Wilhelm
Furtwängler 217
Elector Karl Theodore 26, 53, 55 Holy Roman Empire 14, 111, 139
Empfindsamer Stil 23, 29, 30, 34–5 humor: in Haydn 28, 34, 43; in Mahler 165
Enlightenment 3–5, 139; relation to Beethoven
139 irony 165–6, 176
Esterhazy, Prince Nikolaus 25–6, 28, 36–8, Ives, Charles 197–202; collage-quotation
43–4 technique 199; father George 197–8;
Exposition Universelle see Paris Horatio Parker 198; relation to Debussy
201; substance vs. manner 197; Three
Farrenc, Louise 247 Places in New England 199–201;
Faust 63, 131, 135–7 Transcendentalism198
folk music influences: in Beach 248; in
Beethoven 82–3, 88, 96n12; in Brahms 123, key relationships see harmony
127; in Dvořák 139–41, 143, 145–7; in Köchel Catalogue 50, 52, 56, 66n3
Haydn 38–40, 48; in Mahler 159, 165; in Koussevitsky, Serge 239
Mendelssohn 111–12; in Schumann 116; in
Shostakovich 234; in Sibelius 192, 201; in Ländler 116, 146–7, 165
Tchaikovsky 149–50, 154, 156–7 Leipzig 92, 114, 116, 158
form: sectional 212, 214, 216n2, 225; Liszt, Franz 63, 95n7, 115, 123, 125, 131–8,
unpatterned 189–90; see also ABA form; 140, 142, 156, 243; and Berlioz 106,
binary form; narrative form; sonata form 108, 122, 131, 137; Carolyne von Sayn-
Frederick the Great 20, 26, 59 Wittgenstein 132; Dante Symphony 137;
fugue: Bach 63; Beethoven 79–80; Mozart 52, Faust Symphony 135–7; Les préludes
63–5; Hindemith 221–2 132–5; and Mahler 167, 171; Marie
funeral march 78, 105, 108, 165–9, 177, 226 d’Agoult 131–2; Neue Zeitschrift für Musik;
Furtwängler, Wilhelm 217 Zukunftsmusik 132; and Schumann 122; and
Fux, J.J. 25, 64 Strauss 172, 175, 178, 179n4; Weimar 132
260 Index
London 3, 28, 37–8, 43–5, 50–2, 68, 85, 110, 80–1, 85; in Berlin 20–1; Berlioz 102,
204–5 104–6; Brahms 123, 128, 130; Debussy 183,
Lutoslawski, Witold: Second and Third 185–6, 190; early history of 3–4, 6–11; first
Symphonies 242–5 professional 3; Haydn 25–6, 28, 35n11,
36–7, 43–6; Liszt 137, 138nn22–3; Mahler
Mahler, Gustav 158–71, 209; irony 165–8; 167; in Mannheim 14–15; Mendelssohn
Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen 159–61; 110, 112; Messiaen 239; Mozart 50, 52–5,
Symphony no. 1 160–71; Natalie Bauer- 60; Neoclassical 203–7; Schubert 90,
Lechner 164 92, 95; Schumann 115–17, 120–1, 175;
Mallarmé, Stéphane 185–6 Shostakovich 224–6, 230, 232–5; Strauss
Mannheim 14–16, 18–20, 204; influence on 172–7; Stravinsky 209–10; of strings 11–12,
Mozart 19 20, 110, 242; Tchaikovsky 155–6; Zaimont
Meck, Nadezhda von 152, 154, 157, 185, 187 251–2
Mendelssohn, Fanny 246–7 orchestration see orchestra
Mendelssohn, Felix 92, 110–13, 115–16, 121, overture: concert 67, 89, 132–3, 140, 148, 157,
123, 131, 172, 247; concert overtures 132; 187, 235; opera 7–8, 10–12, 16, 35n12, 50,
Dresden Amen 111; Symphonies nos. 1, 2, 55, 66
4, 5 110–11; Symphony no. 3 “Scottish”
112–13; and Berlioz 111; and Mozart 110; Paris 3, 69, 77, 100, 184, 207, 209–10; Haydn
and Schumann 92 28, 38, 40, 42, 44–5, 58; Mozart 51–2,
Messiaen, Olivier 190; Turangalila Symphony 54–5, 60–1; universal exhibition 185
238–41 Paris Conservatory 99, 102, 104, 184, 247
Mighty Five 149–51, 185 parody 106, 165, 167, 176, 217
Minuet 203, 206; early use of 16, 18, 40; pastoral style 82–4, 96n10, 103–4, 115, 134–5,
