Symphony

(Fr. simphonie, symphonie; Ger. Sinfonie, Symphonie; It. sinfonia)

Jan Larue, Eugene K. Wolf, Mark Evan Bonds, Stephen Walsh and Charles Wilson
https://doi.org/10.1093/gmo/9781561592630.article.27254

Published in print: 20 January 2001 Published online: 2001 updated, 27 April

2006

A term now normally taken to signify an extended work for orchestra. The symphony
became the chief vehicle of orchestral music in the late 18th century, and from the
time of Beethoven came to be regarded as its highest and most exalted form. The
adjective ‘symphonic’ applied to a work implies that it is extended and thoroughly
developed.

The word ‘symphony’ derives from the Greek syn (‘together’) and phōnē
(‘sounding’), through the Latin Symphonia, a term used during the Middle Ages and
the Renaissance. It is essentially in this derivation that the term was used by Giovanni
Gabrieli (Sacrae symphoniae, 1597), Heinrich Schütz (Symphoniae sacrae, 1629) and
others for concerted motets, usually for voices and instruments. In the 17th century
the term ‘symphony’ or (more commonly) ‘sinfonia’ was applied to introductory
movements to operas, oratorios and cantatas (see Overture), to the instrumental
introductions and ritornellos of arias and ensembles (see Ritornello), and to ensemble
works that could be classified as sonatas or concertos. The common factor in this
variety of usage was that sinfonias or symphonies were usually part of a larger
framework, such as another composition, an ‘academy’ or a ‘church service. (For a
fuller discussion see Sinfonia.)

The immediate antecedent of the modern symphony is commonly considered to be the

opera sinfonia, which by the early 18th century had a standard structure of three
sections or movements: fast, slow, and fast dance-like movement. That form was
extensively used by Alessandro Scarlatti and his contemporaries and was widely
adopted outside Italy, particularly in Germany and England (less in France, where the
French overture held sway). The terms ‘overture’ and ‘symphony or ‘sinfonia’ were
widely regarded as interchangeable for much of the 18th century.

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I. 18th century

• Jan Larue, revised by Eugene K. Wolf

1. Introduction.

To understand the development of the Classical style there is no better exercise than
to follow the long evolution of the 18th-century symphony. Firstly, the symphony was
cultivated with extraordinary intensity throughout most of the century: the Catalogue
of 18th-Century Symphonies (see LaRue, 1959, 1988) contains over 13,000 distinct
works. In Europe at the time there was hardly a princely, ecclesiastical, civic or even
private musical establishment that did not possess a stock of symphonies. Valuable
collections have been discovered from Finland to Sicily and from Kiev to Salem,
North Carolina. The leading area of symphonic production was no doubt Vienna and
the rest of the Habsburg Monarchy, followed by Germany, Italy, France and England;
but significant activity also took place in the Low Countries, Scandinavia, Spain,
Poland and Russia. A second important aspect is the continuity of the symphony’s
development, beginning in the late 17th century with the skeletal necesssities of
instrumentation, texture and tempo contrast and leading ultimately to the balanced
array of procedures that epitomize the Classical style. Finally, the characteristically
large-scale, public nature of the symphony, together with the fact that it did not
depend on soloistic virtuosity to achieve its effect, gave it a weight and significance
that seemed to call for a composer’s best efforts. The increasingly prominent position
accorded the symphony during the 18th century appears tangibly in both the
importance it occupies in publishers’ catalogues and the conspicuous role it plays in
writings of the time, including those of Scheibe, Riepel, Burney, Schulz, Koch and
many others.

2. Social aspects.

The symphony pervaded a broad spectrum of 18th-century life. It provided an

important element of state, civic and institutional functions, from installations and
other official ceremonies to banquets and receptions. Symphonies were also a
standard component of Catholic church services, the usual practice being to distribute
the various movements throughout the Mass as substitutes or accompaniments to
items of the Proper such as the gradual, offertory and communion (Zaslaw, 1982).

The most characteristic use of the symphony, however, was as part of one of the
varied types of occasions we lump together under the rubric ‘concerts’. One type of
concert was the ‘academy’ or private concert in a palace, monastery or private
residence. In contrast to the later image of the concert as a primarily aesthetic
experience, aristocratic academies generally featured tea and card-playing, and
descriptions of the time make clear that there was much moving about and
conversation as a counterpoint to the music: Spohr recalls in his autobiography that as

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late as 1799 the Duchess of Brunswick insisted that the orchestra always play softly
when she was present so that the card-playing should not be disturbed. Of burgeoning
importance throughout the century was the public concert, ranging from ale- and
coffee-house concerts and the many amateur series to the formal subscription and
benefit concerts common in the second half of the century.

Whether it was a private academy or a public concert, the principal fare of such
occasions during the period was nearly always music that featured soloists, both
instrumental and vocal. Programmes of the time show that the most common role of
the symphony was to open the concert, an introductory function not unlike that of an
overture. Either another symphony or one movement of the opening symphony might
then close the programme. The growing prestige and aesthetic significance of the
symphony in the course of the century may be seen in the prominence given to
Haydn’s latest productions during both his London stays: whereas a symphony (still
known in England as an overture) by another composer would most often begin the
concert, Haydn’s newest work was usually placed at the start of the second half,
where it would presumably receive greater attention – and not suffer from, or be
missed by, latecomers.

3. Sources.

The enormous number of 18th-century symphonies mentioned above obviously

implies an even more enormous number of sources. A well-known symphony by
Pleyel, for example, may be found in as many as 50 libraries, and its popularity
extended even to remote locations; for instance, the records of the Philharmonic
Society of Breslau (now Wrocław) show performances of Pleyel’s op.30 extending to
1833. Copies of symphonies by Gossec and van Maldere appear in provincial church
archives in lower Slovakia; many Italian overtures found their way into Russian
libraries; and a Russian symphony/overture by Berezovs′ky is extant in the Doria-
Pamphili collection in Rome.

Symphonies during the 18th century were usually transmitted in parts rather than
score, and manuscripts were much more common than prints. The copying of
manuscripts was a standard obligation of musicians at courts, monasteries and other
institutions. In addition, manuscripts could be obtained commercially from such
copying shops as the well-known ones of Vienna. Firms such as Breitkopf in Leipzig
and Ringmacher in Berlin (see Brook, 1966, 1987) even issued incipit catalogues
from which one could obtain manuscript copies (though Breitkopf offered more and
more prints for sale over the years). After about 1750 the symphony became so
popular that publishers in Paris, Amsterdam and London issued them on a periodic
basis, as in Robert Bremner’s famous series ‘The Periodical Overture in 8 Parts’,
begun in 1763 and intended ‘To be continued monthly’; such publications were
especially popular with amateur music societies and for domestic use. It should also

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be noted that neither prints nor manuscripts of the 18th century normally bear dates,
so that determination of chronology typically rests on circumstantial evidence alone.

Symphonies in the 18th century appear under a large number of different titles in
addition to ‘sinfonia’ and its cognates, such as overture (also introduzione, intrada,
prelude), sonata, trio, quartet or quadro, quintet, concerto, concertino, parthia,
divertimento, cassation, serenade and pastorale. Thus, to identify them according to a
‘semantic principle’ (such as that adopted by W.S. Newman in his books on the
sonata, i.e. to include only works bearing some form of the title ‘sinfonia’) would
result in a skewed and highly incomplete survey. A related question of ‘when is a
work a symphony?’ arises with regard to the use of operatic overtures as concert
symphonies, a practice that reached its peak about 1760 and then tapered off as the
stylistic distinction between the two genres became clearer. In general, the present
survey will take account of overtures only when necessary for contextual purposes, as
when they provided important models or avenues of innovation for the symphony
proper.

Two final problems with symphony sources concern anonymous works and
misattributions. The widespread problem of non-attribution has plagued librarians
since the inception of the symphony; it may result from loss of the cover page
carrying the attribution, from carelessness on the part of a copyist or librarian, or from
myriad other causes. A majority of anonymous symphonies can be linked to a
composer by use of the ‘Thematic Identifier’ volume of the Catalogue of 18th-
Century Symphonies (LaRue, 1988) or, when it is completed, RISM, but a
frustratingly high percentage represents unique sources for which no attribution has
been discovered.

Regarding misattributions, while frauds relating to Haydn may receive the widest
publicity, equally severe problems affect countless composers of less importance and
may lead to equally severe misunderstandings of their output and style. Such mistakes
can occur under the best of auspices, as shown by the publication in a respected
monumental edition (DTÖ, xxxi, Jg.xv/2) of a symphony in an obviously later
Classical style under the name of the early Viennese composer M.G. Monn (1717–
50). This work had troubled three generations of writers attempting to explain the
Viennese symphony, for stylistially it did not fit at all with the modest
instrumentation, figural melodic style and short phrase-lengths of Monn’s other
symphonies. But use of the ‘Thematic Identifier’ revealed that it was in fact a later
work by F.X. Pokorny of Regensburg, and study of the manuscript itself showed that
the attribution to him had been erased and changed to Monn. Misattributions of this
sort affect about 7% of 18th-century symphonies. Though the Thematic Identifier
(and eventually RISM) can bring such conflicts to the surface, the task of determining
the correct composer may still be almost insoluble; there are several symphonies
attributed to no fewer than five different composers.

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4. Instrumentation.

The earliest concert symphonies are scored for an orchestra of strings alone, with
harpsichord and often bassoon assumed as part of the continuo group. Though four
parts are the norm (two violins, viola and bass, the latter comprising at least cello and
double bass), trio-symphonies for two violins and bass are quite common in the early
phases of the symphony. Symphonies a 4 continue to be cultivated until late in the
century, especially by composers working at smaller provincial centres but also under
special circumstances by such well-known figures as C.P.E Bach, whose six
symphonies for string orchestra of 1773 were written for Gottfried van Swieten.

Beginning about 1730 one begins to find symphonies a 6 for strings and a pair of
horns or (less often) oboes, and slightly later the standard a 8 overture instrumentation
of strings plus a pair of oboes and a pair of horns. The latter combination should be
regarded as the standard orchestra for the symphony from c1740 to approximately the
1770s. Horns could be replaced by or augmented by pairs of trumpets and timpani.
Similarly, oboes could be replaced by flutes, either for the entire symphony or for the
slow movement alone. Bassoons increasingly took on a more concertante role, and
clarinets began to make their appearance in symphonies in the 1750s. However, the
expansion of the orchestra to full late Classical size (strings plus two each of flutes,
oboes, clarinets, bassoons, horns, trumpets and timpani, with harpsichord often
assumed even with this large a group) was erratic rather than consistent, and the
whole development is closely linked to local contingencies. For instance, the best-
known early example of this instrumentation, Mozart’s Symphony k297 of 1778, was
written for the large orchestra of the Concert Spirituel in Paris.

5. Key, form.

The great majority of 18th-century symphonies are in a major key, only rarely going
beyond four sharps or three flats. Only about 7–8% of these works are in the minor,
though as we shall see, certain composers of the period evinced a special fondness for
it. With respect to large-scale form, the fast–slow–fast (or fast–slow–moderate)
movement sequence familiar from the Baroque concerto and overture furnished the
basic pattern for the early symphony, and it continued to appear prominently
throughout the period, especially outside the Viennese sphere of influence. Second
movements of early symphonies are generally in the relative or tonic minor, the
dominant, or the tonic, with the subdominant coming to the fore after about 1750.

A familiar question arises over the introduction of the minuet and trio into the
symphony as the third movement of four, for which priority has been claimed on
behalf of both Mannheim and Vienna. Isolated precedents for this usage appear in
works of the suite tradition and in G.M. Monn’s famous D major symphony of 1740.
However, the latter work is the composer’s only four-movement symphony, and the
penultimate movement lacks a trio (see below, §10). Credit for the sustained use of

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four-movement form must therefore go to the Mannheim composer Johann Stamitz,
over half of whose symphonies incorporate a minuet and trio as the third movement of
four (see below, §9). In conjunction with this expansion, Stamitz and others sought to
give the finale greater substance, often placing it in 2/4 and marking it Presto or
Prestissimo so as to end the symphony with a flourish. It may be noted here that the
argument that the four-movement symphony resulted from the addition of such a
movement at the end of a fast–slow–minuet cycle cannot be maintained: the ‘minuets’
of the majority of early symphonies correspond to the faster Italian type, without trio,
not the more stately French type with trio found in Stamitz’s four-movement
symphonies from the mid-1740s. The genesis of the four-movement cycle is better
explained by reference to the Austro-German parthia (see Koch, 1802; see also Partita
and Suite) as well as to hybrid symphony-suites of a type common in Germany (see
§§8–9, below), genres that by definition unite abstract and dance movements.

Another addition to the basic plan of the symphony was the slow introduction, which
not only added length and stylistic variety, but also freed the composer to use a wider
variety of primary themes to begin the Allegro, especially lyrical or folk-like themes
that might have seemed too lightweight as the initial gesture of a symphony. Slow
introductions evidently first appeared in three-movement symphonies of the 1750s,
and after c1760 they begin to be found as part of the normal four-movement cycle, in
both cases in works by Austrian composers. (On this and other variants of the
symphonic cycle see below, §§10 and 14(i).)

First movements (and many finales) of 18th-century symphonies generally conform to

one of two basic plans, as already recognized by J.A. Scheibe in his extensive
discussion of the symphony in Der critische Musikus of 1739. Most important is some
version of large-scale binary form, whether of the simple, asymmetrical, rounded (i.e.
with full recapitulation) or sonata type. Both parts of such a movement are normally
repeated, though after about 1770 the repetition of the second part (development and
recapitulation) is frequently dropped. From the 1740s on, however, many symphonic
fast movements, especially within the Mannheim orbit, omit both repetitions, a more
processive approach doubtless derived from the Italian opera overture and, ultimately,
ritornello structure.

In contrast to these binary or binary-based plans, some of the earliest symphonies, as

well as large numbers of symphonies in more conservative centres until late in the
century, employ a more continuous type of structure, without double bars and repeat
signs, that is related to the ritornello structure of the concerto (including the ripieno
concerto; see below, §6). In the simplest and most common of these types, designated
here as tri-ritornello structure, an opening section moves from the tonic to the
dominant (or, in minor, the relative major); after an elision, a second related section,
beginning with the same thematic material, moves from the dominant to a related
(usually modal) degree, often cadencing there; and the third section essentially
parallels the first but now remains in the tonic. Obviously, except for the omission of

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repetitions, a tripartite form of this type bears a strong resemblance to a rounded
binary or early sonata form without repeats, the second section corresponding to the
‘development’ section, the third to the recapitulation.

Sonata form as found in the 18th-century symphony should be understood as

encompassing a wide range of variants; indeed, it is less a form than a flexible
collection of characteristic procedures and techniques. These include contrast and
directional modulation between tonic and dominant or other related key areas;
differentiation and functional specialization of thematic material; slowing of harmonic
rhythm to articulate and stabilize thematic areas; development involving modulation
and changes in material; recapitulation; and orchestration and textural differentiation
that selectively enhance these procedures.

Three particular variants of sonata form should be mentioned here. One is a type of
binary in which the return to the tonic for the recapitulation is marked by the return of
the secondary rather than the primary theme. Here labelled binary-sonata form, this
type was especially common in the early symphony. It was also the preferred form at
Mannheim (typically without repetitions), where the occasional return to primary
material after the reappearance of the secondary theme may give the impression of a
‘reversed’ or ‘mirror’ recapitulation. However, this is not as common as often stated,
and in any event the rearrangement of material in a Mannheim recapitulation often
goes far beyond a mere reversal of the primary and secondary themes. Conversely,
many early sonata forms that begin with the return of the primary theme in the tonic
then drastically abbreviate the material that had appeared subsequent to it in the
exposition, so that the result may nonetheless approach a symmetrical binary form. It
should also be noted that even into the 1770s many composers began part 2 (after the
central double bar, if there is one) by modulating quickly from the dominant back to
the tonic (the latter frequently marked by a restatement of the primary theme) before
moving on to other keys and, eventually, the recapitulation; though ‘textbook’ sonata
form would not condone this procedure, it was considered appropriate and even
desirable by theorists of the time (e.g. Riepel, 1755).

A second variant is the movement type in which the recapitulation begins in a key
other than the tonic, normally the subdominant. Familiar from isolated movements by
Mozart and Schubert, this technique is often found in symphonies by the Viennese
composer F.L. Gassmann (for a fuller discussion of this technique see Sonata form,
§3, (iii)). A third variant, ubiquitous in opera overtures after c1735 and occasionally
found in symphonies, is ‘exposition-recapitulation’ form, consisting simply of an
unrepeated exposition followed by an unrepeated recapitulation, without development
but frequently with a retransition connecting the two sections (as in Mozart’s overture
to Le nozze di Figaro). In a further variant, a slow movement may be inserted
between the two sections (as in Mozart’s overture to Die Entführung aus dem Serail).
The latter procedure is, in turn, one version of a da capo or related cycle in which
some or all of the first movement returns after the slow movement. Such designs are

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found in opera overtures throughout the period and occur from time to time in concert
symphonies.

Although many characteristic features of the Classical style occur in isolated contexts
in earlier works, no mere collection of traits can generate its full character, which
results from a higher-level synthesis that may be termed ‘concinnity’ – a skilful and
elegant arrangement and mutual adjustment of the various elements or parameters.
Once this central technique had been mastered, composers of symphonies could turn
to other characteristics: at the phrase level, a weighted hierarchy of punctuation
necessary to clarify their increasingly more complex phrase, sentence and paragraph
structures; at the section level, a differentiation and eventual specialization of material
according to function (primary, transitional, secondary and closing); and at the
movement level, a sophisticated set of techniques for the development of thematic
material, both within and outside the development section. Thus, by comparison with
the relative homogeneity of the Baroque style, the first movement of a Classical
symphony may signal the contrast between the primary and secondary groups not
merely by changes in melody but also by changes in dynamics, orchestration, texture,
rhythm (both harmonic and surface), register and phrase length. This kind of
coordination is both a defining characteristic of the mature Classical symphonic style
and a major source of its power.

With respect to the remaining movements of the symphony, the formal structure of
second movements spans a wide range, from various binary and ternary types to the
sonata, variation, rondo and refrain forms characteristic of the latter part of the
century. Early finales are usually dance-like 3/8 or 3/4 movements or (less
commonly) a variety of 2/4 types, all normally in some sort of binary form. In the
course of the century finales took on greater weight and breadth, often incorporating
full sonata forms comparable to those found in first movements. Of a number of
alternate types, including the fugal finale and the theme and variations, the most
important are those based on the rondo principle. The earliest such examples seem to
be the finales en rondeau found in certain French symphonies before mid-century,
while in Vienna and related centres rondo finales began to appear in the 1750s,
sonata-rondo finales in the 1770s.

6. Precursors.

The traditional explanation for the genesis of the symphony, found in countless
textbooks and more specialized studies, has been that the three-movement Italian
opera overture or sinfonia of the type attributed to Alessandro Scarlatti was simply
transplanted from the theatre to the chamber, where it took on independent life as the
‘concert’ symphony. Research on the early symphony beginning in the 1950s has,
however, challenged this overture-transfer theory in favour of a broader and more
inclusive approach, one that gives equivalent attention to such independent

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instrumental genres as the sonata and concerto in their manifold forms (e.g. Churgin,
1963; Wolf, 1983, 1995).

Of the many genres that furnished models for the early symphony, the Baroque sonata
da chiesa has generally been dismissed owing to its association with the four-
movement Corellian type, which alternates pathetic slow movements with fugal
Allegros. Yet church sonatas a 3, a 4 and larger in such northern Italian centres as
Bologna, Brescia and Venice in the second half of the 17th century frequently begin
with a fast movement; in the case of the brilliant works for trumpet and strings
popular in Bologna, these movements are even in a mostly homophonic style and are
known to have been played with doubled parts. As a matter of fact, beginning as early
as Maurizio Cazzati’s op.35 of 1665 it is not uncommon to find trio (and larger)
sonatas in the three-movement pattern later associated with the concerto, overture and
symphony. A more direct model for the symphony was the ‘neutral’ trio and quartet
sonata characteristic of the period after about 1700, suitable for either church or
chamber; these are often in three homophonic movements and thus clearly adumbrate
the early symphony, especially when the opening movements are in some type of
binary form.

The sonata da camera and other types of suite, especially for orchestra, provided an
obvious source for the binary forms that came to predominate in the symphony.
Particularly interesting in this regard is a type of trio sonata popular in northern Italy
in the late 17th and early 18th centuries that begins with a balletto, a dance in fast or
moderate tempo, related to the allemande, that generally displays few overt dance
traits. The abstract instumental style of such movements, homophonic and in binary
form, provides an obvious parallel to the opening movement of a symphony.

Even more directly related to the symphony is the little-known genre designated
variously as the ripieno concerto (i.e. ‘concerto for the ripieno’), concerto ripieno
(Vivaldi’s own term) or concerto a 4 or a 5 (the latter grouping usually including a
second viola part; see Wolf, 1983). These are orchestral works (i.e. with doubled
parts), generally for strings and continuo alone, that despite the designation ‘concerto’
have no solo parts (or purely negligible ones). The term is thus being used in its
standard early meaning of ‘work for an ensemble’, with no connotation of opposition
or contrast between solo and tutti. While many of these concertos resemble the
Corellian church sonata in form and style, the majority anticipate the first symphonies
in their preference for brilliant homophonic writing and shorter formal cycles
beginning with fast movements (most often fast–slow–fast). A fair number of opening
movements after 1700 are even in large binary forms, though ritornello types are more
common (see above, §5).

The earliest known ripieno concertos are the six concerti a 4 in Giuseppe Torelli’s
op.5 of 1692. These were followed in 1698 by the ten in Torelli’s Concerti musicali
op.6, which firmly established the three-movement fast–slow–fast pattern as the norm

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for the genre, and the three in G.L. Gregori’s Concerti grossi op.2. The next few
decades saw the appearance of many new sets of ripieno concertos. Soon, however,
the genre merged more or less gradually with the symphony a 4; after the 1730s,
works that might formerly have been called concertos are generally called
symphonies, the former term now being reserved primarily for works featuring tutti–
solo contrast.

A final important progenitor of the symphony is the Italian opera overture. De-
emphasis of the overture as the unique parent of the symphony does not mean that it
did not take a prominent part in the creation of the latter genre: it was the probable
source of the label ‘sinfonia’ (though the same term appears frequently in northern
Italy as an alternative designation for trio sonatas da chiesa); it is orchestral; and it
favours rapid, brilliant movements in homophonic style, after c1700 generally within
standard three-movement form. (Alessandro Scarlatti’s Tutto il mal non vien per
nuocere of 1681 is often cited as the first opera with a three-movement overture; but it
is only the revised version, Dal male il bene of 1687, that has such an overture in
extant sources. An earlier example, therefore, is G.A. Perti’s overture to Oreste in
Argo of 1685. In any case, as already noted, three-movement form was by no means
exclusive to the overture.) Moreover, there exist early examples of the transfer of
overtures to the chamber and of ‘chamber’ works (sonatas, concertos, sinfonias) to the
opera house, for example in the music of Vivaldi and G.B. Sammartini. But such
transfer was relatively rare before about 1740, and it was only after that date that
many elements of the overture – in particular its use of a larger orchestra (with
woodwind and brass) and concomitant simplification in style and stress on dynamic
effects – began to manifest themselves strongly in the symphony proper (see below,
§7).

It is also relevant to note that the overture in the period before about 1740 spans an
enormous range from the stylistic standpoint: overtures can be found that match each
and every type described in the foregoing survey, including many three-movement
works with binary first movements. Hence the influence of the overture was anything
but monolithic and is accordingly all the more difficult to delineate with precision. At
the same time, the theory that the opera overture was the principal basis for the
symphony has as one of its weakest points the fact that the two genres were intended
for quite different venues and kinds of audience, whereas the circumstances of
performance and the social function of ripieno concertos and (in many cases) sonatas
were precisely those of early symphonies.

7. Italy.

Writing from Italy in 1739, President Charles de Brosses of France commented that
although Naples had the finest conservatories and Bologna the best school of singing,
‘Lombardy excelled in instrumental music’. He was probably referring at least in part
to the spate of works produced in and around Milan by the two most important and

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prolific early symphonists, G.B. Sammartini (1700/01–75) and Antonio Brioschi (fl
c1725–c50). Each of these composers wrote symphonies that can be dated to the early
1730s: movements of two Sammartini symphonies also appear as ‘Introduzioni’ to
Acts 2 and 3 of his opera Memet of 1732 (the overture to that opera also circulated as
an independent symphony), and a symphony by Brioschi appears as the overture to a
Hebrew cantata of 1733, and two independent symphonies by him exist in sources
dated 1734 (in I-CMbc). As the style of these works is already rather advanced as
compared with other early works of these composers, it seems likely that both were
already writing symphonies by the late 1720s.

This conclusion is supported by the publication in 1729 of Andrea Zani’s op.2,

containing six ‘sinfonie da camera’ a 4 and six violin concertos. Zani’s publication
provides both the earliest explicit date for works that are unquestionably part of the
symphonic tradition and one of the earliest known uses of the term ‘sinfonia’ by a
composer to designate such a work; until the 1740s sources for the ‘symphonies’ of
Sammartini and Brioschi are just as likely to label them overtures, sonatas or even
‘concerti a 4’ (as in four Milanese manuscripts of Brioschi symphonies in CZ-Pnm).
That Zani was from Lombardy (Casalmaggiore, near Cremona) strengthens the claim
of this region to be the most important early centre of symphony composition. This is
important not only intrinsically but also because Lombardy during most of this period
was ruled by Austria, providing a long-term basis for the transfer of works, styles and
practices between the two areas. Other early symphony composers from Milan
include Ferdinando Galimberti (fl c1730–50), G.B. Lampugnani (1708–1788) and
Count Giorgio Giulini (1717–80).

With one or two possible exceptions, Sammartini’s approximately 20 symphonies

from before c1740 and all of Brioschi’s over 50 extant symphonies are in three
movements and are scored for strings alone (a 4 or, less often, a 3). Though several
first movements by each composer make use of ritornello-based plans, without double
bars, the great majority are in some type of binary form; both composers show a
strong preference for large rounded binary or early sonata forms, generally with
extended ‘development’ sections and full (though often reformulated) recapitulations.
By comparison, four of the six first movements of Zani’s op.2 symphonies make use
of ritornello procedures of the type common in the ripieno concerto, while two are in
binary form (one simple and one rounded). Thus even in its early phase the Milanese
symphony demonstrated a commitment to the basic formal design that the mainstream
symphony was to favour throughout the century. It was only after about 1740,
however, that clearly differentiated and demarcated secondary themes became
standard in the concert symphony, somewhat later than in the overture.

