Dvořák Symphony No 8

For most of the second half of his life, Antonin Dvořák and his family would spend each summer at their country house near the village of Vysoka, just to the south-west of Prague. This idyllic retreat, surrounded by rolling fields and forests, offered the already celebrated composer a much-needed respite from the rigours of international acclaim. Dvořák loved nature, nurtured his garden with great care, and apart from devoting a great deal of time to raising pigeons, composed many of his most famous works at this haven of tranquil beauty.

Dvořák wrote his Eighth Symphony at Vysoka in 1889. He composed it exceptionally quickly, sketching the whole piece out in just a couple of weeks. The second movement seems to have been written in three days, and the third, in just one. The ebullient outpouring of joyful lyricism makes it one of the happiest symphonies ever written.

Clearly inspired by nature, the work has been likened to Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony. Both works are a celebration, not so much of the natural world, but of humanity’s place within it, a symbiotic relationship that feels particularly clear in this symphony’s opening movement. Dvořák said that he had wanted to avoid the ‘usual, universally applied and recognised forms’ and in alternating the deeply human song of the cellos’ opening melody with the more birdlike calls of the flute, he subjugates symphonic structure into something more personal, a message which suggests that an idealistic balance between nature and humanity is possible.

The second movement is the longest of the four, and is equally free in its treatment of form. Ideas that initially sound unrelated feel connected by the end, just as the peaceful simplicity of nature when it is calm can be contrasted and yet linked to the unsettling energy of a thunderstorm.

Motivated perhaps by how freely Brahms interpreted the symphonic form, the third movement feels more like an intermezzo than a traditional minuet or scherzo. A hauntingly beautiful melody, the rise and fall of which yearns and returns in equal measure, surrounds a central section that is based on a tune Dvořák had used in The Stubborn Lovers, a one-act comic opera he had composed fifteen years before. The melody belongs to the aria ‘Such youth in a girl, such dotage in a man.’ There is no evidence to suggest this story had any personal significance for Dvořák. He probably just liked the tune.

The finale begins with such a fanfare of trumpets that it is surprising to discover this was actually an afterthought on the part of the composer. The great Czech conductor Rafael Kubelik once said in a rehearsal: ‘Gentlemen, in Bohemia the trumpets are not a call to battle. They are a call to the dance!’ I am sure he is right, but maybe Dvořák saw a similarity in the two.

England has not been invaded for over a thousand years. This might be one of the reasons that it is easy for many of us to listen to our folk-music with a quaint sense of nostalgia. But for many other countries, these deep-rooted cultural traditions have far more significance. When, in the 17th century, Germanic influence started to overrun the regions of Bohemia, Moravia, and Slovakia, German became the official language, and it was only the peasants who maintained their mother-tongue. As 19th century industrialisation brought more and more people from the countryside to the cities, it became increasingly important to try to preserve a true Czech and Slavic identity. Celebrating the nation’s folkdances was an ideal way to do this as many of them were derived from the rhythms and stresses of the language itself. The language, the music, the dance, are all connected. When composers like Dvořák or Smetana incorporate Czech dance rhythms and melodies into their music, they are showing us what it means to be Czech. It is far more than a wistful glance to the past. It is a statement of identity. The unfettered joy that ends this work is ultimately one of pride of place.

When Dvořák conducted the work at its British premiere in London in 1890 the symphony was a huge success. Dvořák described the experience to a friend, ‘The concert came off wonderfully, perhaps more so than at any time in the past. After the first movement there was universal applause, after the second it was even louder, after the third it was so thunderous that I had to turn round several times and thank the audience. After the finale, the applause was tempestuous. They clapped so hard, it was almost unbearable. I am delighted and thank God that it turned out so well.’ Whether today’s audiences should clap after each movement is an oft repeated debate. But it’s nice to know that Dvořák seems to have been grateful!

Back to writings