growing sophistication of 32–3, 41–2, 48, 143, 145
61–2, 79; in Haydn 27, 32, 61; in Mendelssohn Perderecki, Krzysztof: Second Symphony 242–4
110–11; in Mozart 54–5, 61; in Schubert 91 Pergolesi, Giovanni 8–11
modes see harmony philharmonic societies 3–4, 6–8
Mozart, Leopold 50–60, 65, 67 poetic idea 73, 86, 172
Mozart, Nannerl 51 Prague 56, 58–62, 140–2, 158
Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus 19, 26, 50–66, Prix de Rome 100, 106, 111, 184
123, 203–4, 206, 238, 255; Bach influence Prokofiev, Sergey 203–8; Symphony No. 1
59, 63–6; and Beethoven 67–8, 69, 74, “Classical” 204–7; Soviet censorship 207
79; and Brahms 123; Haydn influence public concerts 3, 8, 11, 14, 20, 38, 43–4, 51,
58–9; Köchel Catalogue 50, 52; Mannheim 52, 54–5, 65, 69, 89, 123, 131
influence 53; and Mendelssohn 110–11,
113; numbering of his symphonies 50; ranz des vaches 83, 96n11, 104
Paris 54; travels 51–2; Symphony no. 29 Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai 149, 185, 203, 209
53; Symphony no. 35 “Haffner” 56–7; rocket theme see Stamitz, Johann
Symphony no. 38 “Prague” 58–62; Romanticism: characteristics of 88–9
Symphony no. 41 “Jupiter” 62–6; and rondo 39, 42, 56, 91, 142, 174, 205, 232,
Schubert 89–91; and Stravinsky 210 234–5, 240
Mussorgsky, Modest 149, 185 rondo-sonata 42, 56, 79
Rouse, Christopher: Fourth Symphony 255
Napoleon see Bonaparte, Napoleon Russia 132, 140, 149–53, 156–7, 185–6, 192,
narrative form 88, 100, 105–6, 140, 142, 172, 196, 203, 207–9, 232–5, 236n10, 237n15;
175, 177–8, 255 1917 revolution 224–6, 233–4; see also
nationalism: Czech 139–48, 195; Russian 149– Soviet Union
57; Sibelius 195
Nazi influence on composers 208, 217–23, Saint-Saëns, Camille 183
232, 236n10, 241 Salieri, Antonio 68, 89, 131
Neoclassicism 203–7, 209–10, 212, 224, 226, Salomon, Peter 43–4
233 Sammartini, Giovanni 11–12, 23, 27, 35n4
New York Philharmonic 248–9, 255 Scarlatti, Domenico 5–6
scherzo 79, 81, 85, 91–2, 110–12, 116, 119,
opera 4–12, 16, 18, 35n12, 37, 43–5, 50, 52–3, 123, 126, 146–7, 155, 165, 195, 207–8, 211,
55–6, 58, 66, 85, 89, 99–100, 102, 104, 228–9, 232–3, 239, 243–4, 252, 256
107–8, 140, 142, 149, 157–8, 172, 183, 207, Schiller, Friedrich 85, 140
217–22, 225, 236n9, 246–7, 254 Schoenberg, Arnold 46, 120, 127–8, 130, 138,
orchestra 69, 224–6, 235, 236n12, 238–9, 138n19, 193, 199, 203, 209, 217, 235, 238,
248–9, 251–5; Beethoven 69–72, 77, 79, 241; emancipation of the dissonance 196
Index 261
Schubert 88–95, 96n15, 110–11, 115, 121, Neoclassicism of 210–12; Symphony in C
123–4; and Beethoven 89–90, 92–3; 210–12; Symphony in Three Movements
and Mendelssohn 92; and Mozart 90–1; 212–16; use of ostinatos 212–13
and Schumann 92; Symphony no. 5 91; string instruments 4, 7, 10–11, 20–1, 121,
Symphonies nos. 8 and 9 91–5; see also 138n8, 155, 175, 201, 232, 242; 18th c. 10,
harmony 12; in Beethoven 70; col legno 106; in Haydn
Schumann, Clara 114–16, 124, 246–7, 257n4 26, 30, 35n11, 36; viola 12; virtuosic writing
Schumann, Robert 114–22, 131–3, 135, 175, for 176
179n3, 195; and Brahms 124; Florestan Sturm und Drang 29–31, 33–5, 37, 40, 48, 52
and Eusebius 114; and Liszt 122; Neue Swieten, Baron Gottfried van 20, 59
Zeitschrift für Musik 114, 121, 124, 132; symbolism 185