The evolution in Sammartini’s symphonies during his early period from a basically
late Baroque idiom reminiscent of Vivaldi’s ripieno concertos to his individual
version of the early Classical style shows how various traits characteristic of the
earlier era could be redirected for Classical purposes. The powerful beat-marking

11
rhythms of the earlier style moved to the bass, so that the upper voices could articulate
larger phrase units; counterpoint – still a prominent element of both Sammartini’s and
Brioschi’s style, seen especially in the independence of their second violin parts –
submitted to coordinated cadences lest it obscure the main melodic line; the superb
Baroque motivic development survived and flourished, both within and outside
development sections; and the deft elisions and overlaps so common in the high
Baroque now functioned to prevent loss of momentum between the more heavily
punctuated phrases and sections. Sammartini’s slow movements are often quite
extended and make use of highly expressive (sometimes almost eccentric)
chromaticism, both harmonic and melodic. He also seems to have grasped the
importance in a concert symphony of a substantial finale, developing compact sonata
forms that require the listener’s full attention.

That the symphony in Italy was not exclusive to Lombardy even in its earliest phase is
implied by two sets published posthumously by Boivin and Le Clerc in Paris in the
early 1730s, each consisting of 12 symphonies a 4; these are by the rather mysterious
composer Alberto Gallo, who is said in the first of these prints to have ‘died young’.
Gallo is further identified as being ‘da Venezia’ in manuscripts dated 1724 in the
Estense collection in Vienna (A-Wn), a geographical connection supported by the fact
that this collection originated in the Veneto (near Padua). The works in one of the
1724 manuscripts, a set of nine ‘sinfonie’ with parts for two violins, cello and violone,
may well have been intended for ripieno performance; if so, Gallo’s use of the term
‘sinfonia’ – in this case for trio symphonies – antedates Zani’s in op.2 by five years
(see above). All Gallo’s symphonies, in a late Vivaldian style, are in three
movements, usually with a brief and often purely transitional slow movement.
Similarly, with the exception of six movements from the 1724 set that use ritornello
procedures, all Gallo’s first movements follow a normal binary plan (both simple and
rounded, even in the 1724 set). South of Milan and Venice, in Bologna, the early
symphony is represented by the 24 symphonies of Padre Martini, extending from
1736 to 1777. Perhaps surprisingly, the symphonies of the great contrapuntist are in a
generally homophonic style, though they still tend to reflect the Baroque motivic
tradition.

During approximately the period just discussed, an important new generation of

Italian opera composers, including such Neapolitans as Leonardo Vinci, Leonardo
Leo and G.B. Pergolesi, were making strides in creating a new style for opera, both
seria and buffa. The overtures to their operas were similarly influential, not only in
that they were circulated as concert symphonies but also in that many of the
techniques and practices they developed were eventually adapted for use in
independent concert symphonies (see Hell, 1971). These works demanded large
orchestras, often with trumpets and timpani, which were skilfully employed to create
brilliant and striking dynamic effects. Both Vinci’s overture to Artaserse (1730,
Rome) and Pergolesi’s to Olimpiade (1735, Rome) call for an orchestra a 11 and
begin with unmarked but unmistakable crescendo passages that rise gradually through

12
more than an octave. Indeed, throughout the entire first movement of both these
pieces the extremely homophonic texture, combined with block-like rather than linear
treatment of the woodwind and brass, creates a massive effect perfectly suited to the
large theatres for which these works were intended.

The first movement of Leo’s overture to Lucio Papirio (1735, Naples) is an early
example of a formal type that was to remain the norm for the Italian overture for
much of the century: a clear exposition-recapitulation form (see above, §5) in which
primary, transitional, secondary and closing material is fully differentiated and
demarcated in each half. The next generation of opera composers, including most
notably Nicolò Jommelli and the Venetian Baldassare Galuppi, adopted this basic
plan in most of their overtures of the 1740s and 50s, though naturally with the
expanded phrase dimensions and increasing thematic specialization characteristic of
that period. Jommelli and Galuppi rely extensively on dynamic effects, among them,
beginning in the late 1740s, explicitly marked crescendo passages. According to J.F.
Reichardt (1774–6), ‘When Jommelli first introduced [the crescendo] in Rome, the
listeners rose from their seats during the crescendo, and only at the diminuendo noted
that it had taken their breaths away. I myself have experienced this phenomenon in
Mannheim’. This passage is often cited as a description of a Mannheim crescendo,
omitting any reference to Jommelli.

Though it was in fact Mannheim that showed the most overt interest in adapting this
new overture style to the concert symphony (see below, §9), few composers in Europe
remained completely aloof from it. Sammartini’s symphonies after about 1740, for
example, call for an orchestra a 6, with horns or trumpets, or a 8, with oboes and
horns. The wind tend to function not as linear doubling but as a separate textural bloc,
often providing a sustained chordal background or rhythmic punctuation. Other
changes in Sammartini’s style after c1740 include regular use of clear secondary
themes, expansion of the phrase dimension to a full four- and eight-bar hierarchy and
further slowing and differentiation of the harmonic rhythm combined with increased
use of pedal points. Similar innovations characterized the evolution of the symphony
at mid-century in all but the most conservative centres.

The next generation of Italian symphonists included two fine composers, Luigi
Boccherini and Gaetano Brunetti; but both spent most of their careers in Spain rather
than Italy (see below, §13). The reverse situation is represented by the early
symphonies of J.C. Bach, who was in Italy from 1754 to 1762, and later by the
prolific Czech composer Václav Pichl (1741–1805), composer to the Austrian
governor of Milan from 1777 until 1796. Of Italians resident in Italy one may mention
Gaetano Pugnani (1731–98), F.P. Ricci (1732–1817), P.M. Crispi (c1737–1797) and
Gaudenzio Comi (fl c1775–85). Pugnani’s over 40 symphonies, the majority in four
movements, are typical for their sometimes bland lyricism; cantabile ideas pervade
even the primary sections. For the most part it seems fair to say that Italian composers
of the second half of the century failed to realize the potential that Sammartini had

13
initiated, possibly because of a disinclination towards the ‘serious style’ implicit in
the evolution of the symphony. Yet in the supreme works of Haydn and especially
Mozart there is rarely a movement that does not by some touch of cantabile line or
rhythmic spark pay tribute to the Italian background.

8. Dresden, Berlin and German Protestant centres.

Of the two most important courts in north Germany, that of the Elector of Saxony in
Dresden (and for part of this period Warsaw) seems to have fostered relatively few
independent symphonies. Among the principal instrumental composers at court,
including J.D. Heinichen (1683–1729) and J.G. Pisendel (1687–1755), only J.B.G.
Neruda (c1711–1776) produced more than a handful of symphonies. Of four works of
Heinichen that come into question as possible concert symphonies, two are called
sonatas but have doubled string parts, while a third is untitled. All include full wind
parts and consist of a through-composed first movement, a brief connective Adagio or
Largo and a binary finale. Each opening movement ends with a surprise elision
connecting it to the succeeding Adagio or Largo, a device learnt from the Neapolitan
overture and found in many later north German symphonies. The fourth work, called
‘sinfonia’, is a symphony-suite of a type fairly common in central and north Germany:
it appends a series of French dances to a normal three-movement cycle. If these works
are not simply detached overtures, as are three others by Heinichen extant in Dresden,
they would number among the earliest concert symphonies (Heinichen died in 1729).

The pre-eminent Dresden court composer, J.A. Hasse (1699–1783), apparently wrote
no independent symphonies, although his overtures appear as separate works in
collections throughout Europe. These influential works illustrate many of the basic
formal and stylistic characteristics of the north German symphony until the last
decades of the century. All are in three movements, often elided or otherwise
connected. Hasse’s first movements exhibit the clear ritornello forms (usually of the
tri-ritornello type) that he had learnt in the 1720s and 30s in Italy, combined after
about 1740 with a more up-to-date approach to thematic differentiation. Stylistically
they are relatively conservative, frequently falling into repetitious, motivic rhythms
particularly unfortunate at this time of stylistic change. In the high Baroque style even
the most note-repetitive themes gain relief from the rapid chord changes, sequential
modulations and textural activity; but in the emerging Classical style the stabilized
harmony and balanced subphrases often turn Hasse’s potentially vigorous ideas into
arid repetitions. In other respects he showed some originality, for instance in seeking
new forms (the minuet-rondo finale of the overture to Asteria, 1737) and new tone
colours (two english horns in the overture to Il trionfo di Clelia, 1766, Vienna; the use
of english horns, found also in Haydn’s Symphony no.22 of 1764, was a Viennese
tradition).

The principal Dresden contribution to the early concert symphony came not at the
electoral court itself but in the private Kapelle of the powerful Saxon privy councillor

14
and cabinet minister Count Brühl, who employed J.S. Bach’s eventual successor
Gottlob Harrer (1703–55) from 1731 until the latter’s departure for Leipzig in 1750.
During this period Harrer produced over two dozen symphonies, 19 of which are still
extant in score (mostly autograph, in D-LEm). Of these 13 bear dates ranging from
1732 to 1747, earning them a place among the earliest concert symphonies. Worth
noting in these scores is the composer’s consistent use of the title ‘Sinfonia’. As
remarked above, Italian symphonies of the same period use a wide variety of titles;
but Harrer’s usage (and other evidence) suggests that Germany preferred the term
‘sinfonia’ from the beginning. Harrer’s symphonies range from small pieces for
strings alone to large suite-related works that call for oboes, flutes and three horns in
evocation of the hunt. Once again the general style is for the most part italianate
(Harrer had studied in Italy in the 1720s) and the first movements are ritornello-based.

The other principal court of north Germany was that of Frederick the Great in Berlin.
Frederick’s Kapellmeister, C.H. Graun (1703/4–59), devoted himself primarily to
opera, but his overtures, like Hasse’s, were widely distributed as independent works.
His brother J.G. Graun (1702/3–71), Konzertmeister at the Prussian court, provides
another example of a German composer whose style was formed in Italy in the 1720s
and retained its basic character from then on; in this respect it was not unlike
Frederick’s taste in music. Graun’s nearly 100 concert symphonies are important both
for establishing the symphony as a central genre at Berlin and for their quality. While
they outwardly resemble the overtures of Hasse and of his brother, Carl Heinrich, they
are more contrapuntal in style and show a firmer sense of Classical balance, whether
at the phrase level or in the well-planned climaxes of their development sections.
Graun’s basic approach was followed by other composers at court who wrote fewer
symphonies, most notably Franz Benda (1709–86).

The 18 symphonies of C.P.E. Bach (1714–88) are divided fairly evenly between the
eight written for the Berlin court (one in 1741, the remainder in 1755–62) and the ten
composed after his move to Hamburg in 1767. Of the latter, four are string
symphonies written for Gottfried van Swieten in 1773, while the other six, for large
orchestra, were written in 1775–6 and published in 1780 in Leipzig. Bach’s
symphonies, surprisingly consistent in style for works that span three and a half
decades, occupy a somewhat enigmatic position in the history of the symphony. Few
of them achieved wide distribution, and since his contemporaries seemed unable to
adopt or adapt Bach’s idiosyncratic style, his influence, though often intense, was
selective.

The fundamental enigma of that style results from a sometimes almost bewildering
combination of Baroque, Classical and pre-Romantic traits. The presence of his father
can be felt in C.P.E. Bach’s frequent polyphonic textures, whether ingenious, casual
imitation or serious fugato. Equally Baroque are his passages in undifferentiated
rhythm, often combined with melodic sequence. By contrast, his motivic treatment
has evolved beyond simple linear continuation to a process of significant change and

15
growth that is fully Classical in character. In similar fashion, the structure of even the
latest of Bach’s first movements, though often described as sonata form without
repeats, is squarely rooted in the older tri- or quadri-ritornello schemes that
characterize the majority of north German symphonies; yet his mastery of the
development process, including development by fragmentation or permutation,
contrapuntal combination and new harmonic or orchestral colouration, leads beyond
his contemporaries towards Haydn and Beethoven. Parallel with this redefinition of
motivic play, Bach also deepened the function of ornaments, turning them from
charming appliqués into affective vehicles of the empfindsam style, capable of
reflecting every nuance of feeling yet fully integrated into the melodic line. His
chromatic or dissonant ornaments and sudden dynamic shifts concentrate one’s
responses on brief episodes of violent feeling that sometimes seem deliberately
shocking. Neither these Romantic moments nor the Baroque details of rhythm and
ornamentation requires a large musical unit, and thus even Bach’s longer movements
do not necessarily achieve the kind of breadth generally associated with the Classical
symphonic style.

One reason for this is that, in the symphonic style, original and colourful moments of
the kind common in C.P.E. Bach may interrupt the flow or disrupt the balance of the
larger design. Bach’s approach may be illuminated by a comparison between his use
of surprise and Haydn’s. For Bach, surprise seems to have been important in and of
itself, for its direct emotional impact. For Haydn, too, it created emotional excitement,
but that excitement is generally related in some manner to structural considerations,
deriving from and enhancing the awareness of a total, unfolding design. This
difference in emphasis implies no lack of understanding of Classical continuity or
articulation on Bach’s part, and his acute sensitivity to harmonic tension and
excursion went far beyond the conventional tonal patterns of the day, including the
use of remote keys for slow movements and as developmental goals. Among
numerous other originalities are the dramatic connection of movements by devices
such as deceptive cadences, an extension of a familiar north German ploy; the use of
unusual instrumental colours, ranges and textural distributions; the exploitation of
new chord types and dissonant combinations; and a command of dynamics that, like
other aspects of his style, influenced the coming century more than his own.

In addition to Dresden and Berlin, numerous smaller courts of central and north
Germany maintained superior musical establishments that after about 1740 cultivated
the symphony, often (at least initially) in a form incorporating elements of the
Baroque suite. Of these one may mention Zerbst, in Saxony, where J.F. Fasch (1688–
1758) wrote at least 19 symphonies – seven in a unique form with an alla breve
movement, usually fugal, as the third movement of four – in addition to his nearly 100
French overtures; Hesse-Kassel, represented by the symphonies of Fortunato Chelleri
(c1690–1757) and the Swedish-born J.J. Agrell (1701–65; from 1746 in Nuremberg);
Rudolstadt in Thuringia, whose Kapellmeister C.G. Scheinpflug (1722–70) left 25
symphonies in autograph score (now at D-RUl); Bückeburg, where J.S. Bach’s third-

16
youngest son J.C.F. Bach (1732–95) wrote a total of 20 symphonies – ten early in his
career, ten in the 1790s – of which only four from each period have survived; and
Saxe-Gotha, where Georg Benda (1722–95), better known for his pioneering
melodramas and other vocal works, also composed some 30 symphonies.

At the ducal court of Mecklenburg-Schwerin to the north, two generations of the

Hertel family produced a notable corpus of symphonies. Until recently these had all
been attributed to Johann Wilhelm Hertel (1727–89), but research has now shown that
24 of them still extant at Schwerin (D-SWl) are by his father, Johann Christian Hertel
(1697–1754; see Diekow, 1977). These are generally of the Graun-Hasse type and
range from string symphonies to festive works with three trumpets and timpani. With
the attribution of the works in an earlier style to his father, J.W. Hertel’s symphonies
can now be seen as the examples of fully developed Classical style that they are, well
constructed and with thematic material that is nicely profiled and differentiated.
Equally up-to-date in orchestration, Hertel often added flutes and obbligato bassoons
to the standard complement of strings, oboes and horns.

In south-western Germany there were several other important Protestant courts that
actively cultivated symphonic composition and performance, particularly in the early
decades of the period. Their composers included Christoph Graupner (1683–1760)
and J.S. Endler (1694–1762) at Hesse-Darmstadt and J.M. Molter (1696–1765) at
Karlsruhe, whose 170 symphonies make him the most prolific symphonist of the 18th
century. Just as at the closely related smaller courts to the north, these composers
often combined the symphony and suite to produce a hybrid form, appending one or
more dances to a standard three-movement cycle or otherwise incorporating dance
movements within the cycle. As one would expect, these works generally have a
pronounced Baroque flavour, both stylistically and in their use of instruments. At the
same time, music at these courts could not escape the influence of the dominant
Catholic courts of the region (notably Mannheim and Stuttgart), especially after
c1760.

9. Mannheim and other German Catholic courts.

While Habsburg Vienna presents a truly imperial diversity of symphonic activity,

Mannheim stands at the opposite pole in its concentration of talent and energy in a
single electoral court, a single orchestra and, at least initially, a single individual,
Johann Stamitz (1717–57). Stamitz was a musician of exceptional drive and
innovatory talent who gathered an orchestra of virtuosos and trained them to a pitch of
discipline that astounded all listeners. The vaunted Mannheim orchestral effects, such
as the famous crescendo and sforzando-piano, were actually more Italian than
Palatine in origin (see Mannheim style). But the expert ensemble of the Mannheim
Kapelle, particularly when playing Mannheim symphonies specifically composed to
exploit these effects, created the strong impression that Mannheim was the centre of a
new and distinctive style.

17
The sheer volume and wide distribution of the symphonies produced at Mannheim
played a part in its prominence. The virtuosos that Stamitz assembled were nearly all
active composers, and his tireless efforts provided both motivation and a successful
model. Beginning in the 1740s, and capitalizing on advances made by such Italians as
Jommelli and Galuppi, Stamitz worked out several basic Classical procedures that left
early Viennese symphonists like Monn and Wagenseil temporarily far behind. First,
he perceived that larger Classical dimensions required broader contrasts, which in turn
required clearer stabilization of the main tonal areas as a foundation for those
contrasts; in earlier works neither melodic nor rhythmic contrasts could have their full
effect against the hyperactive Baroque harmony and bass line. Similarly, stabilization
in small dimensions – slowing down of the chord rhythm, the use of radically simpler
chord progressions – was a prerequisite for contrast at the phrase level. At the same
time, as if sensing the dangers of too much stability, Stamitz typically constructed
musical ideas with rhythms that created momentum, or with connective features such
as thematic upbeats and matching activity in other parts, so that each phrase seems
impatient to launch into the next. This quality of overall rhythmic élan and the
homogeneity of this type of material implies a certain degree of interchangeability,
and in fact Stamitz often developed ideas more by permutation or reassembly of
phrases and subphrases than by actual variation. Using these principles in conjunction
with his ever-exciting exploitation of the orchestra, Stamitz was able to create an
unusually high proportion of effective symphonies.

From the formal standpoint, Stamitz and most of his colleagues and successors at
Mannheim preferred a type of binary-sonata form to sonata form with full
recapitulation. Expositions in all but his earliest symphonies are generally well
differentiated. The outer movements until approximately the late 1740s all have
double bars and repeat signs. Thereafter, however, probably under the influence of the
Italian opera overture, Stamitz began to drop the repeats in fast movements in favour
of a more volatile move directly into the development section. While the latter section
is often intensively ‘developmental’ in the later sense, Stamitz apparently felt no need
thereafter to return to the primary material in the tonic, which is usually marked
instead by the return of the secondary theme. As if by way of compensation, Stamitz
and the other Mannheimers often add weight towards the end of the movement, for
example by inserting a final quasi-ritornello of the opening material or recalling a
striking crescendo passage. However, as already noted, the impression of a true
‘reverse’ or ‘mirror’ recapitulation is neither so frequent nor so straightforward at
Mannheim as is commonly assumed.

As discussed above (§5), Johann Stamitz deserves the principal credit for expansion
of the symphony to four movements by insertion of a minuet with trio before the
finale (see Wolf, 1981). Beginning in the mid- to late 1740s, most of his symphonies
adopt this plan, at least in authentic sources (somewhat oddly, the earliest French
prints of his symphonies usually excise the minuets). Nor is it generally recognized

18
that the second generation of symphonists at Mannheim abandoned the use of a
minuet and trio movement in the 1760s, returning to the older three-movement plan.

The first generation of Mannheim symphonists included two figures older than
Stamitz, F.X. Richter (1709–89) and Ignaz Holzbauer (1711–83). Both came to
Mannheim as well-established composers, Richter in 1749 from southern Germany,
Holzbauer in 1753 from Vienna and Moravia via Stuttgart. It is important to note that
both composers contributed significantly to the earliest phases of the symphony long
before they arrived in Mannheim: Richter had already published 12 symphonies a 4 in
Paris by 1744, while a large body of symphonies by Holzbauer still exists in Czech
and Austrian libraries, some of them probably dating from his early years in Moravia
during the 1730s, others from his Vienna period before 1750.

Richter’s symphonies written at Mannheim are the more conservative of the two,
featuring motivic rhythms, imitative textures, compact miniature forms and
unadventurous orchestration. His generally regressive orientation did not, however,
exclude imaginative harmonic details, and he frequently made use of surprise, most
commonly in the form of abrupt pauses and unexpected rhythmic twists. On occasion
Richter adopts a quite up-to-date style for his opening themes, only to lapse after a
few phrases into undifferentiated rhythm and motivic sequential techniques; even in
the 18th century he was criticized for his reliance on sequence. Richter cannot have
found Mannheim particularly congenial, and he left in 1769 to become Kapellmeister
of Strasbourg Cathedral, henceforth devoting his talents to sacred music. By contrast,
Holzbauer was Kapellmeister for the theatre at Mannheim, and his primary
compositional responsibilities were in the realm of vocal music, especially opera
seria (he made several trips to Italy early in his career). Thus it is not surprising that
his symphonies are often italianate (especially Venetian) in style while also having
recourse to Viennese formal designs and Mannheim melodic and rhythmic
mannerisms.

The second generation of Mannheim symphonists were all pupils of Stamitz, and thus
their works show more consistency than those of the older composers just considered.
The Bavarian cellist Anton Fils (1733–60) has in the past been grouped with the first
generation owing to his early death, but his date of birth and the progressive,
somewhat stereotyped style of his symphonies clearly place him with the younger
composers. Fils’s natural, sure-footed movement, accessible melodic style and
uncomplicated textures led to early popularity. Yet the immediate appeal of his music
often hides a subtly irregular phrase structure that is all the more interesting because
concealed. For example, a Symphony in A published in Paris in 1760 (DTB, iv,
Jg.iii/1, 135) opens with a crescendo passage underlined by accelerating surface
rhythm, rising line, expanding texture and the gradual addition of instruments. Less
immediately noticeable is his parallel acceleration and eventual deceleration in phrase
rhythm: 2 + 2, 2; 2 + 2, 1; 1 + 1, 1 + 1, 1, 2 (1 + 1), 2. As if to balance this refined art,

19
Fils frequently drew upon folk idiom not only for his minuets and trios but also for his
outer movements.

Stamitz’s successor as leader of the Mannheim orchestra was Christian Cannabich

(1731–98), who maintained and even raised its level of performance and discipline.
Cannabich’s 73 symphonies were strongly influenced by the overtures of Jommelli,
with whom he studied. Until fairly late in his career they are stereotyped and rather
pedestrian, relying heavily on dynamic effects and on standard Mannheim melodic
clichés such as the turn. In the 1780s and early 1790s, however, after removal of the
court to Munich in 1778, Cannabich produced a number of larger, more complex
works of considerable melodic appeal and developmental ingenuity. As might be
expected, Cannabich’s treatment of the orchestra is exemplary; the wind are given
ample solo material, notably the clarinets, which had already appeared in Stamitz’s
late symphonies. Formally, Cannabich’s symphonies changed in a number of ways in
the course of his career. His early works are in four movements, but in the early 1760s
he shifted abruptly to the use of three. Many of the Mannheim composers made
regular visits to Paris, and French influence may account for the sharp rise in the
number of three-movement symphonies in the works of the second generation.
Cannabich’s first movements are mostly of the binary-sonata type until the 1770s,
when full sonata form becomes more prevalent; clear secondary themes are virtually
always present, and development sections tend to be short in all but the late works.
Finally, double bars and repeat signs occur until the mid-1760s, after which, like
Stamitz a generation earlier, he turned to the more continuous effect of a movement
without repetitions.

The modern editions of the symphonies of Cannabich’s co-Konzertmeister at

Mannheim, Carl Joseph Toeschi (1731–88), include a cautionary example of the
slanting of evidence: Hugo Riemann, concerned to prove that the four-movement
symphony originated at Mannheim, selected one of only one or two such works by
Toeschi among his 80-odd symphonies (DTB, xiii, Jg.vii/2). Moreover, this
symphony is representative of only a small group of early works characterized by
motivic thematic material, frequent imitative textures and lack of sectional contrast.
Elsewhere Toeschi wrote in an uncomplicated, smoothly lyrical style with generally
simple textures, clearly punctuated themes and effective orchestration, the latter
notable for its difficult violin parts.

Several other composers often associated with the second generation of Mannheim
symphonists actually had only limited connection with the electoral court. Franz Beck
(1734–1809), known for the impulsive originality of his symphonies, was born there
and evidently studied with Stamitz, but he seems to have left as a young man and was
never employed by the court; most of his career was spent in Marseilles and
Bordeaux. Similarly, Stamitz’s sons Carl (1745–1801; see §11) and Anton (1750–
between 1796 and 1809) left Mannheim in 1770 and spent the most important part of
their creative lives in Paris. Nor was the violinist, bassoonist and composer Ernst

20
Eichner (1740–77) ever directly associated with Mannheim, but until 1772 with the
closely-related court of Zweibrücken and from 1773 with Berlin. His 30 extant
symphonies, written only from 1769 on, are very well-crafted, especially in their
orchestration and sense of formal balance; unlike those of the Mannheimers, they
consistently employ full sonata form, with clear specialization of all thematic
functions, in both opening movements and finales.

The numerous courts of Bavaria also proved fertile in their cultivation of the
symphony. On this count the electoral court at Munich seems to have been most
active in the early part of our period. One important body of symphonies was
produced by the chamber composer Joseph Camerloher (1710–43), whose works have
continually been confused with those of his younger brother Placidus. However,
recent research has shown him to be the composer not only of the 12 symphonies
attributed specifically to him but of the great majority of some 40 others attributed to
‘Camerloher’ without given name (see Forsberg, 1984). These works show a clearly
Baroque melodic, rhythmic and textural profile, with much use of imitation and other
contrapuntal devices. By contrast, the symphonies of his brother Placidus von
Camerloher (1718–82), Kapellmeister to the Bishop of Freising, are generally
homophonic and show a clear tendency towards Classical thematic treatment. Another
body of early symphonies at Munich comprises the 26 extant works by Wenceslaus
Wodiczka (between 1715 and 1720–74; Konzertmeister from 1747). 24 survive in a
single set of parts bearing the date 1758, half of them with trumpets and timpani; nine
of these are in a single movement and were probably intended for use in church. In
the decades before the arrival of the Mannheim court in 1778, however, Munich
seems not to have favoured the symphony as a genre, perhaps owing to the
overwhelming interest in Italian opera there.

