Having been written in his summer abode in Bohemia, Antonín Dvořák’s Symphony No. 8 is saturated with the charm and majesty of Eastern European landscapes. As music historian Max Graf keenly states, “Nature awakened music in a great many musicians such as… Dvořák and Smetana because her moods reflected the emotional life of man. Nature was man himself, in whose innermost being it was bright or dark, in whom storms raged, fog expanded, colorful meadows gleamed and birds sang.” 

The Eighth Symphony was written in a spurt of creative productivity brought on by Dvořák’s picturesque summer home; on the heels of his beloved Piano Quintet in E-flat Major, the composer exclaimed, “Melodies pour out of me!” and indeed they did, owing much to his idyllic surroundings. The Eighth was completed in less than three months—only seventy-five days passed between his initial melodic sketches and final orchestration. Surrounded by abundant greenery, grand mountain ranges, and placid waters, it is no wonder the composer found himself at ease and inspired. Dvořák revelled in the tranquility and found respite in composing what came naturally—broad, folk-inspired melodies. As a result, the lyricism that Dvořák pours into the symphony is free flowing, almost liquid, in its musical development. By November 1889, Dvořák’s Symphony No. 8 had crested. The following year, the fishpond on the same property would spark creative zeal once more, inspiring Dvořák’s most enduring opera, Rusalka. 

The first movement of the Eighth, Allegro con brio, opens with a pleading theme in celli, accompanied by pizzicato violas and subtle harmonic support in the middle winds. This motif flows through the entire symphony, evolving over the course of four movements. Dvořák’s trademark lush writing—full-bodied without the least bit of aggression—is on full display, and an understated warmth quickly unfolds into a regal new theme. This theme is demonstrated by the principal flute before being swept away by the full orchestra. The dotted rhythm motivates the movement, providing ample hills and valleys for Dvořák’s melodies to traverse. The first movement is varied in texture; phrases sometimes dissipate into thin air with no orchestral support, but many times a singular instrumental section will provide all of the melodic content while others support via an arpeggiated accompaniment, a babbling undercurrent that flows through the course of the symphony. This undercurrent first murmurs from the basses and celli while the clarinets present the regal theme, this time in a mysteriously alluring minor mode. The composer’s use of arpeggiated accompaniment harkens much more to Eastern European folk music traditions than it does the Classical employment of, say, Alberti bass. 

The second movement, similar to the first, is introduced by rich, lyrical strings. As if strolling through the Bohemian forest, a chirping bird happily greets the listener from the flute section. Clarinets and low strings provide the forest backdrop: a shady, cool triplet motif tempts the orchestra, pushing towards C-major where principal oboe leads a pastoral melody. The Adagio is perfectly paced; Dvořák is indeed able to conjure forest imagery—just as Graf observed—complete with thunderstorms, chirping birds, and gleaming meadows.

In the Allegretto grazioso, we are transported to a darkened Czech ballroom, lit only with crackling fire; a misty fog has rolled in and mystery is afoot. Clearly, a Slavonic waltz has graced the stage. Dvořák’s mystical opening music—the babbling-brook arpeggios now gurgle from the flute section—is answered by a hopeful oboe solo that seems to reflect the melodies of the first movement. The sweet melody is restated, now shaded by bassoons, while supported by Dvořák’s undercurrent arpeggios in the celli. As the upper strings take over the B-theme, the orchestra sings back with full-bodied sound. Capricious as ever, the third movement ends in a short coda, bursting with repeated notes and accents (another nod to folk idioms). 

Introducing a new dance—this one stately—the Allegro, ma non troppo begins with a blast of trumpet fanfare. While trumpets often provide a battlecry in Western musical settings, Eastern European trumpeters herald celebrations. This is perhaps most astutely described by Czech conductor Rafael Kubelik in rehearsals: “Gentlemen, in Bohemia the trumpets never call to battle—they always call to the dance!” Dvořák’s final movement juxtaposes vivacious folk dances with more reserved melodies, though all of the fourth movement’s material sways effortlessly to the double bar. His clever use of theme and variation within a song-and-trio framework is playful, yes, but compositionally impressive. The final bars of No. 8 are a final táncház, a dance party, complete with more excitable brass fanfares and furious strings, both embodying the lively nature of Slavic folk music.