orchestration 120–1; and Schubert 92;
Symphonies Nos. 1–3 115–16; Symphony Tchaikovsky, Peter 123; and Debussy 185,
no. 4 116–20 187; marriage 152 (see also Meck, Nadezhda
serenade 148, 172, 36, 50, 55–7 von); Symphony no. 4 151–7
Shakespeare, William 140; influence on Berlioz thematic transformation 88, 212; Berlioz
100, 107 102, 178n1, 183; Brahms 127–8, 130;
Shostakovich, Dmitry 224–36; connection to Haydn 46–7; Liszt 131, 134–5, 137;
Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde 226; DSCH Mahler 158; Mendelssohn II.4B; Schumann
motive 235; Rossini 235; Solomon Volkov 120; Shostakovich 233–4; Sibelius 195;
226, 230, 237n16; Stalin 224–6, 232–4, Zwilich 251; see also developing variation
236; Symphony no. 1 224; Symphonies nos. technique
2–3 224–5; Symphony nos. 4–5 225–32; third-related keys see harmony
Symphonies nos. 6–15 232–6; Testimony tone poem 106, 108, 125, 132–5, 140, 148–50,
226, 231, 237n18; WWII 232–3; Yevgeny 159, 172–8, 179n4
Yevtushenko 234; see also Soviet Union Tost, Johann see Haydn, Joseph, Paris
Sibelius, Jean 191–6; Symphony no. 5 193–6; Symphonies
tone poems 192 Transcendentalism see Ives
sinfonia 3, 6, 8, 96n10, 218 Turkish style: Haydn 44–5
sinfonische Dichtung (symphonic poem) see
tone poem variation form 46, 79–80, 207, 252
Smetana, Bedřich: The Moldau 140–2; see also verismo 185
nationalism Vienna 9; Beethoven 68–9, 71–2, 85; Debussy
Smithson, Harriet 100, 107; see also Berlioz, 183–8; Dvorak 142; Haydn 25, 38, 43; and
Hector Liszt 131, 132, 137, 138nn22–3; Mahler
Société des Concerts du Conservatoire 183 158; Mozart 52, 55–6, 59, 61; Strauss 172;
sonata form: Bach, C.P.E. 22–3; Beethoven Shostakovich 235; Strauss 172
74; Berlioz 102; codas 32, 74; compound
117–19, 133, 135, 137, 177–20, 243; Wieck, Friedrich 114–15
development sections in 39, 56, 74, Wolf, Hugo: opinion of Brahms 123
93–4; early history of 7, 12, 16–18; early women 251–4
theoretical definitions of 16–17; Haydn woodwind instruments 3, 9–10, 15, 20–1,
26–8; Mahler 163, 170; Mannheim 16–18; 204, 252; bassoons 4, 7, 9, 20–1, 26–7,
Messiaen 241; monothematic 29–31, 34, 36–7, 44, 54, 69, 80, 106, 111, 138n6, 157,
38–9, 46, 58; Mozart’s experiments with 215; clarinet 9, 15–16, 37, 44, 54, 69, 177;
64–5; Neoclassical 203–6; recapitulations 28, E-flat clarinet 105, 167; in Beethoven 71,
31, 39–40, 59; Strauss 174–5 84; English horn 36, 88, 104, 123, 142, 150;
Soviet Union 207, 224, 232, 235; Composers’ flute 4, 9, 15, 20, 26–8, 37, 44, 54, 186,
Union 208, 225; socialist realism 225, 231, 253; in Haydn 27, 37, 41, 44; in Mozart
234; see also Stalin, Joseph 54, 69; oboe 4, 9, 11, 15, 20–1, 26–7, 36–7,
Stalin, Joseph see Hindemith, Shostakovich 44, 54–5, 69, 104, 204, 210; in Strauss 158,
Stamitz, Johann 14–19, 23, 26, 32, 40, 53, 61, 175–7; in Tchaikovsky 155–6
190
Strauss, Richard 86, 95n7, 108, 115, 138n23, Zaimont, Judith Lang: Pure, Cool (Water)
172–8; dissonance in 177; Don Juan 173–6; 251–4
Don Quixote 176–8; orchestration 175–7 Zukunftsmusik (music of the future) 132,
Stravisky, Igor 203, 209–16; Rite of Spring 138n21, 172
203, 209, 207, 211; First Symphony 209; Zwilich, Ellen Taaffe: Symphony no. 1 248–51
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A History of The Symphony