Of the many other musically active courts in the region, two in northern Bavaria
should be singled out, those of Oettingen-Wallerstein and Regensburg. One of the
most prolific symphonists of the Classical period, F.X. Pokorny (1729–94), was
active at both, moving from the former to the latter in 1766. His works for Oettingen-
Wallerstein contain some of the most difficult horn parts of the period, composed for
the outstanding group of hornists resident there. Other prominent later symphonists at
Oettingen-Wallerstein were the court intendant Ignaz von Beecke (1733–1803), two
of whose symphonies in minor contain noteworthy pre-Romantic traits, and the gifted
Antonio Rosetti (c1750–1792), whose style combines Mozartian, Haydnesque and
individual touches. The symphony at Regensburg during the same period is
represented by the court intendant Theodor von Schacht (1748–1823), who produced
over 30 symphonies between c1770 and 1792. Further west, on the Rhine north of
Mannheim, the courts of two archbishop-electors bear mention: that of Mainz, where
Johann Zach (1699–1773) and later J.F.X. Sterkel (1750–1817) were active, and
Koblenz, where J.G. Lang (1722–98) matched his important output of keyboard
concertos with 40 rather italianate symphonies, six of which were published in
Augsburg in 1760.

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10. The Habsburg monarchy: Vienna, Salzburg.

The traditional position of Vienna as a crossroads in European civilization stimulated

a host of special achievements. In the 18th century the web of cultural influence
spread unusually wide, owing to the vast reach of the Habsburg Monarchy, and the
resulting confluence of talent brought an incomparable richness of ideas and creative
activity to bear on the evolution of the symphony. Mannheim and Paris may have
exceeded Vienna in brilliance of musical performance, but the imperial capital drew
together an unprecedented number of musician-composers, attracted by an
unsurpassed degree of patronage: in addition to the Habsburg court, literally hundreds
of noble families supported musical establishments, generally dividing their time
between Vienna and their ancestral estates in Austria, the Czech lands, Hungary and
farther afield. The aristocracy also provided the principal audience for public concerts
in Vienna, which grew ever more important during the second half of the century. In
such a climate of opportunity every talent could prosper, every musical genre flourish.

The early Viennese symphony reveals the potent influence of three genres identified
strongly with the Austrian Baroque. The first of these is opera and such related types
as the serenata. Viennese opera overtures in the period 1700–40 cover a vast range of
types, including French overtures of various kinds, polychoral works with as many as
eight trumpets, concerti grossi, one- and two-movement overtures, and standard three-
movement Italian types. It is the latter that furnished, together with the northern
Italian symphony, the principal model for the concert symphony in Vienna. While the
majority of such overtures have first movements that use ritornello procedures,
without repeat signs, a substantial minority have binary first movements, providing a
near-perfect parallel with the early Viennese concert symphony; a well-known
example is Francesco Conti’s overture to Pallade trionfante of 1722, one of his ten
overtures with binary opening movements. During the 1740s and 50s this type of
overture became especially frequent, for example in the works of Wagenseil (see
below); this tended to encourage their transfer from opera house to concert. In a more
general sense as well, the influence of Italian opera persisted in Vienna throughout the
18th century. The characteristic Viennese feeling for recapitulation surely owes
something to the long exposure to operatic ritornello and da capo. Equally important,
the operatic aria had made important advances in the development of Classical
melodic and phrase structure. And finally, many Viennese symphonies after c1760
represent either wholly or in part an adaptation of opera buffa style to a work for
orchestra; one is reminded of the close connections between Mozart’s Le nozze di
Figaro and the Prague Symphony k504, to give only one example.

Two other genres important to the early Viennese symphony were the church sonata
and the parthia or partita and related types (see Larsen, 1994). The former, often
played with doubled parts, was the one of the sources (together with the French
overture) for the many fugal movements in Austrian symphonies, as well as of four-
movement cycles beginning with an Adagio or Largo; while the latter, which mixed

22
abstract and dance movements and could be soloistic or orchestral, provided a model
for the insertion of dance movements within the normal overture cycle, leading
eventually to the four-movement symphony.

Interestingly, the 25 symphonies a 4 of one of the earliest Viennese composers of

symphonies, the court organist W.R. Birck or Pirck (1718–63), follow precisely the
typology just outlined: they consist of diminutive three-movement symphonies (in all
but one case with binary first movements), church-sonata types with fugal second
movements, and three early examples of the standard four-movement cycle with
minuet and trio. More uniform are the many symphonies of Ignaz Holzbauer written
before his departure from Vienna in 1750 (see above under Mannheim, §9) and those
of his slightly younger contemporaries M.G. Monn, G.C. Wagenseil and J.P. Ziegler.
As already pointed out in the discussion of the four-movement symphony (see above,
§5), a work by Monn (1717–50) including a minuet and dated 1740 has been treated
as a turning-point by scholars supporting Austrian primacy. But the score, an
autograph, does not in fact label the work a symphony (it is so designated only in a
notation by Aloys Fuchs, who owned the manuscript), and the extensive wind solos,
the placement of all the movements in one key and the inclusion of a dance movement
relate the work more closely to the Austrian parthia or serenade tradition than to the
remainder of Monn’s symphonies, all of which are in three movements. While
generally conservative, Monn’s symphonies show a sensitivity to line and a notable
feeling for harmony, both in his choice of unusual tonalities and his expressive use of
dissonance. Sonata forms predominate in the first movements, sometimes with clear,
moderately lyrical secondary themes in the dominant minor that are then recapitulated
in the tonic minor (a characteristic Viennese trait from the 1740s to the early 1760s,
borrowed from the Italian opera overture); but numerous variants occur as well, such
as ritornello or binary-sonata forms.

Wagenseil (1715–77), a prolific composer more in touch with the full spectrum of
Viennese musical life, began his career in the mid-1740s as a composer of Italian
operas for the Viennese court. Their overtures and, later, Wagenseil’s independent
concert symphonies were published both in France and England. With one or two
possible exceptions, all are in three movements, though still small in dimension,
mostly with a fast 3/8 or ‘Tempo di Menuet’ finale. Wagenseil’s first movements,
though still small in dimension, are typically Viennese in their firm grasp of the
principle of recapitulation. Rhythmic vigour and a strong sense of continuity give an
immediate appeal to many of his symphonies, but he rarely escaped the emphases
characteristic of works of the period: his snap rhythms, frequent syncopations,
sweeping upbeats and quick turns enliven the individual beat, but the grouping of
beats into larger units – sub-phrases and phrases – lacks profile and may involve
merely a chain of repeated beats without differentiation. This combination of small-
scale, repetitious motivic material and strong rhythmic continuity tends to work
against thematic contrast, and many of Wagenseil’s expositions, though clear in tonal-
textural outlines, lack a correspondingly clear thematic organisation.

23
The second generation of Viennese symphonists begins with Karl von d’Ordonez
(1734–86), who composed more than 70 symphonies, a substantial majority (about
75%) in three movements. Four of the latter open with a slow introduction connected
to a following Allegro; these may be related to a four-movement symphony of his in
the Göttweig monastery (A-GÖ), dated 1756, which begins with a slow movement
(ed. in Brown, 1979). The second movement of the 1756 symphony (marked Allegro
molto), like several of the first movements from Ordonez’s early period, could be
considered formally either a ritornello-influenced variant of sonata form without
repeats or, perhaps less anachronistically, a tri-ritornello structure with clearly
contrasting secondary material. Otherwise, his opening movements rarely depart from
standard Viennese sonata procedures, including in the earlier works the frequent
placement of the secondary theme in the dominant minor. Stylistically Ordonez’s
symphonies tend to rely more upon rhythmic activity than melodic suavity, and
contrapuntal texture, including imitation at the outset of a work, is not uncommon. As
an orchestrator, Ordonez can claim credit as one of the few symphonists of the 18th
century to give a prominent solo passage to the viola (with pizzicato accompaniment),
the cantabile opening theme of a slow movement from the early 1760s (Brown B♭
6).

The slightly older composer F.L. Gassmann (1729–74) made his reputation as an
opera composer in Venice and later served as Kapellmeister to the Viennese court. In
Gassmann’s concert symphonies, all or most of which date from the 1760s, more of
the operatic lyricism carries over than in Wagenseil, even affecting vigorous fast
movements. Gassmann experimented constantly with first-movement form, using
shapes ranging from binary-sonata forms to rather sophisticated thematic plans in
which the transitional, secondary and closing materials are each variants of the
primary theme yet at the same time preserve their characteristic functions. Also
exemplifying this fluid conception of form are a number of works with recapitulations
beginning in the subdominant or submediant.

In other details of style Gassmann’s most striking talent is his control of rhythmic
outline, both as a means of creating a smooth rise and fall of activity in the phrase and
as a way of building excitement when approaching a point of climax. His
management of orchestration and texture, especially his careful deployment of partial
tuttis and mixed groups with cello or even viola serving as the bass, reflects an
awareness of the broad objectives of each movement. Another composer worth
mentioning in the Ordonez-Gassmann generation is the violinist and ballet composer
Franz Asplmayr (1728–86), who composed over 40 symphonies.

Apart from Haydn and Mozart, the highest achievements in the Viennese Classical
symphony – an opinion shared, incidentally, by Charles Burney (BurneyGN, 124) –
were those of a trio of prolific, gifted composers who were nearly exact
contemporaries: Leopold Hofmann, Carl Ditters von Dittersdorf and J.B. Vanhal. The
sources for the symphonies of Hofmann (1738–93), most of whose output falls into

24
the 1760s, are second in number only to those of Haydn and Pleyel in European
archives – a significant measure of contemporary popularity. Like Haydn during this
period, Hofmann employed a wide variety of movement cycles. While about half of
his approximately 50 symphonies are in normal three-movement form, at least 20 turn
to the four-movement pattern that was soon to become standard in Vienna; several of
the latter date from at least as early as 1759–60, making him one of the first Viennese
symphonists to adopt this plan. Notable among the four-movement works are two
with slow introductions, one of which is dated 1762 in the Göttweig catalogue;
together with Haydn’s Symphonies nos.6–7 of 1761, these are the earliest known
instances of standard four-movement symphonies with slow introductions. Other
cycles found in both Hofmann and Haydn, already seen in Ordonez, include three
movements with slow introduction and four movements in the slow–fast–slow–fast
pattern of the church sonata.

Though only slightly younger than Gassmann and Ordonez, Hofmann matured at the
right time to exploit the new internal coordination and larger phase units characteristic
of the full Classical style. As a result, his sonata structures and thematic types leave
an impression of both clarity and a firm sense of functional differentiation. Much of
his music has a pre-Mozartian smoothness, extending even to lyrical allegro themes.
In view of his convincing style and the wide distribution of his music, there is little
doubt that Hofmann’s four-movement symphonies exercised a strong influence on the
evolution of the symphonic form.

Dittersdorf (1739–99) was the most prolific symphonist of the second half of the
century; he wrote over 120. Although one expects (and finds) many recurrent
formulae, there is also much genuine invention and instinctively good structure. The
large-scale movement of his line is convincing, and he was equally skilful in a brisk
Allegro or a sophisticated cantabile with smoothly balanced phrases. There are many
small niceties of thematic relationship and development, using techniques such as
imitation (never long pursued), diminution, augmentation and recombination of
motifs. On occasion, like Haydn, he could simulate (or perhaps remember) a catchy
peasant tune to fit a rustic mood. Also like Haydn, Dittersdorf introduced many
touches of the specialized musical humour that results from phrase extensions or
truncations, displaced accents or other bar-line manoeuvres. On the other hand, there
is often a lack of rhythmic variety in the lower parts, and the bar-to-bar harmony is
rarely imaginative.

Possibly because of his success in dramatic music, Dittersdorf began early on to give
descriptive titles to symphonies, including a seven-movement work describing the
humours of mankind (before 1771) and a series based on Ovid’s Metamorphoses
(c1782). Though these can be considered remote ancestors of the 19th-century
programmatic symphony, they contain scarcely more actual description than the
touches that gave Haydn’s Paris symphonies their nicknames – Actaeon, transformed
into a stag, jumping in a 6/8 ‘tempo di caccia’, or the croaking of the farmers changed

25
into frogs. From the musical standpoint these are among Dittersdorf’s least interesting
works; more successful is a Sinfonia nazionale nel gusto di cinque nazioni (1767)
with movements intended to reflect German, Italian, English, French and Turkish
taste.

Dittersdorf’s contemporary, Vanhal (1739–1813), with symphonies published in

London, Paris, Berlin, The Hague and Amsterdam as well as a large corpus of
manuscript sources, was unusually popular in northern Europe. All his symphonies
were composed in the period c1760–80. Although they are soundly constructed, with
attractive, well-contrasted themes and skilful formal techniques, the real reason for
their popularity may be their frequent quality of pathos, as reflected in their
exceptional number of minor tonalities and their broad spectrum of expression, which
ranges from melancholy introspection to fiery tragedy. Five of Vanhal’s minor-key
symphonies call for four horns – as in Haydn’s Symphony no.39 and Mozart’s G
minor Symphony k183, tuned a minor third apart as a means of coping with the
modulation to the relative major – and another adds a fifth horn tuned a perfect 5th
above the tonic. With this exception, Vanhal was not particularly experimental, and
he made no particular contribution to the evolving symphonic convention. But more
than Hofmann or Dittersdorf, he seems to parallel Haydn in the ability to make his
music move in a tight process of continuation, with each phrase containing, as it were,
the genetic code for its successor. There is also a kinship with Mozart in the italianate
lyricism of his later works and in the occasional use of gentle, retrospective closing
themes that interpolate a moment of quiet before the entry of the cadential trumpets.

In addition to Haydn and Mozart, the most important and prolific composers of
symphonies in Vienna from c1780 to 1800, the date of Beethoven’s First Symphony,
were the composer and publisher F.A. Hoffmeister (1754–1812) and the two
Bohemians Paul Wranitzky (1756–1808) and Adalbert Gyrowetz (1763–1850). For
the most part their works are content to represent the high Classical tradition of
Mozart in well-wrought, melodically accessible works rather than to break new or
controversial ground.

The prince-bishopric of Salzburg has only recently gained attention as a centre of

symphony composition, both for its intrinsic importance and for its role in Mozart’s
compositional development (Eisen, 1994). Among symphonists active in Salzburg,
the most important during the middle decades of the century was Leopold Mozart
(1719–87), who arrived in 1746 as a court violinist and became Vice-Kapellmeister in
1763. Both formally and stylistically his symphonies trace the same overall
evolutionary path as those of the imperial capital. However, he had begun using a
four-movement cycle on occasion by about 1750, earlier than in Vienna; his preferred
sequence of movements placed the minuet and trio in second rather than third place, a
practice found in most of Haydn’s quartets from op.9 through op.33 and in five of his
symphonies. Leopold’s symphonies are also up-to-date in their use of clearly

26
differentiated secondary themes; like the Viennese, during the same period, he often
places them in the dominant minor, recapitulating them in the tonic minor.

Leopold Mozart evidently wrote few if any symphonies after his promotion in 1763,
which was also the date at which Joseph Haydn’s younger brother Michael (1737–
1806) arrived in Salzburg as Konzertmeister and court composer. Trained in Vienna,
where he may have written a few of his earliest symphonies, his style belongs more to
that school than elsewhere. Yet as with Leopold Mozart, there are certain qualities
that set him apart. In the first place, in many of his works there is an almost Baroque
rhythmic continuity with many similar note-values – bar after bar of quavers, for
example; in similarly continuous and undifferentiated passages, his brother Joseph
would typically find ways of punctuating and regulating the flow by harmonic or
textural means. Another somewhat old-fashioned characteristic in Michael’s music is
both welcome and more successful in the Classical context: the frequent use of
contrapuntal textures and devices, which lend unusual interest to many of his
movements. Even his latest symphonies, from 1788–9, contain several fugal finales
(as the last movement of three). Michael’s music is also impressive for the richness of
its harmony, which features not only unusual modulations and the dramatic placement
of remote chords, but also sinuously chromatic lines reminiscent of passages in
Mozart; it is difficult to know who influenced whom.

Any discussion of the symphony in Austria should also refer to the active role of the
great Austrian monasteries such as Göttweig, Melk, Kremsmünster and Lambach in
fostering both the performance and composition of symphonies (see Freeman and
Meckna, 1982), a role magnificently illustrated by the huge collections of
instrumental music extant at each. Of numerous monks who composed symphonies,
the most important was probably Amandus Ivanschiz (fl 1755–70), whose 20-odd
symphonies from approximately the 1760s generally reflect contemporaneous
Viennese trends, including clear sonata forms (in this case with or without repeats)
and the frequent use of four movements.

11. Paris.

In the second half of the 18th century Paris was the leading European centre of
musical performance and publishing, but not of symphonic composition. The
surprising total of more than 1000 works compiled by Brook must be seen in the light
of his inclusion of works in the Symphonie concertante form, a type of multiple
concerto rather than a symphony in the modern sense of the term.

The earliest French symphonies show an obvious, and often acknowledged, debt to
Italian symphonists such as Sammartini and Brioschi, whose works were well known
in Paris in both manuscript and printed form; the famous Fonds Blancheton, for
example, a large collection of manuscript instrumental music assembled c1740,
contains dozens of works by each composer (La Laurencie, 1930–31). The

27
publication in 1740 of VI simphonies dans le goût italien en trio op.6 of L.G.
Guillemain (1705–70) places the beginnings of the native Parisian symphony in a
chronology closely parallel to that of Vienna and Mannheim. The ‘Italian taste’
mentioned in this title (and repeated in Guillemain’s op.14, 1748) probably refers to
the use of a three-movement cycle and to the insistent quality of beat-marking quaver
and semiquaver rhythms in a texture that moves freely between homophony and
quasi-contrapuntal three-part writing. In addition, while the consistent one- and two-
bar units give a less motivic feeling than in early works of Monn and Wagenseil, the
exact piano repetition of many bars evokes the tutti-solo echoes of the Baroque
concerto. These retrospective details, however, do not outweigh the generally up-to-
date impression contributed by the relatively clear differentiation of primary,
secondary and closing material (with matching punctuation provided not only by rests
but by slower chord and surface rhythm); by the fresh treatment of derived material in
developments, which are occasionally longer than their respective expositions; and by
the full, literal recapitulations.

A decade later François Martin (ii) (1727–57) published six works with a title as
suggestive as that of Guillemain, his Simphonies et ouvertures op.4 (1751). Here the
ouvertures are French overtures with slow introductions followed by fugal allegros,
while the symphonies are of the usual three-movement Italian type. This raises doubts
as to whether, as Landon and others have suggested, the slow introduction of the
Classical symphony derives from the opening Grave of the French overture. As
Martin’s (and others’) usage shows, there is a clear separation between the two genres
and little chronological continuity between the French overture at its height and the
mature symphony with slow introduction. Indeed, the few slow introductions in
French symphonies of the period sound quite unlike the opening sections of French
overtures.

The long, productive life of F.-J. Gossec (1734–1829), the most important composer
of the Parisian group of symphonists, did much to establish and maintain the strength
of the French symphony. In his first six works, op.3 (1756), Italian influence is
evident in snap rhythms and obvious triadic themes; all these symphonies are in three
movements, and all but the last, which adds two oboe parts, are scored for strings a 4.
By op.4 (c1758) Gossec had assimilated most features of the mature Classical
symphony, including Mannheim dynamic effects and the use of a four-movement
cycle, the latter with well-planned sonata form in many slow movements and finales
as well as first movements. Here and in op.5 (c1761–2) he paralleled Viennese
developments in the clear divisions and explicit thematic contrast of his sonata forms.
However, his fast movements generally omit double bars and repeat signs, a
procedure that again shows the influence of the Mannheim symphonies popular at the
time in Paris (and was later adopted by Mozart in his Paris Symphony k297).

With the broad sweep of his melodic lines and the telling use of warm harmonic
touches, particularly diminished 7ths, Gossec created a personal style recognizable

28
even among the hundreds of contemporaneous works. His frequently asymmetrical
treatment of phrasing brought charges from the critics that he imitated Haydn. In other
respects as well, Gossec’s symphonies maintained a high level and serious tone,
noticeable in the large proportion of works in minor keys and in the frequency of
well-worked textures with clean-lined counterpoint. On these points his works stand
out against the characteristically facile tone of many later Parisian symphonies.
Beginning with op.6 (c1762), he moved away from the four-movement plan and
frequently introduced unusual instrumental combinations and unconventional designs,
including the use of fugal movements.

In the bustling cosmopolitanism of Paris, it was difficult for the French symphony to
maintain a strong national identity in the second half of the century. First came the
invasion from Mannheim, whose virtuosos brought the brilliantly effective new style
to Paris on their visits; as already noted, it found a congenial reception in the
symphonies of Gossec. As the capital of the performing world, Paris continued to
attract countless foreign musician-composers, many of them respectable symphonists.
In addition, the flourishing Parisian publishing industry found that the most
marketable composer of symphonies was Joseph Haydn. Although in the latter part of
the century a separate French style cannot often be recognized, the excellent models
available to Parisian composers and the stiff competition from foreign talent led to
many works of high quality.

The Italian influence noted in early Parisian symphonies received further impetus
from the arrival of the Roman flautist-composer Filippo Ruge (c1725–after 1767),
who not only composed but brought numerous Italian works with him. His
symphonies contain early examples of programmatic titles (op.1 no.4, finale, ‘La
tempesta’, 1756). A more important immigrant composer was Henri-Joseph Rigel
(1741–99), whose 14 extant symphonies show notable thematic inspiration and strong
harmonic pathos in slow movements. Born in Germany and influenced by the
Mannheim group, he wrote three-movement symphonies that typify the Parisian style
about 1770. Opening with appealing, neatly articulated melodies, the movements
unfold smoothly owing to the composer’s mastery of phrase formation and
connection. The range of thematic types in each work adds a vitality that easily
explains his popularity at the time.

Another prominent foreign composer in Paris was Carl Stamitz (1745–1801),

Johann’s eldest son. Carl moved to Paris in 1770 from Mannheim, producing a
massive amount of instrumental music there before eventually departing in the early
1780s. Born nearly at mid-century, he inherited the full range of Classical structural
procedures, from advanced thematic specialization in his sonata forms to a fully
developed phrase syntax. His thematic material combines soundly balanced line and
rhythm with a less easily described melodic charm. Probably owing to his rapid rate
of production, Stamitz occasionally fell victim to an overuse of clichés such as the
ubiquitous ‘sigh’, yet even the presence of clichés does not spoil the polished

29
succession of phrases and periods. Some of his finest expression comes in his slow
movements, where he managed to introduce a surprising amount of counterpoint
without distracting attention from his long, singing upper line.

After about 1770 the symphonie concertante occupied the principal attention of many
native Parisian composers, many of whom wrote almost exclusively in the new genre.
One who did not was Simon Le Duc l’aîné (1742–77), but he lived too short a time to
develop his early promise, leaving only three symphonies (1776–7) in addition to
three earlier orchestral trios. Like Gossec he commands attention first by his rhythmic
force, but he goes beyond the older composer in his more highly developed ability to
support rhythmic fluctuations with appropriate orchestration and chord rhythm. At a
higher level, the variety of Le Duc’s phrase rhythms recalls Haydn’s imaginative
treatments.

A Haydn pupil, Ignace Pleyel (1757–1831), became the outstanding composer of the
last phase of the Parisian symphony, with a large body of works extending from the
early 1780s to the first years of the 19th century. Pleyel reintroduced the four-
movement cycle, often with slow introductions (also found in a few late works of
Gossec). He also made several notable innovations, such as the insertion of a quick
episode in a slow movement or the addition of a short bridge between trio and
returning minuet (as in Haydn’s Symphony no.104 and others). Exceedingly facile in
generating thematic variants, he sometimes expanded a development to as many as
three episodes. His orchestration invariably fits the musical material aptly, and he
approached strings, woodwind and brass not merely as blocks of sound but as flexible
combinations, for example using a single woodwind with strings or viola as bass for a
thematic woodwind passage.

12. London.

Until about 1760 the history of the symphony in England is almost exclusively the
history of the overture, which was routinely detached for performance and publication
from the vocal work it preceded. Indeed, until the end of the century ‘overture’ was
the routine term for what elsewhere was known as a symphony. From the end of the
17th century the French overture had provided the model for most overtures, and
Handel’s preference for that type in both his operas and oratorios was a strong factor
in its continued use. Charles Cudworth’s research has shown that, beginning with the
overture to Francesco Mancini’s Hydaspe fedele of 1710, the fast–slow–fast pattern of
the Italian sinfonia gained ever-increasing significance. Yet of T.A. Arne’s Eight
Overtures in 8 Parts, published in 1751, six are still in French-overture form.
Similarly, in William Boyce’s Eight Symphonys in Eight Parts op.2 (1760, but
including works dating back to 1739), five of the first movements are in French
overture form or a form obviously derived from it. Only in these composers’ works of
the 1760s, especially the independent symphonies of Arne’s Four New Overtures or

30
Symphonies (1767), do galant tendencies begin to manifest themselves in any
substantial fashion.

Through many centuries London had enriched its musical life by offering hospitality
to continental musicians, and again it was two émigrés who made the most substantial
contributions to the English symphony, at a time when Paris was also experiencing a
wave of foreign influence. C.F. Abel and J.C. Bach arrived in London in 1759 and
1762 respectively, soon joining forces to produce the Bach-Abel concerts, a series
decisive for the development of Classical orchestral music in England. Abel (1723–
87), best known as a viola da gamba virtuoso, published six extremely popular sets of
symphonies, all in three movements, some with minuet finales of the mid-century
Italian type. A careful craftsman, he wrote symphonies with energetic movement,
clearly punctuated form and deftly woven texture. His advanced thematic
construction, with well-balanced statement–response phrases, led to greater
differentiation and more logical development. Though Abel’s symphonies often sound
more competent than inspired, in his slow movements there are some beautiful long
lines and graceful chromatic appoggiaturas of a kind later called ‘Mozartian’.

J.C. Bach (1735–82) was scrupulously trained by his elder brother Emanuel and by
Padre Martini. His symphonies also reflect a wealth of his own operatic experience –
gained in part in Italy before his arrival in London – in the exceptional lyricism of
both his Andante movements and many of his Allegro themes. No one before Mozart
seems to have understood as well as he how to underline the curve of a superb melody
with a suitable ebb and flow of harmony and surface rhythm. At the same time, many
skilful small imitations in the bass or inner parts lend added charm to the texture,
again recalling Mozart’s effortless devices. Even more important, Bach used this
control to make small connections between subphrases, phrases and sentences,
developing the musical equivalents of commas, semicolons and full stops (though his
phrase hierarchy may nonetheless seem four-square when judged by the standards of
later Mozart). Bach’s combination of imagination and technical mastery made
possible a wide variety and subtle gradation of thematic ideas, which he then
distinguished according to expositional functions: even out of context his themes
sound like primary, transitional, secondary or closing material.

