Symphony No. 8 in C major, D 944 “Great”

In March 1824, Franz Schubert learned that his famous colleague Ludwig van Beethoven was about to premiere a new symphony – his Ninth – and that this work would surpass anything ever heard before. Schubert was electrified. “If God wills it, I too intend to give a similar concert next year,” he wrote to a friend. Indeed, in the spring of 1825, he set to work on his “Great” C major Symphony and was able to complete it the following year. However, he was unable to secure a performance. The Society of the Friends of Music in Vienna, to whom Schubert had sent the score, briefly tested the work, but immediately rejected it due to its length and difficulty. As a result, it was not until March 1839 – more than ten years after Schubert’s death – that the symphony was finally premiered. This was thanks to Robert Schumann, who had visited Schubert’s brother Ferdinand in Vienna the previous January and discovered a copy of the manuscript among the composer’s papers. Schumann sent this sensational find to Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy in Leipzig, and it was Mendelssohn who brought the Great to life with the Gewandhaus Orchestra.

In scale, Schubert’s C major Symphony stands shoulder to shoulder with Beethoven’s Ninth. Schumann himself spoke of its “heavenly length” and compared it to a “four-volume novel.” Yet in sound, message, and orchestration, the two works could hardly be more different. Schubert needs neither choir nor soloists to break new ground; nor does he proclaim a political vision of universal fraternization, as Beethoven does with his utopian “Ode to Joy.” That does not make Schubert’s symphonic statement any less profound. Rather than addressing humanity as a whole, he turns his gaze inward – into the mysterious depths of the soul – painting a musical portrait that oscillates between dream and reality, hope and abyss.

It all begins with a slow introduction, as the horns set the tone: the dotted rhythm and the central interval of the third form the germ cell from which almost all the themes of the four movements grow. From the beginning, the music is in a constant state of flux, one motif emerging seamlessly from the next. Indeed, the transition from the introduction to the main Allegro of the first movement is so organic that one might not even notice it. For this reason, too, the three themes that Schubert introduces here do not appear as contrasts, but rather as variations of the same fundamental idea.

Schubert cherishes his musical ideas. He repeats them again and again – sometimes so insistently that one might feel trapped in an endless loop. But then, suddenly, come the abrupt plunges, the unprotected falls into the void. This happens, for instance, in the second movement, which Schubert opens with a steady, march-like rhythm; as a counterpoint, a blissfully flowing melody soon appears. Toward the end, however, the orchestra lingers on a dissonant, almost screaming fortissimo chord – seemingly without end – before falling into silence. A long general pause follows, after which the cellos hesitantly begin again, cautiously, almost fearfully. A world after catastrophe.

This moment is spine-chilling, unforgettable – even though the final two movements strike a more cheerful tone. The Scherzo with its rustic dance, and the Ländler-like melodies of the Trio, seem to indulge dreams of happiness. But in the Finale, Schubert charges ahead in a wild, breathless ride. Yet the question remains: is this true euphoria, or is someone fleeing, running from something? The near-obsessive, almost painful repetition of rhythms and tone sequences reveals the deeper layers and ambiguity of this music, in which joy and sorrow, exuberance and despair lie perilously close together.