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A History of the Symphony

• The Classical Symphony

Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

ISBN: 978-0-8153-5704-9 (hbk)

1 Origins of the Genre: From Pergolesi to Early Haydn3

2 Maturation of the Genre: Haydn and Mozart 36

3 From Classicism to Romanticism 67

4 The Romantic Generation: Tradition vs. the Avant-Garde 99

5 Musical Nationalism: Eastern Europe and Russia 139

6 The Late Romantic Symphony: Mahler and Strauss 158

7 The Early 20th Century 183

8 Masters of the 20th Century: From Ives to Shostakovich 197

9 Contemporary Views of the Symphony 238

The Classical Symphony

Pergolesi and the Italian Sinfonia

Musical Styles in the 18th Century

Ex. 1.1 J.S. Bach, Allemande From French Suite No. 4

Ex. 1.2 D. Scarlatti Harpsichord Sonata in D Major, K. 119

Early Use of the Term “Symphony”

Italian Opera Overtures

Baroque Dance Suite

The Early Overture-Symphony

Ex. 1.3 Giovanni Pergolesi, Overture to L’Olimpiade (1735)

Illustration 1.1 A Valveless Trumpet of the 18th Century

Ex. 1.4 Motives in G. Pergolesi, Overture to L’Olimpiade

The form of this opening section (movement) might therefore be diagramed as in

Figure 1.1 Form of the Overture to Pergolesi’s L’Olimpiade

The Early Concert Symphony

Ex. 1.5 G. Sammartini, Symphony in F Major, J-C 32, First Movement

Stamitz and the Mannheim School; C.P.E. Bach and the

Ex. 1.7b Secondary Theme and Closing Theme

Figure 1.2 Formal Plan of the First Movement

Figure 1.3 Common Italian Binary First Movement Form

Figure 1.4 Minuet-Trio Form

Ex. 1.9 Seuffzers in the Finale of Op. 2, No. 3, Secondary Theme

North Germany (Prussia): Berlin

Ex. 1.11b Transition 1, m. 8

Ex. 1.11c Primary Theme 2, m. 23

Ex. 1.11d Transition 2, m. 41

Ex. 1.11e Secondary Theme, m. 49

Figure 1.5 First Movement Form

Ex. 1.12a Primary Theme, Third Movement

Ex. 1.12b Secondary Theme

1. The symphony remained central to Haydn’s compositional activity throughout his

Ex. 1.13a Primary Theme, Symphony No. 6, First Movement

Ex. 1.13b Secondary Theme

Ex. 1.13c Closing Theme

Ex. 1.14 Primary Theme, Symphony No. 6, Movement iv

Illustration 1.2 Esterháza Palace

Symphony no. 44 in E minor, known as the Trauersymphonie (symphony of mourning)

Figure 1.6 Exposition of a Monothematic Sonata Form—Type A

c. Secondary Theme (Repeat of P in the Relative Major)

In addition to the monothematic structure of this movement, one of the fundamental

Ex. 1.16 Contrapuntal Transition

Ex. 1.17 Transition Fragment Sequenced in Development, m. 84

Ex. 1.18 Canonic Opening of the Minuet

Ex. 1.19a First Theme of the Adagio

Ex. 1.19b Second Theme

Ex. 1.20 Developmental Material in the Second Half of the Movement

Figure 1.7 Alternate Monothematic Sonata Form Exposition

Ex. 1.21 Primary Theme, Finale

Haydn: From Servant to Entrepreneur

Symphony No. 92 in G Major, “Oxford”

1 Origins of the Genre: From Pergolesi to Early Haydn3

2 Maturation of the Genre: Haydn and Mozart 36

3 From Classicism to Romanticism 67

4 The Romantic Generation: Tradition vs. the Avant-Garde 99

5 Musical Nationalism: Eastern Europe and Russia 139

6 The Late Romantic Symphony: Mahler and Strauss 158

7 The Early 20th Century 183

8 Masters of the 20th Century: From Ives to Shostakovich 197

9 Contemporary Views of the Symphony 238