The younger generation of mature British composers started out well with the Six
Symphonies op.1 (1761) of Thomas Erskine, Earl of Kelly (1732–81), probably the
first independent concert symphonies to be published in England. Erskine, a pupil of
Johann Stamitz, had obviously learnt something of his mentor’s rhythmic drive,
dynamic orchestral treatment and use of thematic contrast. John Collett’s op.2 (1766)
contains the only English four-movement symphony of the time; but before the
minuet a note is printed stating, ‘Either or both of the following movements to be
played’, a clear indication of the insecure status of the four-movement cycle in
England. The small works of William Smethergell (op.2, c1778; op.5, c1790) recall at
times the symphonies of the second Mannheim generation, especially in their opening

31
gestures, but his forms are too brief to take full advantage of the Mannheim
achievements. Perhaps the ablest of the younger British composers was J.A. Fisher
(1744–1806), whose Six Simphonies in Eight Parts (1772), again extremely short,
show sensitive and knowledgeable orchestral writing, including bassoon solos and an
early use, for printed music, of triple piano. John Marsh (1752–1828) moved away
from the small proportions characteristic of his contemporaries, later writing several
four-movement symphonies and considerably enlarging the individual movements;
his inventive Conversation Sinfonie (1784) exploits the idea of a dialogue between
two small orchestras, doubtless in imitation of the three double-orchestra symphonies
of J.C. Bach’s op.18. However, the native production of symphonies in the latter part
of the century remained slim. The major contribution of London at the time may be
considered not symphonies as such but the London audience of ‘connoisseurs and
amateurs’ whose appreciation and support drew forth the greatest works of J.C. Bach
and Haydn.

13. Other centres.

The rapid growth of the symphony as a central orchestral genre may be seen in the
speed with which it gained popularity in more peripheral areas such as the
Netherlands and Sweden. Amsterdam, for example, was treated to a public concert as
early as 1738 that included symphonies by Sammartini and Agrell. (There is no
evidence, however, for the frequent claim that this concert was conducted by Vivaldi;
see Rasch, 1993.) A notable early composer of symphonies identified with various
cities of the Netherlands was the somewhat elusive figure A.W. Solnitz (c1708–
1752/3), who published 12 symphonies a 4 in Amsterdam c1739 and another set of
six in the 1750s. These show many galant traits but no influence of the Mannheim
style (as has been asserted). Somewhat later the vigorous concert life and music
publishing trade of the Netherlands attracted the peripatetic symphonist Friedrich
Schwindl (1737–86), who was active not only in The Hague but also in Germany,
Zürich and Brussels. In turn, Brussels fostered the extensive symphonic output of
Pierre van Maldere (1729–68), violinist-composer to Charles of Lorraine, who wrote
symphonies good enough to be confused with Haydn’s.

Like the Netherlands, Sweden boasted a lively concert life in addition to the musical
activities of the court. In part for that reason it, too, was an early centre of symphonic
production in the form of some 30 symphonies by J.H. Roman (1694–1758). Most are
for strings alone, though some are a 6 or a 8. Three movements are standard, but four-
movement works in successions such as fast–slow–fast–fast are also common.
Roman’s symphonies, possibly dating from as early as the late 1730s, are in a solid,
well-crafted late Baroque idiom that nonetheless admits many galant characteristics.
Later in the century Sweden was host to J.M. Kraus (1756–92), who emigrated from
Germany to become the greatly admired Kapellmeister to Gustavus III. His
symphonies, many of which are lost, rank with some of the best of the time and were
greatly admired by Haydn. They are particularly notable for their rich harmony and

32
texture, which contribute to their often deeply expressive character; outstanding
examples are his Symphonie funèbre on the death of Gustavus III and his Symphony
in C♯ later extensively revised (see Brown, 1990).

Finally, two outstanding Classical symphonists lived in Madrid: Luigi Boccherini

(1743–1805) and Gaetano Brunetti (1744–98). The symphonies of both fall almost
entirely into the period 1770–90. The attractions of Boccherini’s melodies have led
many writers to overlook his fine control of other musical opportunities: his handling
of rhythmic details as well as phrasing gives a sophisticated impression of both vigour
and wit. His themes may reflect familiar italianate lyricism, but he often adds
intensity by use of large-scale linear planning that embraces several four- or eight-bar
phrases; and in his concern for the inner parts he seems to have inherited his
compatriot Sammartini’s understanding of coordinated polyphony as a way of
enhancing texture without losing thematic control. In the realm of large-scale form,
several of his symphonies make use of cyclic procedures, for example the quotation of
material from the opening movement in subsequent ones or the enfolding of one
movement within another.

Brunetti’s highly original symphonies present a rather different picture: they include a
number of stormy works with an unusually high proportion of minor tonalities
matched by abrupt rhythms and jagged melodic lines. His music is effective in
performance and appealing for its Haydnesque rhythmic verve and taut continuity.
After six early three-movement ‘overtures’ from 1772, his symphonies use a unique
four-movement plan in which the third movement reverses the usual minuet–trio–
minuet sequence, consisting of a woodwind ‘quintetto’ (usually not in minuet style)
followed by a contrasting section for full orchestra and then a return of the quintetto.
This scheme adds interest to the penultimate movement of the cycle, perhaps a bit
whimsically, and lends the first tutti of the finale an additional impact.

14. Haydn and Mozart.

Because of the long span of time that Haydn and Mozart each devoted to symphonic
composition, as well as the number, quality and scope of their works, the symphony
must certainly be considered one of the most important and representative genres that
they employed. Their achievements go far beyond those of any of the local groupings
suggested above, but in curiously opposite ways. Mozart assimilated procedures from
many sources besides Austrian ones, most notably from Italy and Mannheim,
elevating, enriching and often expanding the original idea or scheme. Haydn, although
he spoke of playing other music to stimulate his own ideas, in fact extended and
intensified his own procedures more than he developed or refined processes gleaned
from others.

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(i) Haydn.

With nearly 40 years of composing symphonies, Haydn exceeds most other

composers of the period in seniority. His symphonies are now generally considered to
number 106: the usual 104 plus two early works now designated as nos.107 and 108.
(The traditional numbering, dating from 1907, is often highly inaccurate
chronologically, especially for the early works; for the most authoritative recent
treatment of the dating of Haydn’s symphonies see Gerlach, 1996.) It is difficult to
arrange Haydn’s prodigious output in periods, because the similarities between
chronologically adjacent symphonies often seem less noteworthy than their
differences and individualities. In general, his works reflect the circumstances of their
composition. As a young man he worked for small establishments, with only modest
orchestral forces at his disposal; this is reflected in his earliest symphonies, although
his basic approach can already be perceived in the overture-like no.1, dating from
c1757–8. During this period and in the years just after his appointment at the
Esterházy court in 1761, Haydn wrote in more different symphonic types and styles
than at any other time, including works with extensive concertante elements, canon,
fugal finales and suggestions of the church sonata in their tempo arrangement or use
of cantus firmus technique. These different styles should not be regarded merely as
experiments but as responses to changing requirements, probably including
performance in church. In later years, too, Haydn responded to special challenges
with unusually imaginative solutions, as in the hilarious ‘Il distratto’ (no.60, c1774),
whose six movements were originally written as incidental music for a comedy, or in
the ‘Hornsignal’ (no.31, 1765), a brilliant example of concertante (and incidentally
cyclic) treatment that incorporates various horn calls (the title, like most such titles in
Haydn, did not originate with the composer).

Haydn’s earliest symphonies show a preponderance of three-movement cycles,

though from the beginning he gave his symphonic finales more weight and interest
than those of the typical opera overture. In the course of this period Haydn began
increasingly to use four-movement plans of the types already noted in other Austrian
symphonists: fast–minuet/trio–slow–fast (nos.32, 37 and 108 of c1757–62, and later
nos.44 and 68; see also no.15, with a composite slow–fast–slow movement in place of
the opening fast movement); slow–fast–minuet/trio–fast (nos.5, 11, 21, 22 and 34 of
c1760–64, and later no.49; see also no.18 of c1757–9, with the sequence slow–fast–
Tempo di Minuetto); and finally the standard later cycle, fast–slow–minuet/trio–fast
(beginning with nos.3, 6–8 – the trilogy ‘Le matin’, ‘Le midi’ and Le soir’ – and 14,
20, 33 and 36 of c1758–62). Nos.6–7 are among the earliest known four-movement
symphonies to incorporate a slow introduction, that of no.6 (‘Le matin’) representing
a rather abbreviated sunrise (see also no.25 of c1760–61, in which the extended slow
introduction, obviously related to the independent opening Adagio movements of the
same period, precedes a three-movement fast–minuet/trio–fast cycle). However,
Haydn did not use this pattern again until the 1770s (nos.50, 53, 54, 57 of 1773–4;
nos.71, 73, 75 of c1778–81), and it did not become standard for him until after 1785.

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Later in Haydn’s career came various large-scale refinements and innovations that
were important for later composers. These include the introduction of thematic links
between the slow introduction and the following fast movement (nos.90, 98, 102–3);
the development and exploitation of a wide range of variation forms in slow
movements, including alternating or double variations (beginning with nos.53, 63 and
70 in the late 1770s) and effective combinations of the variation, rondo and sonata
principles (see Sisman, 1993); the connection of minuet and trio by means of a
transition after the trio (nos.50, 99, 104); and the extensive use of sonata-rondo finales
(the best-known examples are those of nos.88, 94, 99 and 101–3).

Haydn’s position with Prince Esterházy required a steady production of symphonies

for immediate performance, providing a unique opportunity for creation and self-
criticism. Within the general framework just described, Haydn now began an internal
expansion, enlarging his thematic ideas, working out new means of development,
evolving more remote tonal excursions and extracting the most effective and varied
sounds from a group that often numbered less than 20. The remarkable number of fine
symphonies that resulted show numerous characteristic procedures, among them the
construction of much of the exposition from a single thematic idea, with contrast often
deferred to the closing area; the constant exploitation of the unexpected, unpredictable
because the source of surprise changes in each work; and the creation of a clear zone
of climax to lend profile and character to the development section. Especially
important are two seemingly opposed processes. The first is phrase extension (a b b¹
b² etc.), so that four bars may become seven or eleven. The second is compression by
means of phrase elision, which causes the new phrase to arrive a bar earlier than
expected; clear examples from early and late in Haydn’s career are the primary
themes of the first movements of no.8, based on a Gluck ariette in praise of tobacco
(see Heartz, 1984, 1995), and no.104. These opposite processes, extension and
compression, both serve to induce a state of rhythmic tension or uncertainty that
contributes substantially to Haydn’s sense of movement.

Numerous biographers have identified a period of ‘Sturm und Drang’ in Haydn’s life
in the second half of the 1760s and the early 1770s. Storm and stress can certainly be
recognized in the powerful minor-mode symphonies of the period (nos.26, 39, 44, 45,
49 and 52), but this colourful interpretation neglects the fact that works in the minor
still represent a distinct minority during this period. Moreover, the implied
relationship (causal or otherwise) between the symphonies in question and the
German literary movement known as the Sturm und Drang rests on shaky
chronological grounds, since the latter is associated primarily with the mid-1770s and
later, after Haydn’s (and others’) principal contributions to this style.

Beginning in 1776, probably because of his heavy new operatic responsibilities,

Haydn’s activity in the symphony seems to have reached a temporary plateau; his rate
of production declined somewhat, and a number of these works seem somewhat
neutral in character despite their mastery of the symphonic idiom. Though some

35
writers have viewed this period in a negative light (e.g. Landon, 1955), it was during
precisely this time that Haydn shaped many of the characteristic features of his late
symphonic style, including the use of variation slow movements, rondo finales, and
sophisticated new approaches in the realms of texture, harmony, form and
orchestration. These symphonies also show numerous direct connections with stage or
opera: nos.50, 53, 60, 62, 63, 73 and possibly 67, for example, incorporate
movements from Haydn’s opera overtures (Fisher, 1985).

The culmination of Haydn’s achievements as a symphonist came in the years 1785–

95. A Paris commission of 1785 resulted in six new symphonies (nos.82–7, the ‘Paris’
Symphonies) for the Concert de la Loge Olympique, followed by nos.88 and 89 (the
‘Tost’ symphonies, 1787) and 90–92 (the ‘Comte d’Ogny’ or ‘Oettingen-Wallerstein’
symphonies, 1788). In these works Haydn reached new heights of ingenuity, humour
and unpretentious intellectuality, the last chiefly in matters of development and
thematic relationship (see especially no.88). Later the London trips of 1791–2 and
1794–5 each yielded two series of six symphonies, nos.93–8 and 99–104, that equal
those of the preceding groups in all those qualities and exceed them in breadth of
conception, melodic appeal, orchestral brilliance and magisterial but never pompous
dignity.

Haydn was an innovator in all directions. Nearly every symphony contains ideas of a
variety that defies categorization. Two recurrent but constantly changing procedures
give some insight into his methods. First, by treating the phrase less as a goal in itself
than as a part of larger rhythmic groupings (sentence, paragraph), he generated an
unusually broad rhythmic control, to which his frequent elision techniques also
contributed. Second, by extending the developmental process to encompass both the
exposition and recapitulation, the latter often substantially recomposed rather than
merely restating the material of the former (see Wolf, 1966), he demonstrated
revolutionary potentialities in sonata form. These ideas exercised a major influence on
Beethoven.

The scope of Haydn’s imagination can only be hinted at by reference to a few

representative examples. His famous dynamic surprises (e.g. the ff tutti entrance in the
slow movement of the ‘Surprise’ Symphony, no.94, or the characteristic ‘thunderclap’
repetitions of primary themes) go beyond mere effect to delineate structure and
vitalize rhythmic flow, goals also identifiable in details such as the frequent use of
cross-accents – another technique appropriated by Beethoven. Similarly, the famous
‘dwindling’ conclusion of the Farewell Symphony, no.45 (1772) – anticipated eight
years earlier in the pp ending of no.23 – exemplifies among other things Haydn’s
concern with the coherence of the symphonic cycle (see Webster, 1991). This concern
also appears in the cyclic recall of material from earlier movements in the finales of
nos.31 and 46. As an orchestrator Haydn used many fresh sounds, including an
opening drum-roll (no.103), english horns in place of oboes (no.22), solo double bass
(trios of nos.6–8, finales of nos.72 of 1763, 31 and 45), janissary instruments (no.100)

36
and four concertante horns (nos.72, 31; compare also nos.13 and 39, also with four
horns, and the slow movement of no.51, with horn solos at both extremes of range).
The many solos for strings and wind were considered exemplary by critics even in the
epicentre of the symphonie concertante, Paris itself.

Haydn’s range of symphonic tonalities is the broadest of any 18th-century composer:

in contradiction to the myth of the ‘cheerful’ Haydn, he actually wrote a larger
proportion of works in minor keys than most 18th-century symphonists (exceptions
are Vanhal, Beck and Gossec), and no.45 is the only known symphony of the 18th
century in F♯ minor. Tonal relationships between movements are less adventurous
than in his piano sonatas and chamber music, although the G major second movement
of no.99 in E♭ must have been surprising in its time. Within movements, however,
modulations often explore daringly remote tonalities by new pathways, especially
various types of 3rd relationship; here Haydn clearly anticipated Beethoven and
Schubert.

Haydn’s attention to structure may account for his apparently lesser emphasis on
melody in its own right: despite many themes of great appeal, he often impresses
more with motivic evolutions than through the originality or beauty of his initial
material. Many of Haydn’s themes begin the process of motivic accretion and
development even at their first appearance. Indeed, the folklike quality commonly
associated with his themes may in certain cases result less from true folk influence
than from this developmental intent, which requires thematic material that is simple in
both melody and rhythm in order to leave room for later manoeuvres. Haydn’s
extended and forceful transition sections also include considerable development, and
his frequent ‘monothematic’ expositions, in which the secondary theme restates or is
derived from the primary theme, may also be regarded as examples of this
developmental principle.

(ii) Mozart.

Mozart began writing symphonies in England in 1764, more than a quarter of a

century before Haydn’s visits. With this very early start, at the age of eight, Mozart’s
composition of symphonies spans nearly 25 years; but his activity was sporadic,
resulting from the needs of a variety of circumstances rather than, as with Haydn, the
steadier requirements of a permanent appointment. This led to a somewhat
heterogeneous instrumentation and style that do not necessarily reflect Mozart’s own
preferences or stylistic development. The friendly contact with J.C. Bach and Abel in
London furnished Mozart with an enduringly significant model: a warmly italianate
style of compelling lyricism and graceful rhythmic movement, to which his Austro-
German background added harmonic depth, textural interest, subtlety of phrasing and
orchestral virtuosity.

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Mozart’s early symphonies are beset with numerous problems of authenticity and
chronology. The earliest works, written in London and the Netherlands in 1764–6
during the Mozart family’s first grand tour, are now considered to include k16, the
recently discovered 19a, 19, 22 and 45a (Zaslaw, Mozart’s Symphonies 1989). All are
in three movements with a 3/8 finale. Each first movement is in binary-sonata form, in
which only the second half of the exposition, beginning with the secondary theme, is
recapitulated; the only anomalies are the omission of double bars and repeat signs in
k19 and 22 (as in most Italian overtures and many Mannheim symphonies) and in k22
the return of the primary theme at the end to round off the movement (again as in
many Mannheim symphonies). Though these symphonies are routinely described as
Italian in style, it requires only four bars of k16 to observe the stylistic blending
mentioned earlier. It opens with a bustling operatic triad theme in unison, but
beginning in bar 4 there are held chords, with suspensions, in all parts except the bass
(which moves in an offbeat crotchet figure); the effect is that of a Fuxian counterpoint
exercise. After a repetition of both phrases, the scurrying turns and tremolos of the
transition return us to the opera house. Either or both of the two slightly later works
k19a and 19, usually assigned to London, may have been written after the Mozarts’
departure for the Netherlands in September 1765 (Zaslaw, Mozart’s symphonies;
however, Gersthofer, 1993, considers k19 the earlier of the two and assigns it to
London). The opening of k19a recalls J.C. Bach’s singing-allegro style, while that of
k19 is a statement-and-response cliché obviously patterned on the main theme of an
Abel symphony Mozart had copied. Though these movements contain a number of
sophisticated touches, they often sound four-square owing to their abrupt rhythms and
a general lack of linear direction. In the Andantes, however, the leisurely italianate
lines sometimes stretch to unexpected lengths, and the slow movement of k22 (The
Hague, December 1765) introduces both more counterpoint and more chromaticism
than most such movements of the time, in the latter case foreshadowing the
characteristic touches of harmonic pathos in Mozart’s later works.

With the little symphonies k43, 45 and 48 of 1767–8, written in Vienna, Mozart made
a seemingly sharp turn towards the four-movement Viennese model. More important
than the number of movements, however, is the continuing blend of German and
Italian traits. Almost every transition brings the familiar Italian tremolos; trill, snap
and turn figures activate many themes; and there are cantabile Andantes and 3/8, 6/8
and 12/8 finales. But one also finds rather squarely phrased slow movements (k48),
plodding divertimento-style triplet lines (k45, minuet and trio) and themes like
remnants of counterpoint exercises (opening of k45). Arguably the best of this group
is k48, whose ‘affinity with such works as Haydn’s Symphonies Nos.3 and 13 is quite
obvious’ (Larsen, 1956, p.162); in the opening movement this can be recognized in
the sweeping primary theme, the strong rhythmic drive, the sharp dynamic contrasts
and the omission of a clear secondary theme (otherwise virtually de rigueur in
Mozart’s first movements), not to mention the surprise cadence in the closing section.
The presence of these Haydnesque elements, however, also draws attention to
Mozart’s development as a symphonist: though using highly rhythmic material, he

38
maintains his identity with the characteristically orderly punctuation between phrases
and theme groups, the italianate lines and chromaticism in the slow movement and the
brashness of the minuet, which after four sober opening bars explodes in violin
semiquaver scales that rush up two octaves in two bars. The first-movement forms
show a continuing diversity: among these supposedly Viennese-modelled works, the
first movement of k43 maintains the binary-sonata design of the early symphonies,
and k45 omits repeats, anticipating its re-use as the overture to La finta semplice.
Although Mozart must have heard many full sonata forms by Viennese composers
such as Hofmann and Dittersdorf, only k48 has a convincing reprise of primary
material.

The 1769–71 period includes two trips to Italy, separated by a return to Salzburg. The
symphonies associated with the first journey strongly reflect familiar Italian usages
such as three-movement cycles (k74, 81, 84), linking of the first and second
movements (k74, 95), omission of repeat signs, and even exposition-recapitulation
forms (with the two halves connected by a transition over a dominant pedal; first
movements of k74, 84). By contrast, a symphony written while back in Salzburg in
July 1771, k110, illustrates a growing fusion of styles: the German background entails
the presence of four movements, with full sonata form (including repeats) in the first
movement, a vigorous minuet with a near-canon between violins and bass and a
rousing finale (also with a hint of violin-bass imitation at the beginning) that includes
a well-developed episode in the relative minor. In the slow movement, however, a
leisurely italianate melody betrays thoughts far from rainy Salzburg, though here
again the well-schooled Germanic texture includes a clever dialogue between violins
as well as other attractive inner lines and brief imitations. Back again in Milan, k112
(November 1771) falls less under the Italian spell than the symphonies of the first
journey. In the secondary section a charming dialogue between the oboes (doubled at
the octave by divided violas) and the violins immediately evokes an opera buffa
argument by its snap rhythms. Similarly, the 3/8 finale begins like a typical curtain-
raiser; but subsequently the stress falls on a balanced unfolding of ideas, an attitude
already apparent in the development of the first movement (in full sonata form, with
repeats) and the well-crafted slow movement. In sum, Mozart’s symphonies of 1771
begin to exploit the contrast between German and Italian styles, inexhaustible sources
of colour and balance that were to become the main underlying characteristics of his
personal style. By this time he was moving towards an effectively integrated style,
and many phrases contain evidence of originality, charm and strength. On the other
hand, segmentation often tends to interrupt the basic movement, forestalling the
development of a broader continuity.

The highly productive period in Salzburg from December 1771 to August 1772
yielded at least eight symphonies. There are still stylistic mixtures not yet fully
assimilated: the first movements of k133 and 134, for example, still use the type of
sonata form in which recapitulation of the primary theme is withheld until near the
end (to be followed in k134 by a coda – so labelled – featuring a crescendo passage).

39
As representatives of Mozart’s most evolved and expansive style to date, however,
works such as k132 and 134 deserve more frequent revival: k132 shows how Italian
high spirits can be applied in a fully developed sonata form (here without repeats),
and k134, which contrasts a driving 3/4 Allegro – Haydnesque except for its formal
structure – with a spacious early version of the Andante cantabile mood and opening
melodic gesture of ‘Porgi amor’ from Le nozze di Figaro.

After a third trip to Italy for the production of Lucio Silla in November 1772–March
1773, Mozart again set about composing symphonies, producing four in the space of
one and a half months. The strongly italianate orientation of these works is evident
both in their overall style and in such formal traits as the omission of minuets and
trios, the presence of transitions to connect each movement in k184/161a and
181/162b, and in the second of these works the use of exposition-recapitulation form
in the first movement. Yet contrapuntal touches such as the double fugato that opens
the finale of k199/161b remind us that Mozart was now, doubtless to his chagrin, back
in Salzburg.

Autumn 1773 marks the beginning of Mozart’s maturity as a symphonist. When he

returned to Salzburg at the end of September from a ten-week stay in Vienna, he
began writing works in a more fully realized style that resolved earlier conflicts and
imbalances while at the same time increasing the size and expressive range of every
movement. The design of first movements follows the full sonata pattern, emphasized
by stronger punctuation between sections and sharper thematic contrast, both
melodically and orchestrally. Now there are no static lines, no dead spots, no loose
ends. From this period stems the first of his only two minor-mode symphonies, k183
in G minor (dated 5 October 1773), a work of precocious feeling with an opening in
syncopated octaves that recalls Haydn’s ‘Lamentatione’ (no.26 in D minor, written
some five years earlier). Balancing this darker part of the spectrum, the genial
symphony k201 in A (dated 6 April 1774) contains two of the most hilarious passages
anywhere in Mozart. The first occurs at the end of each half of the minuet, where
unison oboes and horns add two bars of dotted musical parody. The second occurs in
the finale, where a rising whirlwind scale appears out of nowhere in the violins at the
end of the exposition, development and recapitulation; left up in the air each time, it is
only brought down to earth at the last possible moment by the closing chords of a
brief coda. Mozart had already assimilated the strategy of Haydn’s long-range
structural question marks.

After these works of 1773–4 Mozart essentially had no call to compose symphonies
until the ‘Paris’, k297 (June 1778), written after his extended stay at Mannheim in
1777–8. Both this and the three he composed after his return to Salzburg in early 1779
(k318, 319 and 336) reflect his experiences in Mannheim and Paris, as seen in their
orchestration (including clarinets for the first time in k297), use of three movements,
and omission of double bars and repeat signs in the opening movements. The choice

40
in k318 of a type of da capo overture form (see above, §5) has led to speculation that
it was originally written as the overture to one of Mozart’s vocal works of the period.

Mozart’s composition of symphonies was even more sporadic after his move to
Vienna in 1781, but the works he did produce are, of course, among the masterpieces
of the symphonic literature: k385, the ‘Haffner’ (no.35 in the traditional numbering,
1782), originally intended as the core movements of a serenade; k425, the ‘Linz’
(no.36, 1783); k504, the ‘Prague’ (no.38, 1786; ‘no.37’ is a symphony by Michael
Haydn with a slow introduction by Mozart); and the great trilogy of summer 1788,
consisting of k543 in E♭, k550 in G minor and k551 in C, the ‘Jupiter’ (nos.39–41).
In addition to the extraordinary expansiveness, originality, emotional depth,
sophistication and craft of these works, the last four in particular may be seen as
consummate examples of the different expressive characters a work by Mozart may
evince: vivacious buffo style in no.38, italianate lyricism and warmth in no.39, an
often disturbing ‘Sturm und Drang’ in no.40 and transcendent brilliance – including
contrapuntal brilliance – in no.41.

Mozart’s own natural gifts, especially his feeling for colour and balance, set the
pattern for a number of specific differences between his symphonies and those of
Haydn. His sensitivity to colour produced more regular assignments for the wind
instruments and, often, a more idiomatic style of writing. It was this colour sense, too,
that called forth his rich chordal vocabulary and his ingenious and far-ranging, but
always smoothly executed, modulations. One might even relate Mozart’s highly
variegated rhythms to a sense of colour, at least if ‘colour’ is equated with variety and
contrast. In a sense his remarkable rhythmic vocabulary is a by-product of contrast on
a still larger scale, namely the strong characterization of structural areas by the
creation of special thematic types: as with J.C. Bach, one can usually recognize the
precise expositional function of a Mozart theme even when it is removed from its
context.

