In the summer of 1788, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart traveled from his home in Vienna to Prague. His operas, “The Abduction From the Seraglio,” The Marriage of Figaro,” and “Don Giovanni,” had met with enormous success in Prague over the last few years, and the city’s general enthusiasm for his music prompted the composer to write in his journal: “Meine Prager verstehen mich” (“My Praguers understand me”).
He’d come to Prague to drink its beer, his favorite beverage, and to compose a set of three symphonies, which today we know as No. 39 in E-flat, No. 40 in G minor, and No. 41 in C.
Though he lived another three and a half years, these were Mozart’s last symphonies. Nobody knows why he wrote them. There was no commission, no expectation of performance, no obvious professional reason to spend nearly two months of his life composing for the heck of it when finances at home demanded his attention. Some scholars suggest the symphonies were written for a concert series at a Vienna casino, but there’s little evidence to support the their notion and no evidence whatsoever that the concerts took place.
I believe I have an answer: Mozart composed his last three symphonies to sum up everything he had to say about symphonic form. This included not just the formal aspects of the symphony, but, more importantly, its expressive potential.
The Symphony
The symphony as a form began as a stand-alone orchestral version of the opera overture, with its fast-slow-fast structure. The three parts of the overture became three separate movements of what came to be called a “symphony.” In time, a minuet was inserted between the second and final movements. The result: four separate pieces that formed a whole greater than the sum of their parts.
The earliest symphonies exploited contrasts made available to the composer by an orchestra of winds (pairs of oboes and horns, sometimes bassoons, and later clarinets) and strings, contrasts of color, texture, key, and dynamics. The best of the very first symphony composers (works by Johann Stamitz, 1717–1757) tossed the new form around like a bauble, creating musical entertainment of a high order. Then came Franz Josef Haydn (1732–1809), who pushed the expressive range of the symphony forward, composing over 100 examples of the form and earning the title, “Father of the Symphony.” But Haydn, like Stamitz and others, composed for specific audiences and occasions—a coronation here, a baptism there.
Mozart (1756-1791) did so as well, writing symphonies for the pleasure of the nobility and the emerging middle class. In that Prague summer, however, he wrote three symphonies for no one except himself. No money was paid; no record exists of a planned performance. In fact, the premiere of this symphonic triptych took place three years after the composer’s death. That’s right: Mozart never got to hear his last three symphonies, the crowning achievement of his orchestral output.
Art to Further Art
What was this about? In 1788, composers didn’t write music just to “say something.” As far as I can determine from research, the last three symphonies of W.A. Mozart are the first examples of symphonies written for their own sake alone. As such, they should be (but are not) regarded by musical scholars as the initial sparks of Romanticism.
Mozart dared to devote nearly two months of his life to saying something in purely orchestral terms. What did he say? Music is incapable of stating facts about the world of objects and actions. If one goes no further than this, the notorious proclamation of Igor Stravinsky peeps over the horizon: “Music is, by its very nature, essentially powerless to express anything at all.”
But stopping there is a materialist error. Music cannot show us a tree or a pair of lovers kissing, but it can create the emotional conditions that accompany the majesty of nature or the ecstasy of love. J.S. Bach knew this. If you listen to Bach’s Chaconne and don’t know that Bach composed it on the death of his first wife, you will nonetheless recognize that it expresses grief. It can’t show you someone’s death, but it can let you feel what a grieving person feels.
The feelings of the last three Mozart symphonies stretch out over some 90 minutes of music. Couched as a simple dialectic, the three reflect youthful exuberance (No. 39), countered by disappointment and sorrow (No. 40), transcended by spiritual perspective (No. 41). The meanings of the first two are hard to miss, especially when judged by their final movements. The finale of No. 39 is one of the most relentlessly cheerful pieces ever penned. It will not calm down or have its gleefulness in any way abridged. Mirroring this, the last movement of No. 40 will not be cheered. No matter how scurrying and busy the piece becomes, it returns to darkness. One of the very few Mozart symphonies in a minor key, it shuts down all hope of escape.
And then there is our subject, Symphony No. 41, scored for flute, two oboes, two bassoons, two horns in C, two trumpets in C, timpani in C and G, and strings. Nicknamed “Jupiter” by a London concert promoter long after Mozart’s death, here is a performance by the Danish National Chamber Orchestra, conducted by Adam Fischer.
And here’s a brief outline of its four movements:
Allegro Vivace.
The symphony opens with three forte C major chords, a strikingly masculine statement, answered immediately by a feminine gesture: three softly uttered pairs of descending notes, like sighs. This double motif repeats, and is followed by interplay of the masculine and feminine ideas until at 0:44, a melody grows out of them, a rising and falling theme that will develop throughout the rest of the movement. Our masculine motif holds sway over this tune, but at 1:32 a new, gently rising, seductive feminine idea appears. Then, at 2:11, disaster: A massive C minor chord interrupts the blissful C Major proceedings. Something has gone wrong with our masculine-feminine dialogue. Is there an answer? At 2:43 a little folkish tune appears that Mozart had previously used in a song with these words: “You are a bit innocent. Go study the ways of the world.” Hmmm. Masculine and feminine interplay followed by disaster and the need for perspective. Whatever could Mozart be saying?
Andante cantabile, at 11:20.
There are no words. Judged by many to be the most beautiful slow movement of any symphony, it makes love to the ear in glowing F major.
Minuetto: Allegretto, at 22:08.
A graceful interlude between absolute beauty and the hair-raising finale to come.
Molto Allegro, at 26:28.
This is it: Mozart’s final symphonic statement, and he goes out not with a whimper, but a bang. Five motifs appear: 1) At the start, four long-held notes, followed immediately by 2) a stabbing motif of four short notes. At 26:57, the long-note motif is developed in close imitation. At 27:14, 3) a sharply rising six-note idea sweeps in, and at 27:46 comes 4) an angular three-note idea, sharply down and then sharply up. At 28:04 the “stabbing” motif reemerges. Suddenly, at 28:21, 5) a new, fanfare-like motif appears.
Don’t fret if you can’t keep up. That’s the whole point: Mozart is introducing new ideas at breakneck speed. Much will happen, intertwining the five motifs; don’t try to identify them, let them flow over you.
Now let’s skip to the very end: 33:56, the start of one of the most spectacular endings in symphonic history. First we hear motifs 1 and 4 in counterpoint. Then, at 34:01, motif 3 enters, and before you know it, motif 5 shows up. All combine in a gigantic weave until motif 2, our “stabbing” motif, allied with motif 5, announces the end of the movement, the symphony, and the greatest triptych of orchestral scores ever assembled.
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