This concern for colour also appears in Mozart’s handling of development sections.
The reliance on modulation, often without significant thematic alteration, has caused
some writers to consider Mozartian developments less substantial and ‘serious’ than
Haydn’s. Yet the character of Mozart’s expositions to some extent demanded his own
special solutions later in the movement: elaborate motivic development might blur the
characteristic thematic personalities that had been so carefully distinguished in the
exposition, and in any event a perfectly formed phrase of exquisite lyricism may not
lend itself easily to fragmentation. Thus Mozart’s development sections typically
maintain interest by refreshing one or more of his established thematic types with a
trip through unfamiliar orchestral and harmonic territory, so that the tonic reprise can
be recognized as its proper home. In the same way, Mozart rarely rewrites his
recapitulations to the extent that Haydn does, though he frequently appends a coda, as
implied already.

41
The word ‘symmetry’, sometimes too casually applied to Mozart’s music, usually
expresses qualities of coordination and balance. In any single phrase-unit in Mozart
the activity of each musical element is typically coordinated to an unusual degree, a
characteristic that in turn makes possible meticulous balances in activity between
phrases. At the opening of no.41, for instance, the strong rhythmic activity of the first
two bars is offset by lesser melodic and harmonic action; this leads to a balancing pair
of bars in which melody and harmony take the lead while rhythm is relatively
quiescent. These shifting priorities, also carefully adjusted between the larger sections
of a piece, provide one explanation for the convincing flow of Mozart’s music, a
motion very different from Haydn’s driving motivic development and broad tensions.

Two final characteristics of Mozart’s mature symphonic style may be worth noting.
First, some aspects of his rhythmic control, though less noticeable on the surface than
Haydn’s motivic drive, often contribute significantly to the fundamental movement.
For example, the progress of the harmonic rhythm, especially as reflected in the rate
of chord change, can effect a compelling climax. Thus in the first bars of no.40 the
chord rhythm accelerates in an almost geometric progression: one four-bar chord, two
two-bar chords, seven one-bar chords, six half-bar chords, and four crotchet chords,
pausing finally on a two-bar dominant. A second point, also generally overlooked,
concerns Mozart’s development of an ending that included both serenity and
brilliance. Between the usual forte cadential themes he sometimes introduced a piano
penultimo: a quiet, reflective theme that enhances the brilliance of the final cadential
bars (see for example the first movement of no.40). This heightened contrast in the
closing area lends a special conviction and definitive repose to a Mozartian
conclusion, noticeable in embryo as early as the first movement of k134. In perfecting
other parts of the movement, he had attained a superb balance of phrases, thematic
areas and main divisions; now, for the end of a movement, he discovered the means to
a totally satisfying finality.

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44
• R. Engländer: Die Dresdner Instrumentalmusik in der Zeit der Wiener Klassik
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Rom’, AnMc, 5 (1968), 201–47

45
• R.J. MacDonald: François-Joseph Gossec and French Instrumental Music in
the Second Half of the Eighteenth Century (diss., U. of Michigan, 1968)
• M. Cole: ‘The Vogue of the Instrumental Rondo in the Late Eighteenth
Century’, JAMS, 22 (1969), 425–55
• G. Abraham: ‘Some Eighteenth-Century Polish Symphonies’, Studies in
Eighteenth-Century Music: a Tribute to Karl Geiringer, ed. H.C.R. Landon
and R.E. Chapman (New York and London, 1970), 13–22
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Concerto to the Time of Beethoven (excluding Haydn and Mozart)
(Hackensack, NJ, 1970)
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(diss., UCLA, 1970)
• H. Hell: Die Neapolitanische Opernsinfonie in der ersten Hälfte des 18.
Jahrhunderts (Tutzing, 1971)
• C. Rosen: The Classical Style: Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven (New York, 1971,
enlarged 3/1997)
• E. Apfel: Zur Vor- und Frühgeschichte der Symphonie (Baden-Baden, 1972)
• L. Cuyler: The Symphony (New York, 1973)
• G.P. Jones: Heinrich Christoph Koch’s Description of the Symphony and a
Comparison with Selected Symphonies of C.P.E. Bach and Haydn (thesis,
UCLA, 1973)
• J. Schwartz: Phrase Morphology in the Early Classic Symphony (diss., New
York U., 1973)
• F.W. Sternfeld and E. Wellesz, eds.: The Age of Enlightenment, 1745–1790,
NOHM, 7 (1973) [incl. ‘The Early Symphony’, 366–433]
• J. Webster: ‘Towards a History of Viennese Chamber Music in the Early
Classical Period’, JAMS, 27 (1974), 212–47
• C. Pierre: Histoire du Concert spirituel 1725–1790 (Paris, 1975)
• M. Danckwardt: Die langsame Einleitung: ihre Herkunft und ihr Bau bei
Haydn und Mozart (Tutzing, 1977)
• R. Diekow: Studien über das Musikschaffen Johann Christian Hertels und
Johann Wilhelm Hertels (diss., U. of Rostock, 1977)
• E.K. Wolf: ‘Authenticity and Stylistic Evidence in the Early Symphony’, A
Musical Offering: Essays in Honor of Martin Bernstein, ed. E.H. Clinkscale
and C. Brook (New York, 1977), 275–94
• J.P. Larsen: ‘Zur Entstehung der österreichischen Symphonietradition (ca.
1750–1775)’, HJb 1978, 72–80
• B.S. Brook and B.B. Heyman, eds.: The Symphony 1720–1840 (New York and
London, 1979–85)
• A.P. Brown, ed.: Carlo d’Ordonez: Seven Symphonies, ser. B, iv of The
Symphony 1720–1840, ed. B.S. Brook and B.B. Heyman (New York, 1979)
• B. Churgin: ‘The Symphony as Described by J.A.P. Schulz (1774): a
Commentary and Translation’, CM, 29 (1980), 7–16
• L.G. Ratner: Classic Music: Expression, Form, and Style (New York, 1980)

46
• K. Winkler: ‘Alter und neuer Musikstil im Streit zwischen den Berlinern und
Wienern zur Zeit der Frühklassik’, Mf, 33 (1980), 37–45
• E.K. Wolf: ‘On the Origins of the Mannheim Symphonic Style’, Studies in
Musicology in Honor of Otto E. Albrecht, ed. J.W. Hill (Kassel, 1980), 197–
239
• B. Hosler: Changing Aesthetic Views of Instrumental Music in 18th-Century
Germany (Ann Arbor, MI, 1981)
• E.K. Wolf: The Symphonies of Johann Stamitz: a Study in the Formation of
the Classic Style (Utrecht, 1981)
• R.N. Freeman and M. Meckna, eds.: Austrian Cloister Symphonists, ser. B, vi
of The Symphony 1720–1840, ed. B.S. Brook and B.B. Heyman (New York,
1982)
• N. Zaslaw: ‘Mozart, Haydn, and the Sinfonia da chiesa’, JM, 1 (1982), 95–124
• M. Broyles: ‘The Two Instrumental Styles of Classicism’, JAMS, 36 (1983),
210–42
• W. Budday: Grundlagen musikalischer Formen der Wiener Klassik: an Hand
der zeitgenössischen Theorie von Joseph Riepel und Heinrich Christoph Koch
dargestellt an Menuetten und Sonatensätzen (1750–1790) (Kassel, 1983)
• J. LaRue and C. Cudworth: ‘Thematic Index of English Symphonies’, Music
in Eighteenth-Century England: Essays in Memory of Charles Cudworth, ed.
C. Hogwood and R. Luckett (Cambridge, 1983), 219–44
• H.C. Koch: Introductory Essay on Composition: the Mechanical Rules of
Melody, Sections 3 and 4, ed. N.K. Baker (New Haven, CT, 1983)
• C.-H. Mahling: ‘The Origin and Social Status of the Court Orchestral
Musician in the 18th and Early 19th Century in Germany’, The Social Status
of the Professional Musician from the Middle Ages to the 19th Century, ed. W.
Salmen (New York, 1983), 219–64
• E.K. Wolf, ed.: Antecedents of the Symphony: the Ripieno Concerto, ser. A, i,
part 1 of The Symphony 1720–1840, ed. B.S. Brook and B.B. Heyman (New
York, 1983)
• S. Forsberg, ed.: Joseph Camerloher, Placidus von Camerloher: Three
Symphonies, ser. C, ii, part 2 of The Symphony 1720–1840, ed. B.S. Brook and
B.B. Heyman (New York, 1984)
• D. Heartz: ‘Haydn und Gluck im Burgtheater um 1760: Der neue krumme
Teufel, Le diable à quatre und die Sinfonie “Le soir”’, Bericht über den
Internationalen musikwissenschaftlichen Kongress: Bayreuth 1981, ed. C.-H.
Mahling and S. Wiesmann (Kassel, 1984), 120–35
• V.R. Karpf, ed.: Musik am Hof Maria Theresias: In memoriam Vera Schwarz
(Munich, 1984)
• E. Weimer: Opera seria and the Evolution of Classical Style, 1755–1772 (Ann
Arbor, MI, 1984)
• R. Würtz, ed.: Mannheim und Italien: zur Vorgeschichte der Mannheimer
(Mainz, 1984)

47
• C. Dahlhaus, ed.: Neues Handbuch der Musikwissenschaft, v: Die Musik des
18. Jahrhunderts, ed. C. Dahlhaus (Laaber, 1985)
• S.C. Fisher: Haydn’s Overtures and their Adaptations as Concert Orchestral
Works (diss., U. of Pennsylvania, 1985)
• J.C. Biermann: ‘Die Darmstädter Hofkapelle unter Christoph Graupner 1709–
1760’, Christoph Graupner, Hofkapellmeister in Darmstadt 1709–1760, ed.
O. Bill (Mainz, 1987), 27–72
• B.S. Brook, ed.: Catalogo de’ soli, duetti, trii, quadri … che si trovano in
manoscritto nella officina musica di Christiano Ulrico Ringmacher librario in
Berolino, 1773 (Stuyvesant, NY, 1987)
• C. Eisen: ‘The Symphonies of Leopold Mozart: their Chronology, Style and
Importance for the Study of Mozart’s Early Symphonies’, MJb 1987–8, 181–
93
• J. LaRue: A Catalogue of 18th-Century Symphonies, i: Thematic Identifier
(Bloomington, IN, 1988)
• C. Rosen: Sonata Forms (New York, 2/1988)
• M.S. Morrow: Concert Life in Haydn’s Vienna (Stuyvesant, NY, 1989)
• R.S. Winter: ‘The Bifocal Close and the Evolution of the Viennese Classical
Style’, JAMS, 42 (1989), 275–337
• N. Zaslaw: Mozart’s Symphonies: Context, Performance Practice, Reception
(Oxford, 1989)
• N. Zaslaw, ed.: Man and Music/Music and Society: The Classical Era: from
the 1740s to the End of the 18th Century (London, 1989)
• A.P. Brown: ‘Stylistic Maturity and Regional Influence: Joseph Martin
Kraus’s Symphonies in C♯ Minor (Stockholm, 1782) and C♯ (Vienna,
1783?)’, Studies in Musical Sources and Style: Essays in Honor of Jan LaRue,
ed. E.K. Wolf and E.H. Roesner (Madison, WI, 1990), 381–418
• E.R. Sisman: ‘Haydn’s Theater Symphonies’, JAMS, 43 (1990), 292–352
• V.K. Agawu: Playing with Signs: a Semiotic Interpretation of Classic Music
(Princeton, NJ, 1991)
• J. Webster: Haydn’s ‘Farewell’ Symphony and the Idea of Classical Style:
Through-Composition and Cyclic Integration in his Instrumental Music
(Cambridge, 1991)
• D. Edge: ‘Mozart’s Viennese Orchestras’, EMc, 20 (1992), 64–88
• L. Finscher, ed.: Die Mannheimer Hofkapelle im Zeitalter Carl Theodors
(Mannheim, 1992)
• W. Gersthofer: Mozarts frühe Sinfonien (bis 1772): Aspekte frühklassischer
Sinfonik (Kassel, 1993)
• D. Heartz: ‘The Concert Spirituel in the Tuileries Palace’, EMc, 21 (1993),
240–48
• S. Kunze: Die Sinfonie im 18. Jahrhundert: von der Opernsinfonie zur
Konzertsinfonie (Laaber, 1993)

48
• R. Rasch: ‘The Dutch Republic’, Man and Music/Music and Society: The Late
Baroque Era: from the 1680s to 1740, ed. G.J. Buelow (London, 1993), 393–
410
• M.H. Schmid: ‘Typen des Orchestercrescendo im 18. Jahrhundert’,
Untersuchungen zu Musikbeziehungen zwischen Mannheim, Böhmen und
Mähren im späten 18. und frühen 19. Jahrhundert, ed. C. Heyter-Rauland and
C.-H. Mahling (Mainz, 1993), 96–132
• E.R. Sisman: Haydn and the Classical Variation (Cambridge, MA, 1993)
• J. Spitzer: ‘Players and Parts in the 18th-Century Orchestra’, Basler Jahrbuch
für historische Musikpraxis, 17 (1993), 65–88
• C. Eisen: Preface to Orchestral Music in Salzburg, 1750–1780, RRMCE, 40
(1994)
• L. Finscher, B. Pelker and J. Reutter, eds.: Mozart und Mannheim:
Kongressbericht Mannheim 1991 (Frankfurt, 1994)
• J.P. Larsen: ‘Zur Vorgeschichte der Symphonik der Wiener Klassik’, ed. E.
Badura-Skoda and N. Krabbe, SMw, 43 (1994), 67–143
• G. Wagner: Die Sinfonien Carl Philipp Emanuel Bachs: werdende Gattung
und Originalgenie (Stuttgart, 1994)
• D. Heartz: Haydn, Mozart and the Viennese School, 1740–1780 (New York,
1995)
• E.K. Wolf: ‘I Concerti grossi dell’Opera I (1721) di Pietro Antonio Locatelli e
le origini della sinfonia’, Intorno a Locatelli: Studi in occasione del
tricentenario della nascita di Pietro Antonio Locatelli (1695–1764), ed. A.
Dunning (Lucca, 1995), 1169–93
• A.P. Brown: ‘The Trumpet Overture and Sinfonia in Vienna (1715–1822):
Rise, Decline and Reformulation’, Music in Eighteenth-Century Austria, ed.
D. Wyn Jones (Cambridge, 1996), 13–69
• S. Gerlach: Joseph Haydns Sinfonien bis 1774: Studien zur Chronologie
(Cologne, 1996) [Haydn-Studien, 7/1–2]

For further bibliography see also articles on individual composers and

geographical centres

49
II. 19th century

• Mark Evan Bonds

1. The essence of the genre.

For all its outward variety, the 19th-century symphony exhibits remarkable coherence
as a genre, from the early symphonies of Beethoven up to the middle-period
symphonies of Mahler. The genre’s identity rests in part on external criteria of size
and structure: composers consistently designated as a symphony a work for a
medium- or large-sized orchestra, usually consisting of three, four or five movements
(most commonly four). These movements generally follow the pattern of (1) an
extended opening movement, often in sonata form, sometimes preceded by a slow
introduction; (2) a lyrical slow movement, typically in sonata form, ABA, or theme
and variations; (3) a dance-inspired scherzo movement, in triple metre; and (4) a fast
finale. The order of the two middle movements was sometimes reversed, and there
were of course other exceptions to this pattern in practice, but they remain exceptions.

By these external criteria alone, however, one could legitimately define a symphony
as a ‘sonata for orchestra’, whereas in fact the differences between the two genres are
profound. Throughout the late 18th and 19th centuries critical commentary on the
symphony repeatedly emphasized distinctive qualities: an essentially polyphonic
texture and a ‘public’ tone. The symphony was consistently valued for its unique
ability to unite the widest possible range of instruments in such a way that no one
voice predominates and all contribute to the whole. Although chamber music could
lay similar claim to an essential equality of voices, its timbral resources were
necessarily limited and it was performed before a relatively small, elite audience (if
indeed before any audience at all). The concerto, in turn, although decidedly public in
nature, never enjoyed the prestige of the symphony because of the genre’s
aesthetically suspect propensity towards virtuoso display.

Performed by a large number of players on a diverse range of instruments and

projected to a large gathering of listeners, the symphony came to be seen as the most
monumental of all instrumental genres. The all-embracing tone of the symphony was
understood to represent the emotions or ideas not merely of the individual composer
but of an entire community, be it a city, a state, or the whole of humanity. As reflected
in the writings of such critics as Paul Bekker, Arnold Schering and Theodor Adorno,
this perspective continued into the 20th century, yet by the end of the century it was
all but lost. It nevertheless constitutes one of the essential elements in perceptions of
the symphony throughout the 19th century. Indeed, the essence of this perspective is
evident as early as 1774 in Schulz’s entry on the Symphony for J.G. Sulzer’s
Allgemeine Theorie der schönen Künste, where Schulz likened the symphony to a

50
‘choral work for instruments’, in which no single voice predominates but in which,
rather, ‘every voice is making its own particular contribution to the whole’. It was
specifically in this latter connection that Schulz compared the symphony to a Pindaric
ode, a work written to be sung in communal celebrations by a large chorus and
expressing the ideas of an entire community, as opposed to those of the poet alone.
Schulz went on to take three prominent composers of his generation to task for
writing symphonies that sounded too much like arias performed on instruments: he
declared certain (unspecified) movements by J.G. Graun, C.H. Graun and J.A. Hasse
to be ‘feeble’ in their effect in spite of – or rather, precisely because of – their melodic
beauty. Only occasionally, according to Schulz, did these composers succeed in
achieving the ‘true spirit of the symphony’, which is to say, a predominantly
polyphonic texture in which all voices contribute more or less equally.

This perception of the symphony as an expression of communal sentiment grew

throughout the 19th century. According to Koch (1802), the symphony ‘has as its
goal, like the chorus, the expression of a sentiment of an entire multitude’. Fink, a
generation later (1834–5), amplified this by declaring a symphony to be ‘a story,
developed within a psychological context, of some particular emotional state of a
large body of people’. It is by no means coincidental that so many programmatic
interpretations of seemingly ‘absolute’ symphonies conjure up images of large groups
rather than of individuals. Momigny’s analysis (1803–6) of Haydn’s Symphony
no.103 is typical: here, a large gathering prays for relief against the terrors of thunder,
rejoices at the arrival of sunny weather and cowers collectively at the sudden and
unexpected return of the thunder towards the end of the movement. Momigny’s
analysis of a chamber work, by contrast, Mozart’s String Quartet in D minor k421,
focusses on Dido’s anguish at Aeneas’s departure from Carthage: the grief expressed
here is personal, not collective. The many programmatic interpretations of
Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, in turn, evoke images of some kind of communal
gathering, such as a peasant dance or wedding (first movement), a priestly ceremony
(second movement), a dance (scherzo) and a bacchanal (finale). However naive such
interpretations may strike us today, they reveal a fundamental disposition towards
hearing in a symphony the sentiments of a multitude as opposed to those of a mere
individual.

Throughout the 19th century this relationship of individual voices to the orchestra as a
whole was frequently compared to the relationship between the individual and the
ideal society or state – that is, to an essentially democratic, egalitarian society in
which no single figure predominates and in which individuals can fully realize their
potential only as functioning members of a much larger society. Individual voices are
‘melted to become discrete single elements within the whole’, as one anonymous
writer put it in 1820, thereby reflecting ‘the universality of humanity’. In this regard,
Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony lies very much within the tradition of the genre, in spite
of its external novelty of adding voices. Schiller’s text extols the ideals of utopian

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brotherhood and social equality, precisely those characteristics that contemporaneous
writers associated with the genre of the symphony itself.

The distinction between sonata and symphony extended to the audience as well,
which in turn had important ramifications for symphonic style. Until the second
quarter of the 19th century the sonata was essentially a domestic genre, to be
performed either for the pleasure of the performer alone or at most for a small circle
of friends. The symphony, by contrast, had to fill increasingly larger spaces and
appeal to a diverse audience, particularly from the late 18th century onwards.
Accordingly, the symphony was perceived as a genre that by its very nature had to use
broader gestures and simpler themes than were either feasible or desirable in a sonata.
Symphonic themes – particularly those found in the opening of a first movement –
could not be too introspective or rely on refinement and embellishment to make their
effect. On hearing the bold unison opening of Brahms’s D minor Piano Concerto at a
concert for the first time, Bruckner is reported to have said in a loud whisper: ‘But
this is a symphony theme!’. Whatever the veracity of the anecdote, it illustrates the
underlying assumption about the nature of symphonic themes and the symphonic
genre in general (Bruckner presumably did not know at the time that Brahms’s
concerto had in fact been conceived as a symphony).

By the late 18th century, then, but particularly in the wake of Beethoven, the
symphony emerged as an institutional projection of the beliefs and aspirations of
composers, performers and audiences alike. Mahler’s much-quoted remark in the
early 20th century that a symphony must be ‘like the world’ echoes a long tradition
that viewed the symphony as the most cosmic of all instrumental genres.

This tendency towards the cosmic is most immediately evident in the ever-increasing
size of the symphonic orchestra. At the beginning of the 19th century standard scoring
for a large (‘grosse’) symphony called for strings, double woodwind (flutes, oboes,
clarinets, bassoons), two horns, two trumpets and timpani. New instruments were
steadily introduced over the course of the century. Trombones, traditionally restricted
to the realms of church and theatre, appear in the finale of Beethoven’s Fifth
Symphony, the ‘Storm’ movement of his Sixth and the finale of his Ninth. The
piccolo, double bassoon and certain percussion instruments, such as the bass drum,
triangle and cymbals, previously reserved for special effect (e.g. Haydn’s Military
Symphony and the finale of Beethoven’s Ninth) become increasingly common during
the second half of the 19th century, with the symphonies of Mahler constituting a
veritable compendium of orchestral instruments. That Mahler should use such
unlikely instruments as cowbells and anvils speaks not only to his own personal style
but also to the broader tradition of the symphony as an all-encompassing genre. The
introduction of valved brass instruments in the 1820s and 30s dramatically increased
the useful range and timbre of horns and trumpets. By the end of the century the norm
for a large orchestra had grown to triple woodwind (with third players doubling on an
additional instrument) and up to 20 brass instruments, in addition to an ever-

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increasing number of strings. As concert halls grew in size, so did the ensembles
performing there.

Beyond these purely technical changes, and partly as a result of this expansion of
orchestral possibilities, timbre itself became a distinctive feature for symphonists.
Quite aside from issues of form, harmony or thematic construction, the timbre of
Berlioz’s symphonies is distinct from that found in the symphonies of Bruckner,
which in turn is altogether different from that found in symphonies by Brahms,
Tchaikovsky or Mahler. Every major symphonist of the 19th century felt a certain
obligation to create a distinctive orchestral sound within the genre. This timbre, in
turn, represented something far more basic than an additional ‘layer’ imposed on a
composition’s essential part-writing. Here again, the contrast between sonata and
symphony is particularly evident: 19th-century critics consistently distinguish true
symphonies from ‘orchestrated sonatas’ by the nature of the orchestral writing. A true
symphony was perceived as a work whose very essence emerged from the polyphonic
web of all instrumental parts and their distinctive colours.

Because of the symphony’s aesthetic prestige, and because of the sheer technical
demands of writing one, this genre was almost universally acknowledged as a
touchstone of compositional prowess as early as the first quarter of the 19th century.
It was widely felt that a composer could not (or at least should not) step forward with
a work in this genre until he had shown sufficient mastery of smaller, less demanding
forms of composition. The symphony was seen as a means of achieving fame but not
fortune, for in spite of its prestige the genre as a whole remained economically
unprofitable for composers and publishers alike. Symphonies were difficult to
compose, demanding to perform and expensive to publish. Printed scores, moreover,
had little appeal beyond a relatively small market of affluent connoisseurs. It was rare
for a symphony before Beethoven’s time to be published in score. Indeed the first
Beethoven symphony to be published in score on the Continent – the Seventh – did
not appear until 1816, and his Fifth and Sixth were not published in score until 1826.
Arrangements, particularly for piano, were distributed more widely, but here again the
market was fairly limited. Kirby’s survey (1995) of symphonies published in German-
speaking lands during the 19th century, including piano arrangements, shows that
only 122 symphonies were issued between 1810 and 1860 – that is, only two or three
works each year. These numbers increased somewhat in the later decades of the
century but remained relatively small even in comparison with other large genres like
the oratorio or opera. In an odd way, the poor economic incentives of symphonic
composition helped add to the genre’s aura as the highest form of instrumental music.
Anyone composing a symphony, after all, could scarcely be accused of pursuing
commercial gain.

Ironically, the number of performance venues for symphonies began to increase

exponentially in the third and fourth decades of the 19th century, even as the
production and dissemination of new works in the genre declined. Symphonies, along

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with oratorios, constituted the central repertory of the many music festivals that
sprang up in Germany during the first half of the 19th century. The emergence of a
canonic repertory centred on the late symphonies of Haydn and Mozart and the nine
of Beethoven helped further the growth of civic orchestras and standing concert series
in Germany and elsewhere during the second quarter of the century. Yet this same
canonic repertory also made it more difficult for new works to find acceptance.

2. Beethoven.

Beethoven’s First Symphony appeared on the musical scene at a time (1801) when
instrumental music in general, and the symphony in particular, was beginning to enjoy
an unprecedented rise in aesthetic status. By the last decade of the 18th century the
symphony had already established itself as the most prestigious of all instrumental
genres, yet because it lacked a clearly perceptible object of representation, it was
typically received (along with all other forms of instrumental music) as a means of
entertainment rather than as a vehicle of social, moral or intellectual ideas. In his
Critique of Judgment (1790), Kant echoed the general sentiment of his time in
dismissing instrumental music as ‘more pleasure than culture’ on the grounds that it
could not incorporate concepts and must therefore be judged according to the pleasure
emanating from its form alone. Any associative content of thought in the mind of the
listener, according to Kant, was merely ‘accidental’. Instrumental works that did
attempt to ‘represent’ a specific event or object, in turn, were routinely scorned as
naive and aesthetically inferior.

Within only a few decades, Kant’s views on this matter had been thoroughly
supplanted, at least in Germany, where instrumental music was cultivated with special
intensity. This is due in part to the growing recognition of the symphonic
achievements of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven in the early 19th century, and in part
to a broader change in attitudes towards instrumental music in general. Around 1800
the perceived defect of instrumental music – its lack of a text and a definite object –
began to be seen as a virtue. A number of influential critics argued that music without
a text was actually superior, on the grounds that it was freed from the mundane
strictures of semantics and syntax. With this change in aesthetic perspective came the
premise that in addition to purely musical ideas, a work of instrumental music could
now embody moral, philosophical and social ideas as well.

Of all musical genres, the symphony was the greatest beneficiary of this new
aesthetic. In reviews dating from 1809 and 1810, E.T.A. Hoffmann declared the
symphony to be the ‘opera of instruments’ and likened it to the drama. Such
assertions reflect not only the symphony’s implicitly dramatic qualities, but also its
aesthetic status and its ability to incorporate broader ideas beyond the purely musical.
Beethoven was of course by no means single-handedly responsible for the emergence
of the symphony as a vehicle of ideas: the origins of this transformation are already
evident in the late 18th century, even before he had begun to make a name for himself

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as a symphonist. Beethoven nevertheless played a central role in transforming the
genre at a crucial moment in its history, and his direct impact would continue to be
felt by several subsequent generations of symphonists. Particularly from the ‘Eroica’
onwards, Beethoven was seen to have explored a variety of ways in which
instrumental music could evoke images and ideas transcending the world of sound.
The notation of a ‘poetic idea’ has been a central constant in the reception of
Beethoven’s instrumental music from the composer’s own day down to the present,
and nowhere is this understanding more evident than in the reception of the Fifth
Symphony. Long before Anton Schindler had related Beethoven’s putative comment
about the work’s opening – ‘Thus fate knocks at the door’ – E.T.A. Hoffmann and
others had perceived in this symphony an idealized trajectory of struggle leading to
victory. Symphonies with programmatic titles or movement headings, such as
‘Eroica’ or ‘Pastoral’, pointed the way all the more openly towards such extra-musical
interpretations.

The nature of these interpretations has of course varied widely. To have equated a
symphony like the ‘Eroica’ with a specific individual beyond the most general level
would have been seen, even in Beethoven’s day, as an exercise in triviality. At the
same time, to have perceived this work as an exemplar of ‘pure’ music, with no
connection to the outer world whatsoever, would have been unthinkable. The
aesthetic of ‘absolute’ music, necessarily defined in terms of what it was not, began to
emerge only in the middle of the 19th century. Although elements of this outlook are
certainly evident towards the end of the 18th century in the writings of such figures as
Wackenroder, Tieck and Hoffmann, the idealist aesthetic of the time perceived
instrumental music as the sonorous reflection of a higher, abstract ideal. Critics of the
early 19th century could thus posit a connection between music and ideas without
feeling compelled to deliver any detailed explication of what those ideas might
actually be.

From a more technical perspective, Beethoven’s symphonies explore a wide range of

compositional approaches to issues that would similarly occupy at least several
generations of later composers. Indeed, Beethoven’s innovations in formal design are
so consistently extraordinary, at the level of both the individual movement and the
multi-movement cycle, that it is impossible to single out any one of his symphonies as
‘typical’. His integration of vocal forces into the finale of the Ninth Symphony is
merely the most obvious of the many ways in which he explored fundamentally new
approaches to the genre. The Third Symphony, with its evocation of ethical and
political ideals and of death (‘Marcia funebre’) substantially extended the bounds of
the earlier ‘characteristic’ symphony and explicitly opened the genre into the realm of
the social. The Fifth Symphony is an essay in cyclical coherence through thematic
transformation and inter-movement recall. The Sixth (‘Pastoral’) considers the
intersections of man and nature and in so doing explores the pictorial potential of
instrumental music in ways that range from the vague (with the first movement
heading, ‘Awakening of Happy Thoughts upon Arriving in the Countryside’) to the

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astonishingly specific (the birdcalls, labelled by species, that close the slow
movement). The Seventh Symphony, perhaps the most popular of all Beethoven’s
symphonies in the 19th century, eschews programmatic headings but explores
orchestral sonorities and rhythms with unparalleled intensity.

Among Beethoven’s symphonies, the ‘Eroica’ nevertheless stands out as a work of

singular historical significance, both for its emotional content and technical
innovations. Beethoven extended the size and emotional scope of the first movement
to unprecedented lengths (even without a slow introduction, its 691 bars dwarf any
comparable previous movement); introduced the ‘functional’ genre of the march into
the slow movement; produced a through-composed scherzo of novel length and
speed; and provided a proportionately substantial finale that is at once both readily
apprehensible and profound, integrating variations on a simple theme with a later
countertheme and extended passages of highly sophisticated counterpoint. The work
as a whole, moreover, follows an overarching emotional trajectory that has often been
described as approximating a process of growth or development. The similarity in the
opening themes of the two outer movements is scarcely coincidental and contributes
to a broader sense of a dramatic psychological trajectory in which the finale does not
merely suceed the previous movements but effectively represents a culmination of all
that has gone before. Critics have necessarily resorted to metaphor in describing this
emotional trajectory, and although these metaphors have varied widely in their level
of detail they have almost invariably been associated with the idea of struggle
followed by death and culminating in rebirth or rejuvenation. That Beethoven’s music
could evoke such imagery so consistently and enduringly reflects the continuing
power of his music and of the new aesthetic of instrumental music that emerged
around 1800.

The Fifth Symphony also stands out as a work of unusual historical importance,
particularly as regards the question of cyclical coherence. With its overt manipulation
of a single motive across multiple movements, its blurring of boundaries between the
two final movements, and the extended return to an earlier movement (the third)
within the course of its finale, the Fifth brings to the surface strategies of cyclical
coherence that had long been present but rarely made so obvious. The Fifth is also
significant for the emotional weight of its finale, which reintroduces and resolves
issues and ideas left open in earlier movements. Beethoven thereby placed
unprecedented weight on a symphonic finale in a manner that was immediately
palpable. The finales of other symphonies, like the Seventh and Eighth, affirm a more
traditional function; as a whole, these works also re-establish the use of more subtle
connections among their respective four movements, placing greater reliance on the
principle of complementarity, by which contrasting units create a coherent whole.

The historical impact of the Ninth Symphony is considered in §4, below.

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3. Beethoven’s contemporaries.

The generation of symphonists working during Beethoven’s lifetime remains in many

respects the most obscure of any in the entire history of the genre, for these composers
laboured not only in the shadow of Beethoven but of Haydn and Mozart as well.
Indeed, the symphonies of the two earlier composers provided the most important
models for Beethoven’s contemporaries; not until the 1820s did Beethoven begin to
assume his singular importance as the genre’s paradigmatic composer, and even then
only gradually. As late as 1840, Robert Schumann was bemoaning the plethora of
living composers who could imitate ‘the powdered wigs of Haydn and Mozart but not
the original heads beneath those wigs’ and write symphonies ‘as if Beethoven had
never existed’.

Even symphonies by well-known composers of the early 19th century, such as Méhul,
Rossini, Cherubini, Hérold, Czerny, Clementi, Weber and Moscheles were perceived
in their own time as standing in the symphonic shadow of Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven,
or some combination of the three. These works remain little-known today. Czerny and
Ferdinand Ries, in particular, were seen as imitating Beethoven all too directly. Peter
von Winter’s Schlacht-Sinfonie of 1814 uses a concluding chorus a full decade before
Beethoven’s Ninth; in its essentially one-movement form, however, this occasional
work stands outside the generic tradition of the symphony. New symphonies by other
composers, including Paul Wranitzky, Adalbert Gyrowetz, Friedrich Witt, Franz
Danzi, Friedrich Fesca, Franz Krommer, Johann Wilms, Andreas and Bernhard
Romberg, Joseph Küffner, Norbert Burgmüller and Johann Wenzel Kalliwoda were
greeted with respect and sometimes pleasure, but rarely with enthusiasm.

Spohr, the best-known symphonist among Beethoven’s contemporaries, followed the

model of Mozart in his early symphonies but began to experiment boldly with the
genre after Beethoven’s death. His ‘Die Weihe der Töne’ (1832) is an instrumental
work based on a poem of the same name, which Spohr asked to be distributed or read
aloud before every performance (the full title of the work reads ‘The Consecration of
Sound: Characteristic Tone-Painting in the Form of a Symphony, After a Poem by
Carl Pfeiffer’). Spohr’s Sixth, the ‘Historical Symphony’ (1839), was written ‘In the
Style and Taste of Four Different Periods’, representing the generations of Bach and
Handel (first movement), Haydn and Mozart (second movement), Beethoven
(scherzo) and the present day (finale); it is revealing that a number of critics,
including Schumann, could not tell whether this finale was merely a weak movement
or an ironic parody of what was then the latest style. The three movements of Spohr’s
Seventh Symphony, written for double orchestra and subtitled ‘The Earthly and the
Divine in Human Life’ (1841), follow a trajectory from the ‘World of Childhood’
through the ‘Age of Passions’ to the ‘Final Triumph of the Heavenly’.

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Schubert, too, wrote his early symphonies following the generic norms of Haydn and
Mozart but soon came to recognize an inner need for a new approach. He admired
Beethoven’s symphonies and confessed to a friend in 1824 that he was himself
working his way towards a large-scale (‘grosse’) symphony by composing string
quartets. At the time, in fact, he had already completed the two remarkable
movements of his Unfinished Symphony in B minor d759 and sketched portions of
the third, but had apparently abandoned the work out of doubts about an appropriate
finale. In the last year of his brief life, Schubert completed his celebrated Symphony
in C major d944, the ‘Great’, a masterpiece that points towards a remarkably
distinctive approach to the genre, one based not so much on principles of thematic
manipulation and artful counterpoint, but on melody, colour and large-scale harmonic
design. From a historical standpoint, however, both the Unfinished and the ‘Great’
remained essentially unknown until their rediscovery and first public performances in
1839 and 1865, respectively.

4. The crisis of the 1830s.

When surveying the history of the symphony for the first edition of Grove’s
Dictionary in 1889, even as sober a critic as C. Hubert H. Parry (who had already
written several symphonies of his own) felt it necessary to justify extending his
narrative beyond 1827, on the grounds that ‘it might seem almost superfluous to trace
the history of Symphony further after Beethoven’. Given the prominence of such
subsequent composers as Berlioz, Mendelssohn, Schumann, Raff, Liszt, Rubinstein
and Brahms within the concert repertory of the day, Parry’s apologetic tone seems
remarkable, yet it is altogether representative of mainstream musical thought over the
last three-quarters of the 19th century. The challenge of composing a symphony was
particularly acute in the years immediately before and after Beethoven’s death. The
dilemma, simply put, was that Beethoven could be neither copied nor ignored.

The key issue was never really one of style – few composers attempted to imitate
Beethoven directly in this regard – but rather of generic conception. Beethoven’s
Third to Seventh Symphonies had substantially expanded the boundaries of what a
symphony could be, and his Ninth had effectively redefined the genre. In the wake of
such works, a symphony was no longer considered merely a matter of entertainment,
but a vehicle of moral, philosophical and even political ideas. And by introducing text
and voice into what had been a traditionally instrumental genre, Beethoven had
implicitly brought into question the aesthetic superiority of instrumental music over
vocal music at a crucial juncture, just when the former was established as a category
of equal if not superior rank. Subsequent generations were sharply divided on the
implications of the Ninth’s finale: Wagner saw it as manifesting the limits of purely
instrumental music and thus marking the end of the symphony as a vital genre; other
composers were reluctant to imitate the model directly yet uncertain how to extend
the genre through purely instrumental means.

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In this respect, the Ninth Symphony was the catalyst for what can only be called a
crisis about the very nature of the genre. By 1830 an intense debate on the future of
music was in full progress and it was the symphony, the most ambitious of all
instrumental forms, that stood at its centre. Critical commentary from the ensuing
decade betrays a pronounced crisis of faith about the continuing viability of the genre.
Schumann, in his celebrated review of Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique, pointed out
in 1835 that after Beethoven’s Ninth there had been legitimate reason to believe that
the ‘dimensions and goals of the symphony’ had been exhausted. After summarizing
the most significant recent works of this kind, Schumann declared Mendelssohn to
have won ‘crown and sceptre over all other instrumental composers of the day’, but
noted that even he had ‘apparently realized that there was nothing more to be gained’
in the symphony and was now working principally within the realm of the concert
overture, ‘in which the idea of the symphony is confined to a smaller orbit’.

Although Schumann may not then have realized it, Mendelssohn had in fact
abandoned, rejected or withheld no fewer than three essentially complete symphonies
during the first half of the decade. He had repudiated both his First Symphony op.11
(1824) and his Reformation Symphony (1832); allowed only a few performances of
the Italian Symphony in the mid-1830s; and delayed completion of the Scottish
Symphony for almost a decade in the 1830s and early 40s. Mendelssohn, moreover,
was but one of several composers who had taken up the genre of the symphony in the
early 1830s only to abandon it. Schumann himself, after repeated unsuccessful
attempts, would complete his own First Symphony only in 1841. Liszt, too, had
similarly given up work on a Revolutionary Symphony around 1830 and did not
return to the genre for another two decades. Wagner, who had used Beethoven as a
model (particularly the Second and Seventh Symphonies), for his youthful Symphony
in C (1832), abandoned his next essay in the genre two years later and subsequently
declared that the symphony had exhausted itself with Beethoven’s Ninth.

Many composers, to be sure, continued to write symphonies during the 1820s and 30s,
but there was a growing sense even at the time that these works were aesthetically far
inferior to Beethoven’s. A competition in 1835 for the best new symphony, sponsored
by the Viennese publisher Tobias Haslinger, elicited no fewer than 57 entries from
across the Continent, but even the winning entry (by Franz Lachner) was greeted with
mixed reviews from critics and the public alike. Beethoven’s legacy was of course
only one of many factors affecting symphonic output of the 1820s and 30s, and it
would be simplistic to attribute any change (or lack of change) within the genre to his
influence alone. Clearly, the symphony did not and could not have ceased with the
work of any individual composer. The real question was not so much whether
symphonies could still be written, but whether the genre could continue to flourish
and grow as it had over the previous half-century in the hands of Haydn, Mozart and
Beethoven. On this count, there were varying degrees of scepticism but virtually no
real optimism.

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The only composer in the 1830s able to grapple successfully with Beethoven’s legacy
was not a German, but a Frenchman. Berlioz was widely acknowledged during his
own lifetime, particularly in Germany, as the true heir to Beethoven’s symphonic
legacy. In each of his three concert symphonies, Berlioz addressed generic challenges
laid down by Beethoven. His Symphonie fantastique of 1830, which gained
considerable renown through Liszt’s piano arrangement (1834) and Schumann’s
lengthy and much-discussed review of that arrangement (1835), represents almost a
mirror image of the Ninth Symphony. The finale’s ‘Dies irae’, an implicitly vocal
melody, serves as a dark counterpart to Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ theme, and in
Berlioz’s ‘Dream of a Witches’ Sabbath’, the forces of evil triumph over the forces of
good. The same pattern holds true in Berlioz’s next symphony, Harold en Italie
(1834). Again, the hero is in fact an anti-hero and the soloist, who represents the
protagonist of Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, fails to triumph in the end not
because he is vanquished, but because he runs away. Berlioz’s ‘Symphony with
Chorus’, Roméo et Juliette (1839), reserves the crucial scenes of Shakespeare’s drama
not for the voices, but for the orchestra. The brilliance and originality of Berlioz’s
orchestration, his fresh approach to the ‘cosmic’ nature of the genre and his ability to
blend music and narrative, both with and without recourse to words, all inspired
subsequent composers to seek new approaches to addressing the metaphysical in the
realm of the symphony and to extend the spirit of Beethoven’s originality without
directly imitating him. The symphonies of Liszt and Mahler, in particular, are deeply
indebted to the legacy of Berlioz.

5. Germany and Austria, 1840–1900.

The recovery of Schubert’s C major Symphony in 1839 and the quick successes of
Mendelssohn, Schumann and Niels Gade in the genre in the early 1840s brought at
least a temporary halt to speculations about the demise of the symphony. Without
changing the essential character of the genre as cultivated by Beethoven, all three
composers were able to create a more lyrical, less monumental type of symphony, and
all three at various times also incorporated the idea of nationalistic colour into the
genre: Mendelssohn in his Italian and Scottish Symphonies, Schumann in his Third
(‘Rhenish’) and Gade in his First, whose outer movements use a folklike song of his
own composition.

The reduced intensity of the debate surrounding the future of the symphony was also
due in part to the growing prominence of a different vehicle for large orchestra, the
concert overture. By the 1840s more and more composers were turning to this genre
as an outlet for orchestral composition. Inspired by the overtures of Beethoven,
particularly Coriolan and Leonore, no.3, composers cultivated this more compact
form as a vehicle within which to blend musical, narrative and pictorial ideas.
Mendelssohn’s overtures A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1826) and The Hebrides
(1830) provided a model for many subsequent would-be symphonists to write for a
large orchestra without actually having to write a symphony. Most of Liszt’s 12

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symphonic poems, which grew directly out of this tradition, appeared in rapid
succession over a nine-year period beginning in 1848.

These works soon became the focus of a polemical debate between musical
‘progressives’ and ‘conservatives’ about the relationship of musical sounds to ‘extra-
musical’ ideas. To some extent, these polemics centred on questions of degree rather
than of kind for the symphony, more than any other form of instrumental music, was
already perceived as an all-embracing, cosmic genre that transcended the realm of
sound alone. It is thus by no means paradoxical that in the midst of writing (and
writing about) his symphonic poems, Liszt should also have produced two significant
symphonies that integrate traditional formal elements of the genre with the
programmatic character of the symphonic poem. The Faust-Symphonie of 1854
(revised 1857) consists of three ‘character pieces’ reflecting the three central
characters of Faust, Gretchen and Mephistopheles. In this work, Liszt used what
would later come to be known (in connection with Wagner’s music dramas) as
‘Leitmotifs’. The motifs associated with Faust in the first movement, for example,
become palpably softer and gentler in Gretchen’s movement, mirroring Faust’s own
emotional transformation through love; Mephistopheles, in turn, has no significant
theme of his own but instead consistently warps themes heard in earlier movements.
The symphony concludes with a brief section for tenor and chorus based on the
closing scene of Goethe’s Faust, Part II. Liszt’s Symphonie zu Dantes Divina
commedia of 1856, also in three movements, similarly concludes with a brief vocal
section that culminates a trajectory leading from struggle (Inferno, Purgatorio) to
paradise. The text is taken from the Magnificat. Liszt’s followers, notably Joachim
Raff and Felix Draeseke, continued to cultivate the symphony along similarly
programmatic lines. Raff’s popular ‘Leonore’ Symphony of 1872, the fifth of his 11
works in the genre, is based on the well-known 18th-century ballad by Gottfried
August Bürger that traces the fate of two ill-starred lovers who in the end are united in
death.

With the growing importance of overtly programmatic music around the middle of the
century, a pronounced dichotomy of thought began to emerge about the nature of
instrumental music’s ‘content’. Wagner helped polarize the division between
‘formalists’ and ‘contentualists’ by introducing into the debate the implicitly
pejorative term ‘absolute music’ (as in ‘absolutely detached’). But the opponents of
Liszt and Wagner soon appropriated this term as a positive (as in ‘absolutely
transcendent’). Throughout his writings, Wagner pointed out that his own theory of
the music drama was deeply indebted to the dramatic qualities inherent in
Beethoven’s symphonies. But by emphasizing the historical roots of the symphony in
dance, Wagner sought to deny the moral, social and philosophical content accorded
the genre not only by tradition but also by a great many of his contemporaries.
Wagner nevertheless remained deeply ambivalent towards the genre of the symphony
to the end of his life. His repeated pronouncements about its death are contradicted by
his continuing ambitions to write one.

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Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony played a central and highly problematic role within the
ideological debate on the nature and future of music. As the composer’s final work in
the genre, the Ninth had taken on a special aura as Beethoven’s last word on the
symphony, and by the second half of the 19th century conservatives and progressives
alike claimed it as part of their heritage, even if the latter camp considered the genre
itself to now be outmoded and largely academic. It was within this highly charged
polemical atmosphere that Brahms introduced his First Symphony in 1876. This work
used the traditional sequence of four movements, eschewed all overt programmatic
indications in the score, and employed a remarkably old-fashioned orchestra (the horn
parts, for example, could easily be played on the natural horns of Beethoven’s time).
In addition to his more obvious struggles with the legacy of Beethoven, Brahms was
also compelled to address – in music – more recent debates about the viability of the
symphony. As in Beethoven’s case there is no ‘formula’ to Brahms’s symphonies:
each takes a different conceptual approach to the genre. In general, Brahms sought to
avoid making the symphony even more monumental than it had already become. The
relatively diminutive inner movements of the First serve almost as interludes to the
outer movements, while the finale of the Second departs from the idea of a grandiose,
‘culminative’ finale. The imposing passacaglia-based finale of his Fourth Symphony,
on the other hand, stands well within a tradition set down in the ‘Eroica’.

Other German composers whose first symphonies appeared in the third quarter of
19th century include Carl Goldmark (two, 1860 and 1887); Robert Volkmann (two,
1863 and 1865); Joseph Rheinberger (three youthful symphonies, followed by the
‘Wallen’ and ‘Florentine’ symphonies of 1866 and 1887 respectively); Max Bruch
(three, written between 1870 and 1877); Carl Reinecke (three, between c1870 and
c1895); and Friedrich Gernsheim (four, between 1875 and 1896). Still, many later
composers of note avoided the genre altogether or abandoned it early on after a few
youthful works. Richard Strauss, for example, wrote two early symphonies (1880 and
1884) but never returned to the genre. His Symphonia domestica (1903) and
Alpensinfonie (1915), in spite of their names, stand firmly within the tradition of the
symphonic poem.

Anton Bruckner’s 11 symphonies, composed between 1863 and 1896 (the Ninth
remained unfinished at his death), occupy a curious position in the polemics of the
mid- and late 19th century. Although Bruckner himself took no part in the debate
between progressives and conservatives, his symphonies were often allied with the
Wagnerian camp on the grounds of their extended harmonic language, massive
orchestral forces, imposing length, and the composer’s open veneration of Wagner
(the dedicatee of Bruckner’s Third Symphony). Bruckner’s symphonies are
nevertheless remarkably independent in their generic conception. Building on the
traditional four-movement design, they are monumental in scope and orchestration,
combining lyricism with an inherently polyphonic design. In contrast with the more
typical techniques of thematic manipulation and metamorphosis, Bruckner favoured
an approach to large-scale form that relied more on large-scale thematic and harmonic

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juxtaposition. Over the course of his output, one senses an ever-increasing interest in
cyclic integration that culminates in his masterpiece, the Symphony no.8 in C minor, a
work whose final page integrates the main themes of all four movements
simultaneously.

The early symphonies of Gustav Mahler, in turn, take these ideas of monumentality
and cyclic integration to new extremes. Using orchestral forces of unprecedented
dimension, Mahler juxtaposed the lyrical with the polyphonic, the monumental with
the miniature, the sentimental with the grotesque. All four of his symphonies written
in the 19th century strive towards a kind of utopian finale, and in this sense, his debt
to Beethoven’s Ninth is obvious. But in his Third Symphony, the instrumental finale
follows two vocal movements, and in his Fourth the vocal finale is sung by a solo
soprano, without chorus. In this sense, Mahler stands at the end of one tradition – the
monumental, heroic symphony – and at the beginning of another, one with a more
circumspect, ambivalent tone. Both traditions were to continue into the 20th century.

6. Other countries, 1840–1900.

For all practical purposes, the 19th-century symphony was for many decades an
essentially German genre, not only by virtue of the nationality of its outstanding
practitioners, but indeed by its very nature. For much of the century, non-German
composers typically looked to Beethoven and other later Germans for their models. In
the latter part of the century, however, the broader phenomenon of musical
nationalism – the idea that music could draw on indigenous melodic, harmonic,
rhythmic folk idioms – provided an important impetus to the symphony.

Such tendencies are most clearly evident in the nationalities of eastern Europe.
Antonín Dvořák, who was trained and worked within an essentially German
environment, began to draw on dance rhythms and melodic inflections of popular
music from his native Bohemia in his later symphonies, in particular. In his last work
in the genre, subtitled ‘From the New World’ (1893), he incorporated musical
impressions from his various tours to the USA. In Russia, Anton Rubinstein also
worked within an essentially German tradition but in so doing provided an important
model for subsequent symphonists from his native land, including, most prominently,
Tchaikovsky. Rubinstein’s six symphonies, spanning the years 1850–86, enjoyed
considerable popularity in their time across the entire continent, particularly his
‘Ocean’ Symphony (1851, revised 1863 and 1880). The 1860s witnessed the première
of first symphonies by an impressive array of Russian composers, including Rimsky-
Korsakov (1865), Tchaikovsky (1866), Balakirev (1866) and Borodin (1867). Later
Russian symphonists of note include Sergey Lyapunov (two symphonies, 1887 and
1917), Alexandr Glazunov (the first of whose eight symphonies was premiered in
1882), Serge Rachmaninoff (three symphonies, the first from 1895), and Reyngol′d
Glier (three symphonies, the first from 1900). Unlike Rubinstein, these later
composers were more prone to incorporate into their symphonies such nationalistic

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elements as modal inflections and folk-inspired rhythms. Their orchestration also
tends to reflect the rich tradition of the Russian brass ensemble.

Although the symphony continued to play an important role in the curriculum of the
Paris Conservatoire, most of the more notable French composers who cultivated the
symphony after Berlioz were inclined to write only a few works in this genre. A
number of these nevertheless represent important contributions to the symphony.
These include Saint-Saëns, who completed his First Symphony in 1853 and whose
last symphony, the Third (1886), incorporates a substantial part for organ; Gounod
(two symphonies, from 1855 and 1856); and Bizet, whose vivacious Symphony in C
major (1855) was written when the composer was only 17 but remained essentially
unknown until its recovery in the 1930s. Bizet’s other symphony (‘Roma’, also in C,
1868, revised 1871) reflects the composer’s memories of his time in Italy. D’Indy’s
unpublished Symphonie italienne dates from 1872, while his popular Symphonie sur
un chant montagnard français, incorporating a prominent part for piano, was given in
1886; he finished two later symphonies in 1903 and 1918. Other notable French
composers include Edouard Lalo (a single work from 1886; his Symphonie espagnole
represents an ingenious hybrid of symphony and violin concerto); Ernest Chausson (a
Symphony in B♭ from 1890, with sketches for a Second Symphony from 1899); and
Paul Dukas (a single symphony, in C, from 1896). The Belgian César Franck, whose
youthful Première grande symphonie of 1840 was followed almost 50 years later by
the hugely successful Symphony in D minor (1888), also belongs within this tradition.
Franck’s D minor Symphony blends advanced chromatic harmonies with rich
orchestration and an almost obsessive devotion to thematic cyclicity.

With rare exceptions, Italy remained largely indifferent to the symphony in the 19th
century. Neither its musical culture nor its institutions were favourable to the
development of instrumental music for large ensembles. Indeed, the first performance
of Beethoven’s Ninth in Italy did not take place until 1878.

Throughout the 19th century England, for the most part, remained under the direct
influence of Germany. Cipriani Potter (ten symphonies, written between 1819 and
1832) and William Sterndale Bennett (six, between 1832 and 1864) produced well-
crafted works that extended the traditions of Haydn, Mozart and early Mendelssohn.
Later composers such as Frederic Cowen (six symphonies, between 1869 and 1898),
the Irish-born Charles Villiers Stanford (seven, between 1875 and 1911), and Hubert
Parry (four symphonies, all in the 1880s) took the later works of Mendelssohn and
Schumann as their principal models. In his Third and Fourth Symphonies
(Scandinavian, 1880, and Welsh, 1884), Cowen attempted to incorporate nationalistic
– albeit personally foreign – elements into the genre. Later, more personal,
applications of this strategy are evident in Stanford’s Irish Symphony of 1887 and
Parry’s English Symphony of 1889.

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In Scandinavia, the most prominent exponent of the symphony was the Dane Niels
Gade, whose eight works in the genre span almost three decades, between 1842 and
1870. After the youthful First, however, none of Gade’s subsequent symphonies
achieved anywhere near the same degree of acclaim, and he gradually retreated from
his espousal of weaving nationalistic elements into music. Franz Berwald, in turn,
laboured in comparative obscurity while producing four symphonies in the years
1842–5; only one of these, the First, was performed during his lifetime, and his others
remained unknown for all practical purposes until the early 20th century. Grieg’s sole
contribution to the genre was a student work written under the eye of Gade in 1864;
he later suppressed (but did not destroy) this symphony. Although Johan Svendsen’s
two symphonies (1866 and 1877) attest to the influence of Norwegian harmonies and
rhythms, a distinctively Scandinavian symphonic tone emerged only at the very end
of the 19th century and the early 20th in the works of such later composers as Nielsen
and Sibelius.

In the USA, émigré composers provided an important impetus in both the

composition and performance of such symphonies. The understanding of the
symphony as a genre reflecting the aspirations and ideals of a larger community is
amply evident in the work of A.P. Heinrich, who emigrated to the USA from his
native Bohemia in the first decade of the 19th century. In his Columbiad: Grand
American National Chivalrous Symphony (1837), he incorporated such tunes as
‘Yankee Doodle’ and ‘Hail, Columbia’. Like Dvořák many decades later, Heinrich
was also much taken with Amerindians and their music, as is reflected in his Manitou
Mysteries, or The Voice of the Great Spirit, subtitled ‘Gran sinfonia misteriosa-
indiana’ (1845), which in spite of its distinctive title follows the traditional four-
movement format, with a rondo finale. L.M. Gottschalk’s First Symphony, La nuit
des tropiques (1859), on the other hand, is a two-movement work that integrates
rumba and fugue towards the end of its finale. And in spite of its title, Gottschalk’s
later À Montevideo: Symphonie romantique pour grand orchestre (1868) incorporates
‘Hail, Columbia’ and ‘Yankee Doodle’. G.F. Bristow’s five symphonies span some
six decades between 1848 and 1893; his last, subtitled ‘Niagara’, uses vocal soloists
and chorus in its finale, along the lines of Beethoven’s Ninth, but incorporating such
extant tunes as ‘Old Hundredth’ and a portion of the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel’s
Messiah. Charles Ives, whose most important symphonies fall within the 20th century,
built on all these traditions and more.

In the second half of the 19th century, ironically, native-born American composers
were more likely to travel to Germany for their advanced musical training and follow
in the more or less conservative tradition of the Leipzig school as exemplified by
Mendelssohn and Schumann. These composers include John Knowles Paine (two
symphonies, 1875 and 1879); George Whitefield Chadwick (three symphonies,
between 1881 and 1894); and Horatio Parker, whose sole symphony (1885) was a
student work that received its première in Munich. The Gaelic Symphony by Amy
Beach (1896), who received her training entirely in the USA, uses Irish melodies.

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7. Mixtures with other genres.

Mixtures with other genres are evident throughout the century; Beethoven’s Ninth
Symphony opened the door to such generic cross-breeding. Outstanding examples
include hybrids with the concerto (Berlioz’s Harold en Italie, Lalo’s Symphonie
espagnole); cantata (Mendelssohn’s Lobgesang, Félicien David’s Le Desert and
Christoph Colombe, the latter two designated as an ode-symphonie); opera (Berlioz’s
Roméo et Juliette); and even the symphonic poem (Liszt’s Faust-Symphonie). The
‘symphonic’ character of many pieces that nominally lie outside the genre is evident
in works such as Rimsky-Korsakov’s Sadko (‘Symphonic Pictures’) (1897) and
Debussy’s La mer (1903-5), subtitled ‘Three Symphonic Sketches’, in which the
remnants of symphonic form are still clearly discernible (a slow introduction to a fast
opening movement, followed by a scherzo and a fast, culminative finale). Symphonic
form and breadth are also frequently evident in concertos, even when not indicated in
titles. The concertos of Schumann, Brahms and Dvořák, for example, all show a
tendency towards a fuller integration of soloist and orchestra and turn away from an
aesthetic of virtuosity for virtuosity’s sake, preferring instead a depth of tone more
typically associated with the symphony. The symphony exerted demonstrable
influence on the orchestral suite as well. This genre enjoyed a brief but vigorous
revival in the second half of the century at the hands of Volkmann, Brahms, Dvořák
and Tchaikovsky. Also of note is the phenomenon of the organ symphony, as
cultivated by Charles-Marie Widor.

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• J.-J. de Momigny: Cours complet d’harmonie et de composition (Paris, 1803–
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10), 630–42, 652–9; Eng. trans. in E.T.A. Hoffmann’s Musical Writings, ed. D.
Charlton (Cambridge, 1989)
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Welt (Leipzig, 1813)
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Fach’, Berliner allegemeine musikalische Zeitung, 1 (1824), 165–8, 173–6,
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• H. Berlioz: A travers chants (Paris, 1862/R; Eng. trans., 1913–18); ed. and
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trans., 1972)
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(Wiesbaden, 2/1976)
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Erhabenen’, AMw, 39 (1981), 80–92
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(Tutzing, 1979)

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• C. Dahlhaus: ‘Symphonie und symphonischer Stil um 1850’, Jb des
Staatlichen Instituts für Musikforschung (1983), 34–58
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Schumann’s Second Symphony’, 19CM, 7 (1983–4), 233–50
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Vorschläge zur Rezeption sinfonischer Musik des 19. Jahrhunderts (Munich,
1986)
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Sinfonie passionata: ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Sinfonie nach Beethoven’,
Augsburger Jb für Musikwissenschaft (1986), 209–39
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(Tutzing, 1990)
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Mendelssohn und Gade (Kassel, 1992)
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(Stuttgart, 1993)
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Symphony after Beethoven’, Repercussions, 2/2 (1993), 5–30
• S. Pederson: ‘A.B. Marx, Berlin Concert Life, and German National Identity’,
19CM, 18 (1994–5), 87–107
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Form, Instrumentation, Expression’, JMR, 14 (1995), 193–221
• M.E. Bonds: After Beethoven: Imperatives of Originality in the Symphony
(Cambridge, MA, 1996)
• D.K. Holoman, ed.: The Nineteenth-Century Symphony (New York and
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Franck, and their Followers’, The Symphony: ca. 1826–1900, ed. D.K.
Holoman (New York and London, 1997)

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III. 20th century

Just as the first decade of the 19th century had seen the crystallization, in Beethoven’s
middle period, of a new type of symphony, so the first decade of the 20th brought that
type to its fullest maturity and also effectively to its end. Not until then did the purely
formal attempt to cast a Romantic symphony in a Classical mould give way once
more to symphonic forms arising directly from the nature of their materials. Though
the recovery was, for historical reasons, short-lived, it was to have important
consequences.

1. 1901–18: Mahler, Sibelius, Nielsen.

• Stephen Walsh

The most important symphonists before World War I are Mahler, Sibelius, Elgar and
(though his greatest symphonies came later) Nielsen: to these may be added Skryabin,
and Schoenberg if the decided chamber character of his Kammersymphonie no.1, op.9
(1906) is allowed to be outweighed by its masterly deployment of heterogeneous
instrumental and musical means within a single, extended and closely argued
movement. Its four-movement-in-one design is already prophetic of a vital tendency
towards complete fusion of contrasting elements in the modern symphony, whereas
the one-movement form of Skryabin’s later symphonies (La poème de l’extase, 1905–
8; Prométhée, le poème du feu, 1908–10) springs rather from something static in the
music’s harmony, notwithstanding its heady rhythmic and contrapuntal activity.
These works are symphonic poems, as are Strauss’s enormous Symphonia domestica
(1902–3) and the picturesque Alpensymphonie (1915), neither of them distinguished
by either compression or rigour of thought. One of the most beautiful works in this
genre is the third of Szymanowski’s four symphonies, a vocal-orchestral work
subtitled ‘Song of the Night’ (1916). Its ecstatic tone reveals the influence of both
Skryabin and Debussy.

By the turn of the century Mahler had completed his first four symphonies. They form
a group related to the early song cycle, Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen, and to the
Des Knaben Wunderhorn songs, examples of which appear as independent
movements. Remarkable though these symphonies are at the imaginative level, they
hardly achieve a true symphonic fusion of their diverse ingredients. When Mahler told
Sibelius in 1907 that ‘the symphony must be like the world; it must be all-embracing’,
he was merely echoing the instinctive Romantic feeling that all products of the one
imagination enjoyed ipso facto a sufficient unity, the test being only one of quality.
However, his own last five completed symphonies (nos.5–9, of which all but the last

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were completed before the meeting with Sibelius) retreat significantly from this
position. The Fifth (1902), Sixth (1904) and Seventh (1905) form a second group,
distinguished from the first not only because they are purely orchestral but because of
a new discipline in the thematic and formal craftsmanship. No doubt the two points
are related. But Mahler’s orchestral music after 1900 still alludes to contemporary
vocal works (for instance, the various references to the Kindertotenlieder and Rückert
songs in the Fifth Symphony) and moreover he still evidently saw the symphony in
narrative theatrical terms. All three begin with marches of a funereal or tragic
character, and the hero either overcomes his troubles (in the exuberant rondo finales
of nos.5 and 7, both of which end in keys other than that in which the work began) or
confronts them in a stern spirit of acceptance (no.6). On the other hand, these
symphonies are designedly more Classical in method than their predecessors. The
four-movement plan of the Sixth appears to be a conscious attempt to reassert the
autonomous musical form of the Classical symphony. Its stringent motivic procedures
are in the greatest possible contrast with the loose assemblage of picturesque themes
in the vast first movement of no.3. Similarly in the Fifth, though the form appears
more random, its operation is precise, direct and economical. The adumbration of the
rondo’s jubilant climax at the end of the otherwise anguished first part is a master
stroke that enables the finale to clinch the whole design in a way both musically and
psychologically apt.

But Mahler’s attempts to restore the conventional quadripartite form of the Classical
symphony had to contend with a critical problem of late Romantic music: namely that
if musical ideas were to be the direct arbiter of form, the separation of the slow
movement from the mainstream of symphonic argument could no longer serve a
useful purpose. Large-scale Adagio movements in fact do not occur in Mahler’s
middle symphonies. When they reappear, in Das Lied von der Erde (1907–9) and the
Ninth Symphony (1909), they are on a massive scale as finales. The first movement of
the incomplete Tenth is likewise an immense Adagio, while the first movement of the
Ninth is also predominantly slow. There are signs here of a tendency to fuse the
traditional ingredients of the symphony. But Mahler, still perhaps in the grip of his
Romantic theory of universality, did not live to follow this tendency to its logical
conclusion.

That his Scandinavian contemporaries Sibelius and Nielsen did, however, follow it up
was not simply because they lived longer. Something decidedly anti-Romantic in their
temperaments, a certain objectivity of stance, prompted them to refine and compress
to the point where the fusion of contrasting elements assumed much greater
importance than the insistence on their individual or picturesque nature. In the light of
what happened after World War I this was a prophetic attitude. In the Third (1907)
and Fourth (1910–11) Symphonies of Sibelius the anti-rhetorical streak in his nature
already brought a new economy of gesture and form which only helped increase the
force, energy and ultimately even the epic stature of what was said. Their prophetic
character can be seen if they are compared with other symphonies of the decade

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before the war, not only those of Mahler and Skryabin, but Suk’s massive Asrael
Symphony (1905–6), Rachmaninoff’s sumptuous but very indulgent Second (1907),
and Elgar’s two completed symphonies (1908 and 1910). Elgar was at the height of
his powers when he wrote these works, and they are rightly admired for their
uninhibited Romantic invention, their subtle ambivalence of tone and their brilliant
orchestration. But symphonically they are weakened by rhapsodic elements which
stretch them out to an extravagant length not justified by a consistent musical impulse.
The peremptory grandeur of Sibelius’s Fourth might be a direct rebuttal of everything
that Elgar’s Second stands for. Yet linguistically Sibelius is hardly in advance of
Elgar. The change is primarily one of attitude. The artist’s time-honoured amour
propre is subjected to ruthless scrutiny, and everything spurious, pretentious or
solipsistic is thrown out.

After the war Sibelius continued to develop his technique until, in his Seventh and
final symphony (1924), he arrived at the point where large musical conflicts could
truly be resolved in a single-movement symphony of 20 minutes’ duration. The
Seventh is a masterpiece as compact as it is varied and inspired. Its exact status as a
symphony can moreover be tested against another one-movement masterpiece
Sibelius wrote soon afterwards, the tone poem Tapiola. Though in one sense more
unified than the symphony, since all its material comes directly from the initial theme,
Tapiola precisely for that reason lacks the dialectical and dynamic force of the
symphony. As a descriptive and imaginative work Tapiola is a considerable
achievement. But it can hardly be denied that the symphony, in satisfactorily
resolving more complicated issues within the same time-span, is musically and
intellectually the more substantial work.

Nielsen, like Sibelius, started by writing four-movement symphonies along fairly

traditional lines. On his first three works in the genre the influence of Dvořák and
Brahms is apparent. But already in no.1 (1890–92) a new direction is taken. Though
the work is ‘in’ G minor, it ends in C, and the composer acknowledged this ambiguity
by opening the symphony with a chord of C major; what follows is, conceptually
speaking, a struggle to affirm an initially doubtful proposition. But what is most
significant is the exuberance and energy Nielsen brings to that struggle. Here at last is
a composer whose ability to develop his musical ideas is not crippled by introspection
or a gratuitous emotionalism. But it was some years before Nielsen realized all the
implications of this early work. His Second Symphony (1901–2) keeps the four
traditional movements, while admitting that the arrangement has become a purely
external matter by naming them after the four temperaments of medieval physiology.
As late as the Fourth Symphony (1914–6) Nielsen was still paying formal court to a
quadripartite sequence, though the work is continuous, with a powerful thrust towards
a clinching tonality which is other than the starting key. A subtitle, ‘The
Inextinguishable’, alludes to what the composer called ‘the elemental Will of Life’.
This life force eventually triumphs graphically in the Fifth Symphony (1921–2),
which represents the forces of destruction in a famous side-drum cadenza improvised

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against the main second theme, and the triumph of will in two masterly fugues in
which order is finally and conclusively imposed on the material.

That Nielsen’s and Sibelius’s culminating symphonies were both written after the war
is of some importance, since it emphasizes that their affirmations were, so to speak,
properly informed. It would have been better still if they had been able to go on in the
same spirit. But Nielsen’s last symphony, no.6 (1924–5), is a distraught, embittered
work, and Sibelius wrote nothing of significance after Tapiola.

2. France and Germany after 1918.

• Stephen Walsh

As it is, the shock effect of the war is as well illustrated in the symphony as in any
other artistic medium. Indeed, in the subversive and unstable atmosphere of the 1920s
it was the symphony that seemed to stand most for pre-war individualism and moral
certainty, values that the New Art set itself to undermine. Avant-garde composers
either did not write symphonies or they wrote symphonies in which received
standards were deliberately outraged. Milhaud’s six chamber symphonies, written
between 1917 and 1923, are as tiny, emotionally neutral and formally inconsequential
as Mahler’s had been vast, romantic and complex. In 1920 Stravinsky composed his
Symphonies of Wind Instruments, using the plural form to disarm the inevitable
criticism that the work was not a symphony at all but an experimental arrangement of
dissociated sound-blocks. And in 1924 Prokofiev, whose Symphony no.1 (the so-
called ‘Classical’ of 1917) had charmingly aped the courtesies of Baroque dance
music, snapped back at his Parisian audience with a dissonant and fearsomely
contrapuntal Second Symphony, piquantly modelled on Beethoven’s C minor Piano
Sonata op.111. In Germany, the former home of the symphony, the genre went
through its dimmest phase. Almost the only notable symphonies composed there in
the 1920s and early 30s were Pfitzner’s First (1932), the earlier of Weill’s two
interesting and well-wrought symphonies (1921) and, in Austria, the Third Symphony
(1927–8) of the romantically inclined Franz Schmidt and Webern’s exquisite 12-note
Symphony for nine instruments (1927–8), which must, for the purposes of this article,
be regarded as a chamber work. This list speaks for itself. It contains not a single
name of importance in the history of the symphony. The Weill piece, an eclectic one-
movement work influenced by Busoni and the two principal Modernists of the day,
Stravinsky and Schoenberg, almost inevitably substitutes academic solidness for
compelling structural energy (unlike his more assured neo-classical Second
Symphony of 1933). Schmidt’s late symphonies illustrate in a different way the
dilemma of German music in the postwar years. His long, tragic, hauntingly beautiful
Fourth (1932–3) yearns nostalgically for the age of Mahler, Reger and the young
Strauss. The year of its composition is thus as significant as the year of Schmidt’s
death, 1939.

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3. Stravinsky; France after 1930.

• Stephen Walsh

In France, as in Germany, many leading avant-garde figures of the 1920s made their
peace with the symphony, but the truce was never more than partial and always
apparently contingent on some compromise of their modernity. In France the
reconciliation started soon in the 1930s. Stravinsky’s Symphonie de psaumes (1930),
though fully choral and in no way formally indebted to the symphonic tradition, has
nevertheless the force of a symphony in its combination of a strong formal thrust with
a deep unity of material. What it does not attempt is any conventional symphonic
process of conflict or resolution. The substance of things hoped for is already, for
Stravinsky as for St Paul, faith; and it is the music’s neo-Baroque religious
symbolism, its fugues and spiralling ostinatos, that supply both the power and,
ultimately, the stability. The work is a masterpiece sui generis, as is a later and more
massive symphony of a quasi-religious character, Messiaen’s Turangalîla-symphonie
(1946–8), one of whose musical ancestors is Stravinsky’s Symphonies of Wind
Instruments. Turangalîla is a difficult work to place in the history of the symphony,
being devoid of the dialectical properties one instinctively associates with the genre,
though by no means without development, thematic extension or indeed drama. Its
later companions, Et exspecto resurrectionem mortuorum and La Transfiguration de
Notre Seigneur Jésus-Christ, no longer carry the generic designation. Stravinsky’s
own later orchestral symphonies, in C (1938–40) and in Three Movements (1945), are
a clear attempt to revive the symmetries and contrasts of the high Classical symphony.
Their technical and imaginative brilliance may tend to conceal the fact that their
specifically symphonic procedures (such as the sonata form of the Symphony in C
first movement) are as allusive as the Baroque elements in Dumbarton Oaks. So far
from the procedures arising from the nature of the material, they form part of the
material itself. Whether, as some think, this rules them out of the history of the
symphony or alternatively invites us to redefine it is a question that it may still be too
early to answer. They are certainly among the finest 20th-century works to carry the
generic title.

Among Stravinsky’s French or French-based contemporaries, Milhaud and Honegger

both turned to symphonic writing proper in the 1930s. Like so much of his music,
Milhaud’s 12 symphonies display the essentially conversational character of his
talent, and where they aspire to conventional symphonic ‘stature’ they clearly
overstep the plausible limits of their content. In any case, Milhaud’s style remained
static, picturesque, anecdotal, perhaps modestly hieratic.

Honegger wrote five symphonies between 1930 and his death in 1955. As a group
they show how irrelevant this serious-minded German-Swiss composer’s association
with the subversive Parisian Six had been. His symphonies are tensely argued,
harmonically crabbed essays, at first still dependent on the chugging rhythms of

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orthodox neo-classicism, later adopting a more polyphonic style propelled with a
certain diabolic energy. As music they are more determined than inspired, and
certainly lack the combination of variety and finesse that still brings the third and
fourth symphonies of Roussel (1929–30 and 1934) the occasional performance.
Roussel’s Third was composed for the same occasion – the 50th anniversary of the
Boston Symphony Orchestra – as Honegger’s First, with which it has superficial
points in common. But Roussel’s eclecticism was broader, more urbane and
productive than Honegger’s, incorporating something of that burlesque humour which
had always been so alien to Honegger, along with more orthodox ingredients of the
traditional symphony. At its best Roussel’s symphonic writing is lucid and
exhilarating, though it can seem artificial and melodically insipid. Roussel is probably
best seen as a modern descendant of that classic French 19th-century type, the
academic symphonist, for his mastery of procedure generally outstripped his
imaginative flair.

4. Hindemith.

• Stephen Walsh

While the symphony in France thus struggled back to life, in Germany and Austria it
must have seemed quite dead; here more than anywhere one can see how the erosion
of secure social values had undercut the received forms of art. Thus Schmidt’s Fourth
Symphony, weary in style and content, was a fitting epitaph to an old order. Strauss
and Pfitzner, Germany’s two most distinguished composers, were symphonically
spent. Of the younger figures, Hartmann and Blacher were delayed by Nazism, while
Krenek, having produced three noisy and dissonant symphonies in Berlin in the early
1920s, retired to his native Vienna on the proceeds of the opera Jonny spielt auf and
came under the influence of Schoenberg.

The one shining light in the darkness was Hindemith, and it is apt that the darkness
comprehended him not. Hindemith’s avant-gardism in the 1920s had mainly been of
an academic rather than ideological cast, and by the early 1930s he was at work on an
opera, Mathis der Maler, which specifically argued that the artist should concern
himself above all with art and not interfere in politics. For reasons not directly
connected with its subject, this opera was obstructed by the Nazis. However, in 1934
Furtwängler conducted a three-movement symphony excerpted from it, and this was
to be the first of a line of symphonic masterpieces in which Hindemith re-established
his place in the classic line of German instrumental composers. Like Stravinsky,
Hindemith drew heavily on Baroque phraseology, but his symphonies (eight in
number if the Symphonic Metamorphosis and the Sinfonietta are included) are
traditional in that they basically follow Classical and 19th-century formal procedures,
and modern in that they are entirely true to Hindemith’s personal manner of
expression, from which they derive their vitality. Of the later symphonies the most
notable are the Symphony in E♭ (1940) and the symphony from the opera Die

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Harmonie der Welt (1951). Hindemith’s symphonies are tonal, with an admixture of
4th-based harmony, and indeed are energetically so. In the Mathis der Maler
symphony (1934), for instance, the first movement derives much fuel from the tension
between G major and its relative Lydian C on the one hand, and D♭–F♯ on the other,
D♭ being the key both of the introductory chorale and of the final apotheosis, while
the second subject of the first movement is in F♯. Hindemith’s writing is rhythmically
sometimes stereotyped, but he handled counterpoint like a master, in which respect
his ancestry can be traced directly from the last great classical German symphony,
Brahms’s Fourth.

5. The USA.

• Stephen Walsh

Like many contemporary composers, Hindemith spent World War II in the USA. This
exodus, while culturally damaging for Europe, was undoubtedly of immense benefit
to America. There the absence of a truly indigenous musical tradition had the initial
effect of encouraging not the invention of new formal prototypes but, on the contrary,
the adoption of established European types. Thus for example Henry Cowell, whose
outrageous cluster technique influenced Bartók and through him a whole younger
generation of European composers, wrote some 21 symphonies, though their naive,
primitive exoticism is far from the European idea of symphonic style. That the
academic tradition of the symphony was, from the 1930s, embodied substantially in
American music is beyond question.

Cowell himself was influenced by Ives, whose biographer he was. But it has to be
remembered that, in the main, Ives’s music was not known before the late 1920s, and
not widely known until long after that. His tumultuous Fourth Symphony, one of the
earliest examples of pluralism and collage in music, was completed in 1916 but not
heard in full until 1965. After World War I the main impulse towards a new American
music came, paradoxically, from Paris, where Copland, Harris and Piston all studied
with Nadia Boulanger. Copland remained the most cosmopolitan, and that is perhaps
precisely why he wrote the fewest symphonies. The Third (1944–6) is an imposing
work of epic-romantic proportions, but the so-called ‘Short’ Symphony (no.2, 1932–
3) is by a long way the more interesting: a rather anti-heroic work that draws attention
to small symphonic processes and eschews rhetoric.

Copland would certainly have been the last composer, on this form, to use the
symphony to embody the ‘American Dream’. That was left instead to Roy Harris,
whose seven orchestral symphonies seem to express the pioneer’s religious faith in his
mission, its honest purpose and sure outcome. His one-movement Third (1937) is
famous and outstandingly the best. It remains the locus classicus of that muscular
prairie romanticism which subsequent American symphonists took over with such
effortless self-confidence. The strength of this manner is best shown in the

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tremendous diatonic thrust of Harris’s piece, and in Piston’s more sophisticated and
technically correct symphonies. Its limitations loom balefully in Harris’s own later
symphonies, especially the Fifth (1942), whose primitivism is forced and therefore
pointless, and in the nine symphonies of his pupil, William Schuman, where the
muscle-flexing has moved into the boardroom and been transformed into a glib and
polished oratory somewhat out of touch with the plain morality that once justified it.
Schuman never cured a tendency to bully the ear. But his symphonies are expertly
assembled and still show the benefit of that formal compression which Harris and
Copland took with them from Europe.

The above are, broadly, the tonal school of early 20th-century American symphonists.
To them one must add Barber, whose brilliant if slightly bombastic First Symphony
(1936) in one movement shares the unbroken momentum of Harris’s Third; the
younger Bernstein, Mennin and Persichetti; the gifted Mexican Carlos Chávez, whose
Sinfonía India (1935–6), also in one movement, is one of the best adaptations of
exotic folk materials to a symphonic form; and finally the Czech-born, Paris-trained
Martinů, whose six symphonies were all composed in the USA after his emigration
there in 1941. In Paris, Martinů picked up a liking for brisk motor rhythms. But the
essentials of his style are Czech: the eloquent string cantilenas, the chattering ostinato
motivic fabric and the drifting cross-rhythms, which are both Martinů’s trademark
and, at times of failing inspiration, his mannerism. Like Dvořák he wrote nostalgically
about his native Bohemia from distant New York, and like Dvořák he owed much to
Brahms (see for instance his use of orchestral antiphony in the Fourth and Fifth
Symphonies) as well as something to his adopted American compatriots.

About the American tonal symphonists in general there is perhaps a certain excess
heartiness. It may be that in the last resort the most interesting American symphonist
is the subtle and introspective Roger Sessions. Sessions’s First Symphony, written in
Europe in 1926–7, is neo-classical with some flavour of jazz. But thereafter his
symphonies are increasingly chromatic, atonal and (from 1953) dodecaphonic. Unlike
Riegger, whose Fourth Symphony (1956) tries to crystallize a tonal sense from 12-
note ingredients, Sessions always accepted the consequences of his style, though it
rapidly took him into areas where the traditional idea of symphonic writing – so basic
for Harris, Piston and Schuman – could hardly function. Since the Second (1944–6),
all Sessions’s symphonies have had an inward-going as well as onward-going
character, and sometimes their density of texture and equivocal sense of direction may
call to mind the later music of Elliott Carter. But with Sessions line and pulse, though
shifting, are always clear, and shape is never obscured by detail. The fact that the
shape itself does not culminate in the traditional way is a modern but not necessarily
unsymphonic quality; in the Eighth Symphony, for example, the concluding reprise of
the opening music has the effect not of invalidating the intervening discourse but of
setting it in a new dimension – one familiar from opera, where an aria may hold up
the action in order to detail a character’s feelings without endangering the general
sense of continuity.

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6. Britain.

• Stephen Walsh

Britain has also had atonal symphonists, but they have not in the main evolved forms
that arise properly from the special character of the materials and procedures. Searle’s
five symphonies suffer from stereotyped gestures that belong to a Romantic idiom;
Bennett and McCabe, among younger composers, have written symphonies of much
surface brilliance, while in the symphonies of Fricker, Goehr, Hoddinott and Frankel
there is solid and coherent invention. But perhaps the most impressive figure in this
category is the underrated William Alwyn, whose dark but forthright neo-
Romanticism gives his symphonies something of the sweep of the American tonal
school, though the basis of his style is strictly speaking atonal. Alwyn certainly has
little in common with Sessions (more perhaps with Piston), whereas a Schoenberg
pupil, Roberto Gerhard, who was born in Spain but lived in England after the Civil
War, is like Sessions at least in having evolved an autonomous and self-contained
symphonic style out of dodecaphony, though the glittering surface of his third (1960)
and fourth (1967) symphonies, with their skilful, extrovert arrangement of block
textures and collage and their coruscating instrumentation, may conceal little of a
more searching nature.

By contrast the tonal symphonic tradition has a secure base in the music of Elgar and
of Vaughan Williams, whose nine symphonies astonishingly span the years 1910 to
1957. Vaughan Williams’s popularity, and his quasi-paternal status, have tended to
obscure the unevenness of his output. But the central block of four symphonies, from
the Pastoral Symphony (no.3, 1921) to no.6 (1944–7), are sufficient witness to his
originality and visionary power. It was once fashionable to praise the bellicose Fourth
(1931–4) and Sixth at the expense of the other two. Indeed they are fine
achievements, and the desolate epilogue to the Sixth particularly exemplifies the
ambivalent, enigmatic strain that Vaughan Williams shared with Holst, and which has
proved the least imitable aspect of both (compare, for example, the tortuous
reflectiveness of another ‘post-Tudor’ symphonist, Rubbra; and, on the other side of
the coin, the blatant tub-thumping in the finale of Walton’s First (1935), an otherwise
compelling and individual score influenced in sound rather than method by Sibelius).
But the Third and Fifth (1938–43) are surely bolder and more remarkable. The
Pastoral Symphony, while indebted to French influences achieved a private, mystical
rural vision which could well support the music’s superficial monotony of harmony
and movement. In the Fifth Vaughan Williams placed this achievement on a
specifically spiritual plane by allusion to Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress (there are
superscriptions from Bunyan in the score, and some of the music later reappeared in

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Vaughan Williams’s opera on the subject); here again static harmonies and flowing,
unvarying rhythms serve an essentially contemplative end.

That such qualities are not to be mistaken for dullness may be seen by comparing
these two symphonies with the once-admired seven by Bax. Bax also strove for a
mystical union with nature, but through a language of a distinctly neurotic character,
in which unsettled harmonies lead the music not towards any clearly envisaged
destination but into rambling byways from which Bax was often apparently powerless
to extricate himself or his listeners. A more emphatic symphonist of that generation is
Havergal Brian, who lived to the age of 96 and completed 32 symphonies, all but 11
of them after his 80th birthday. Brian’s idiom is more compact and functional than
Bax’s, though his earlier symphonies are on a large scale. Its rhetorical gestures have
a certain force, without, however, concealing that Brian’s creative technique is
defective in various respects: for instance, his development of ideas is often
shortwinded, and certain types of music seem beyond his grasp (a ‘gritty’ Allegro and
a menacing or elegiac tone prevail). At his best, however, in for instance the Sixth
Symphony (1947–8), he merits attention, if not the ludicrous panegyrics he once
attracted.

One of his admirers, Robert Simpson, was himself the author of 11 fine symphonies,
influenced at first by Nielsen, later by a more direct wish to restore the formal,
harmonic and above all spiritual values of Beethoven. Curiously, the same
preoccupation underlies Tippett’s vocal Third Symphony (1970–72), here masked by
an irony absent from its two very different predecessors (1945 and 1957), and also the
compact, single-movement Fourth (1976–7). From the first Tippett was a pathfinding
genius, whereas the ambitions of his contemporaries, Rawsthorne and Berkeley, each
the author of three finely crafted symphonies, were always more modest. Even
Britten, however, generally fought shy of the symphony, though his two unequivocal
essays in the genre, the Sinfonia da requiem (1939–40) and the Symphony for Cello
and Orchestra (1963), both show mastery of the difficult art of manipulating
symphonic materials over a large canvas and in purely abstract terms, while the
kaleidoscopic Spring Symphony (1949) is more in the nature of a choral–orchestral
song cycle. Of a younger generation only the Australian-born Williamson has shown,
in his highly original modal–serial Second Symphony (1968–9), any serious desire to
reconcile modern non-directional procedures (influenced by Messiaen) with
traditional symphonic form.

7. Scandinavia after Nielsen.

• Stephen Walsh

In Scandinavia, likewise, the main tendency since the 1920s has been to support the
traditional status of the symphony rather than to transplant it to a wholly new
aesthetic. This is in keeping with the achievements of Sibelius and Nielsen

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themselves, and it evidently incurs the risk of epigonism, which only the strongest
personalities have survived. In Finland, Sibelius has dominated the prevailing style to
such an extent that among local symphonists only Kokkonen has produced much of
distinctive character (his Third Symphony of 1967 has a Sibelian economy but is
gesturally original). In Sweden and Denmark, on the other hand, Sibelius has had a
more helpful impact, while Nielsen has been relatively less copied. This is chiefly for
methodological reasons. Sibelius’s austere motivic devices could be adapted, in
theory at least, to any musical idiom, whereas Nielsen’s more expansive formal
procedures could be sustained only by a style as rhetorical as his own, which seems to
have been generally thought inappropriate and was certainly hard to copy without
plagiarism. In Denmark the first outstanding symphonist after Nielsen was a Sibelian,
Vagn Holmboe, whose symphonies brilliantly invest the master’s rigorous thematic
methods with a pulsating energy that obviously springs from neo-classicism and yet
sounds quite fresh and personal. Holmboe’s Eighth Symphony (1951–2) exemplifies
his muscular and for the most part sparing way of developing short themes which
often act, though never purely mechanically, as ostinatos.

Of the Swedish symphonists the most notable active around the mid-century were
Hilding Rosenberg and K.-B. Blomdahl. Both are eclectics, as is their lesser
compatriot Wirén. Rosenberg was influenced for a time by Schoenberg, and his style
is at once denser and more lyrical than Holmboe’s, though still often recalling both
Sibelius and Nielsen. His six symphonies vary enormously in scale. Blomdahl flirted
with more up-to-date influences, but not always so discriminatingly. His last
symphony (no.3, ‘Facets’, 1948) is a reasonably compact piece with arresting
moments rather than compelling momentum.

8. The USSR: Shostakovich.

• Stephen Walsh

While the poverty of symphonic writing in France and Germany between the wars
reflected the general social instability as much as a confusion over aesthetic values,
the rise of the symphony in the USA and Scandinavia has a mainly artistic
background. Where music was shallow-rooted it needed careful and traditional
husbandry. In the USSR, by contrast, the symphony, though associated with a
discarded past, nevertheless survived but under new colours – those of the ideological
programme symphony, a genre that skirts the disputed borderlands of the cantata, the
symphonic poem and the ‘pure’ symphony. That a totalitarian regime should be
suspicious of abstract music is to be expected; but the Russian preference would in
any case be for a documentary type of symphony, and the really damaging aspect of
Soviet interference in music was its insistence on popularistic styles and unremitting
optimism of content.

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The baleful history of socialist realism is redeemed almost solely by the genius of
Shostakovich and the honesty of Myaskovsky. They appear to be the only Soviet
symphonists who struggled to reconcile a personal expressive impulse with the
declared needs of a society to which they acknowledged allegiance. To them must be
added Prokofiev, whose last three symphonies (nos.5–7) were composed after his
return to the USSR in 1933. But Prokofiev, a lyrical melodist of Tchaikovskian stamp
and a brilliantly original orchestrator, had no difficulty in reverting to an accessible
idiom (he probably did so with relief), while his international fame allowed him
comparative freedom of genre until the Zhdanov purges of 1948, from which no
composer of talent was exempt.

Myaskovsky, though not a composer of the first rank, is an interesting eclectic figure
whose 27 symphonies do not all deserve neglect. A pupil of Glier, he was influenced
also by Liszt, Skryabin and Mahler, and his early symphonies productively, if too
remorselessly, counterpoint an excitable sensibility with a rhetorical revolutionary
optimism, which in the 1920s must have seemed a highly satisfactory channelling of
creative energy. But Myaskovsky was troubled by a pessimistic cast of mind, which
comes out in the perfunctory (but Tchaikovsky-like) Symphony no.21 (1940) and its
Lisztian companion, the so-called Symphonic Ballad (no.22, 1941), whose triumphant
ending has a decidedly spurious air. From such dilemmas Myaskovsky retreated into a
folksy academicism, though even that was not colourless enough for Zhdanov.

Shostakovich, by contrast, kept up to the end the struggle between his personal
introspection and pessimism and the official cultural dogma of clarity, simplicity and
optimism. His 15 symphonies come from both sides; yet not one of them is without
interest and there is never any abject sacrifice of quality, though the output is
inevitably unequal and sometimes contains misjudgments. The documentary
symphonies are nos.2 and 3 (1927 and 1929), which belong to the early revolutionary
period before the denunciation of the opera Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, and are still
modernistic in character; no.7 (1941), the so-called ‘Leningrad’, which Bartók
parodied in a famous passage of his Concerto for Orchestra; and nos.11 and 12
(1956–7 and 1959–61), which describe respectively the revolutions of 1905 and 1917.
That Shostakovich was genuinely engaged with these subjects is repeatedly shown by
the quality of the music (for instance in the wonderfully atmospheric first movement
of no.11). His most personal symphonies, however, are no.1 (1924–5), a brilliant
student work influenced by Hindemith, Prokofiev and perhaps Bartók; no.4
(withdrawn in 1936 but released for performance in the early 1960s); nos.6 and 10
(1939 and 1953); and the vocal–orchestral symphonies nos.13 and 14 (1962 and
1969). The other scores (including the popular Fifth of 1937) – ‘a Soviet composer’s
answer to just criticism’ after his withdrawal of no.4 – come somewhere in between,
in that they are abstract works that nevertheless show certain effects of state ideology.
Technically it might even be said that nos.5 and 8 (1943) are (with no.10)
Shostakovich’s best works. But they do not exactly define his position as a modern
symphonist.

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It was once tempting to see Shostakovich as the natural successor to the great post-
Romantic intellectual symphonists, Sibelius, Nielsen and Mahler. But this is borne out
by neither the technique nor the philosophy of his most original music. The influence
of Mahler has been much remarked in his large symphonies, but a movement like the
first of no.10, perhaps his most completely successful, is closer to Nielsen in its slow
but inexorable linear build-up to a powerful dramatic climax. There is a comparable
effect in the first movement of no.6. But Shostakovich was often unsuccessful in
achieving such sustained tension by purely contrapuntal means, and when he did so
one is left with a feeling of exhaustion quite different from the exhilaration and
transcendence of Nielsen’s best work. Moreover, such movements are slow-moving in
Shostakovich. For him, quick music usually fulfilled either a cathartic or a satirical
function, or followed the purely conventional Prokofiev ‘motor’ scherzo. This raises
the important question of his musical philosophy. Where Nielsen was, broadly, an
epic composer, and Sibelius was more or less neutral over such questions,
Shostakovich was unquestionably, in himself, anti-heroic, sceptical and pessimistic.
The parodistic tone of the First Symphony, the strangely whimsical finale of the
Sixth, the witty, classical Ninth coming at a time when a ‘Victory’ symphony was
expected (1945), the enigmatic, quicksilver finale of no.10, and the barely relieved
sardonic pessimism of the Babiy-Yar Symphony, no.13: all these fascinating works
show that for Shostakovich there were no clear solutions or final triumphs, only
tragedy, irony, moral uncertainty and, in the song cycle no.14, death.

9. Eastern Europe.

• Stephen Walsh

That Shostakovich never lost his sense of artistic truth under the most trying personal
circumstances stands to his credit. His achievement is all the greater in the light of the
almost complete failure of other gifted composers to survive the final ideological
battering administered through Zhdanov by Stalin. Outside Russia, in the smaller
eastern European countries, music went through its bleakest phase after World War II.
The specific stylistic données of socialist realism, coupled with the loss of contact
with new music in western Europe, stifled original creative work, and continued to do
so for some years after the general liberalization in the middle and late 1950s. The
point may be illustrated by comparing the Polish composer Lutosławski’s First
Symphony, which had its first performance in 1948, with its epoch-making successor.
Though the earlier work is skilful and effective, it lacks the exploratory power,
brilliance and intellectual conviction of the Second, completed in 1967 – a score that
dazzlingly combines aleatory procedures (admittedly of a comparatively controlled
type) with clear and forthright dialectical thinking. The Second Symphony’s
distinctive two-movement form – an episodic, almost anti-symphonic movement, with
virtually no developmental inclination, followed by a more conventionally
symphonic, forward-driven argument – was taken and adapted (with the addition of
an introduction, epilogue and coda) for the Third (1981–3) with if anything even more

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powerful results. And if the melodic breadth of the epilogue’s cantando theme and the
increased harmonic clarity evident in the work as a whole was read by some as
portending a move in the direction of neo-romanticism, such suspicions were
dispelled by the Fourth (1988–92), which yields nothing to its predecessor either in
terms of formal innovation or the sophistication of its technical arsenal. The other
noteworthy Polish symphonist of Lutosławski’s generation, Panufnik, produced just
one acknowledged essay in the genre, the entertaining if eccentric Sinfonia rustica
(1948), before fleeing to England in 1954. His nine further symphonies – the
geometric and precisely chiselled Sinfonia sacra (1963) and Sinfonia di sfere (1976)
as much as the later, more Romantic Ninth (1986, revised 1987) and Tenth (1988,
revised 1990) – benefit eclectically from a wide range of influences.

In the other east European countries there have been many symphonists but few of
note. The Hungarian Kadosa has composed eight symphonies of which the last four,
written in the 1960s in a quasi-serial idiom, are more impressive than their
predecessors. Kodály’s solitary late Symphony in C (1961) is by comparison a feeble
essay in an evidently uncongenial form and neo-classical style. The three symphonies
of the Czech composer Iša Krejčí, especially the witty Second (1956), are much more
successful and likable. Kabeláč has written symphonies of a relatively ambitious cast,
but lacking subtlety or true originality.

10. Germany after World War II.

• Stephen Walsh

That composers in the communist bloc should have begun to take in advanced
technical and stylistic influences without completely slipping their traditionalist
anchors is heartening, but perhaps less so than the modest postwar revival of the
symphony in the countries where it once seemed completely moribund, above all
Germany (but also France, where Dutilleux produced two fine, somewhat balletic
symphonies). In Germany the renascence was initiated, significantly, in 1940 by Karl
Amadeus Hartmann, in a vocal–orchestral symphony, Versuch eines Requiem, to
poems by Whitman. Hartmann seems to have opposed the Nazis with some courage,
and his style, even during the war, shows openness to influences regarded as
anathema by the cultural authorities, notably Mahler and Berg. After the war
Hartmann wrote seven more symphonies, always in a complex but translucent atonal
style animated now and then by the influence of Stravinsky and Bartók, and later that
of Henze’s Italian period, with its saturated counterpoint. Henze’s own first five
symphonies are no less eclectic, though the fusion of serial and neo-classical
ingredients which they share with Hartmann is in the end quite personal (it shows,
however, the influence of Henze’s teacher Fortner, whose own Symphony (1947)
made a big impact in West Germany after the war). But Henze lacks the intellectual
rigour of the born symphonist, and the best of these earlier works, the Fourth
Symphony (1955, but largely taken from the opera König Hirsch), is successful

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because its music is intoxicatingly beautiful rather than because its single half-hour
movement has a really strong formal impulse. Soon after his turn to communism (in
about 1966) Henze wrote a Sixth Symphony (1969), also in a single movement and
with a large orchestra deployed as two distinct chamber orchestras; again the work
depends as much on imaginative exuberance as on any real binding together of its
heterogeneous materials, which include Cuban popular dance. With his Seventh
(1983–4), which followed after almost a 15-year gap, Henze returned to a more
traditional, Classical formal conception, but in far from a carefree neo-classical spirit:
not even the opening allemande is free of violent outbursts, and the final movement,
an ‘orchestral setting’ of Hölderlin’s bleak and pessimistic late poem ‘Hälfte des
Lebens’, reaches a truly terrifying climax. Henze’s next two works in the genre
followed an outwardly Beethovenian trajectory: an Eighth (1992–3) that is both
shorter and lighter in mood (inspired by scenes from A Midsummer Night’s Dream)
followed by a choral Ninth (1995–7). The latter, predictably, is no ‘Ode to Joy’, its
libretto based on Anna Segher’s novel about fugitives from Third Reich, Das siebte
Kreuz. But it nonetheless provides further confirmation of the nature of Henze’s
traditionalism, which is not at all the cultural rigor mortis of which the 20th century
saw too much, but a feeling for history as a living and continuing process.

11. The survival of the symphony.

• Charles Wilson

By no means all the composers who rose to prominence in the 1950s and 60s shared
Henze’s belief in the symphony. To composers forging a brave new language in the
aftermath of World War II the traditional preoccupations of symphonic writing –
thematic development, tonal focus and unified architecture – seemed obsolete and
irrelevant. And, as a result, many significant composers of the later (as of the earlier)
20th century chose to neglect the medium altogether. One of the most significant
developments of the 1970s and 80s, however, was the turn to the symphony by a
number of composers hitherto identified with the avant garde. With the hegemony of
modernist aesthetics now challenged, the attractions of the genre became increasingly
evident to composers of a neo-romantic persuasion. By no means all the fresh
converts were adherents of the ‘new tonality’. Others explored the symphony’s formal
possibilities in new and innovative ways, aiming to revive its developmental
potentialities using a post-tonal language that employed individual strategies for
creating pitch focus and centricity. Still others, meanwhile, sought to harness it once
more as a programmatic vehicle, or as a medium for political or other forms of public
statement.

The first symphonies of Penderecki and Górecki, the two most significant Polish
exponents of the genre after Lutosławski, were uncompromisingly modernist in
orientation. With his Second, the ‘Christmas’ Symphony (1979–80), however,
Penderecki fully embraced an austere, monumental tonal idiom, with allegiances to

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Bruckner and occasionally Mahler. Górecki’s output saw no such sudden stylistic
rupture: nonetheless his Third, the Symphony of Sorrowful Songs (1976), is marked by
a new melodic directness, connected with the use of authentic Polish folk melodies in
the outer movements, and a sparing use of orchestral forces which stands in sharp
contrast to the massed orchestral effects of his first two symphonies. Like Górecki,
the Finnish composer Rautavaara passed through a personal 12-note idiom, eventually
arriving at a visionary neo-romantic language that featured elements of modal
archaism (stemming ultimately from Orthodox chant) occasionally coupled with a
discreet use of aleatory and sonoristic techniques. Other symphonists who have
achieved a highly personal stylistic synthesis include the Estonian Arvo Pärt, whose
Third Symphony (1971) provided one of the first manifestations of the austere
spirituality that would characterize his later, predominantly vocal output, and the
Georgian Giya Kancheli, who unlike Pärt never experimented with serialism but
instead turned to his emotionally direct idiom after training in the lingua franca of
official Soviet music. His five symphonies of the 1970s (nos.2–6) are unconventional
in form, and draw on Georgian folk music and Orthodox chant.

In Russia the composer widely regarded as Shostakovich’s natural heir was Alfred
Schnittke. Written around the same time as Shostakovich’s Symphony no.15 (1971),
with its disruptive quotations of Wagner and Rossini, Schnittke’s First Symphony
(1969–72) was one of his earliest experiments in what he later dubbed ‘polystylism’.
The work sets fragments of Haydn, Beethoven, Chopin and others alongside jazz and
improvisational episodes, but in a spirit of anxiety and despair rather than celebration.
While these polystylistic excesses were revisited in the Third Symphony (1980), the
Second (1979) and Fourth (1983), both choral symphonies, sought a more
thoroughgoing absorption of their diverse musical sources, in the latter case drawn
from Jewish, Lutheran and Orthodox traditions. The later, purely orchestral
symphonies (nos.7–9) draw closer to Austro-German models, Bruckner and Mahler
especially, but here the debt is apparent more in instrumental gesture than in actual
borrowed material.

The overwrought intensity of much Russian polystylism has a tone distinctly remote
from the disengaged and objective attitude that characterized European and American
brands of stylistic pluralism in the 1970s and 80s. The restless experimentation
apparent in the nine symphonies of Ib Nørholm composed up to 1990 resulted in
abrupt discontinuities both within and between individual works. The Fourth
Symphony of Jonathan Lloyd (1988) and the First of Poul Ruders (1989) likewise
operate within a wide frame of reference that stretches in the former to Latin
American dance rhythms and in the latter to American minimalism. An important
European precursor for these polyglot displays had been the third movement of
Berio’s Sinfonia (1968–9), which pastes a variety of musical quotations (from
Beethoven to Stockhausen) onto a stripped-down version of the scherzo from
Mahler’s Second Symphony, creating a self-reflexive musical commentary on the
genre and its history to parallel the (largely Beckett-derived) spoken commentary of

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six amplified vocalists. But whereas the outer movements of Sinfonia leave no doubt
as to the nature of the composer’s own authentic (and still essentially modernist)
musical voice, the all-pervading presence of allusion and quotation in such works as
Rochberg’s Symphony no.3 (1966–9) and Bolcom’s more recent Symphony no.5
(1990) effaces any such sense of a personal stylistic idiom. Or else the personal idiom
is itself impersonal, close enough to pastiche to allow quotations to be woven in with
minimal sense of stylistic rupture.

To other composers, the notion of a ‘pure’, absolute symphonic discourse has retained
its appeal. For Nørgård in his Second (1970) and Third (1975) Symphonies the pursuit
of such a discourse involved a preoccupation with highly personal constructivist
processes, notably those associated with the ‘infinity’ series, whose compositional
deployment through multiple layers of an orchestral texture yields remarkably lucid
and compelling results. In 1978 Peter Maxwell Davies produced the first example of
his new, characteristically atmospheric but essentially abstract symphonic language.
Davies, who had consolidated his reputation in the previous decade with a series of
aggressive and expressionistic music-theatre works, continued to employ the
constructivist techniques of melodic transformation (of plainchant especially) that had
characterized those earlier works. But the seven numbered symphonies he had
produced by 2000 aimed above all to re-create a formal dialectic in the tradition of
Beethoven and Sibelius, one in which the conflict of opposed pitch centres plays a
pivotal role. Ultimately, though, Davies’s still essentially post-tonal harmonic
language fails to provide sufficiently potent means with which to establish these tonal
centres and their functional roles, and the symphonic argument forfeits much of its
dynamism and momentum as a result. Ironically perhaps, what was arguably the most
persuasive example of sustained symphonic writing from an English composer in
these years was not formally designated a symphony at all: Maw’s Odyssey (1972–
85), at just under 100 minutes in length, stakes a plausible claim to be the longest
unbroken movement for orchestra ever composed.

While some have continued to grapple with the kinds of formal questions traditionally
regarded as symphonic, others have applied the generic title to works which subvert
just about all, including more recently established, expectations of the genre. The
characteristically ascetic Fourth (1985–7) and Fifth Symphonies (1989–90) of Galina
Ustvol′skaya are scored not for orchestra but for small instrumental ensemble and solo
voice (a contralto in no.4, a speaker in no.5). And while Gubaydulina’s expansive 12-
movement symphony Stimmen … verstummen (1986) embodies at its centre a portion
of gracefully animated silence in the form of a cadenza for conductor alone, a number
of the eccentric aleatory essays (many additionally designated ‘orchestral diary
sheets’) of Leif Segerstam dispense with the conductor altogether. The symphonies of
Glenn Branca (11 composed by 1998) are among the few to make extended use of
electronic instruments and non-standard tunings. Other composers have used the
symphonic medium for different kinds of ‘extra-musical’ statement, whether personal
(Corigliano’s Symphony no.1, 1988–9, an elegy for victims of AIDS) or ceremonial

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(Tan Dun’s Symphony 1997, commemorating the return of Hong Kong to Chinese
sovereignty). Again the designation of symphony is often loosely applied; and, with
the occasional pieces, the risk as always is that they will fail to outlive their
immediate purpose.

That many symphonies of the late 20th century, even those devoid of consciously
ironic intent, seem to mimic rather than genuinely re-create a truly dialectical
symphonic discourse may be a symptom of compositional weakness. Yet it may also
be a symptom of the jadedness of commentators and listeners amid the omnipresence
of a ‘permanent literature’ whose gestures have become all too familiar. The
symphony finds itself in an increasingly contested market-place, one of commercial
recordings as much as live performances, in which the new has always to contend
with the old, and even the not so old: the appetite for neo-romanticism in the 1980s
was fed not only by new works but also by the revival of music from earlier in the
century, such as that of Allan Pettersson (championed in Germany as much as in his
native Sweden), the Estonian-born Eduard Tubin and in England Robert Simpson and,
more controversially, George Lloyd. As was emphasized by Alexander Goehr in his
BBC Reith lectures of 1987, the ‘survival of the symphony’ is ultimately bound up
with the survival of the institution that has nurtured it, the symphony concert. And
while that institution remains, at bottom, inherently conservative, it cannot be
guaranteed that this mutual dependence will be entirely positive in its consequences.

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