Symphony No. 3

Bohuslav Martinů was one of the most prolific composers of the 20th century, writing over 400 works in multiple genres — a seemingly unlikely accomplishment for someone who, as a young student, was twice dismissed from the Czech National Conservatory for his “incorrigible negligence.” Despite those early setbacks, Martinů spent three years as a violinist in the Czech Philharmonic, where his exposure to the music of Debussy piqued his interest in composition.  In 1923, he moved to Paris, where he encountered the neoclassicism of Stravinsky and Les Six, blending this new music with Czech traditions and techniques derived from Renaissance polyphony and Baroque counterpoint to forge a uniquely personal style.

With the Nazi invasion of France in 1940, Martinů fled with his wife to America, where he worked to resume his career. Although he had previously written a number of works for orchestra, he had studiously avoided the symphony, disdaining what he called the “climax cliché” that he felt was inherent in the genre. But American audiences loved symphonies so, in 1942, he wrote the first of what would turn out to be five symphonies in five years. (A sixth was written in 1953.) These proved quite popular and, during the 1940s, he was among the most frequently performed contemporary composers in the US.

Contrary to what one might expect of works written in such close proximity, Martinů’s symphonies all differ in character while sharing certain characteristics: an energetic rhythmic style, fluid phrasing, shimmering textures, a rich harmonic language (with frequent conflicts between major and minor keys), and featured roles for harp and piano.     

Martinů’s first two symphonies are colorful and exuberant works, but the Third — written in 1944 and dedicated to Serge Koussevitzky and the Boston Symphony Orchestra — comes from a different, darker world. Unlike his earlier symphonies, this one is in three movements instead of four, omitting the typically lighthearted scherzo movement, which would have seemed out of place in this more somber composition. The Third is also the most overtly programmatic of Martinů’s symphonies, with an unmistakable musical and emotional journey from darkness to light, personified by the opening movement’s E-flat minor key later giving way to a radiant E major in the finale.

The first movement is built around a series of short motives that soon expand into a swirling contrapuntal web that obscures any sense of meter. Against this, the timpani and harp play a steady and ominous rhythmic ostinato. A long, plaintive flute solo introduces a moment of repose toward the end of the exposition. After a frenzied development section, the recapitulation repeats the opening material almost exactly, but with the English horn replacing the solo flute.  Minor-key harmonies dominate throughout, contributing to the overall sense of dread.

The darkness of the first movement gives way to a more contemplative mood in the second. The opening section features another flute solo and a remarkable shimmering passage that ends in B-flat major, offering, for the first time in the work, a brief glimmer of light. The middle section begins with a desolate contrapuntal passage in the strings that grows in intensity as the strings and timpani pound out a steady, insistent rhythm. After an agonized climax, the reflective mood of the opening returns. Once again, Martinů replaces the solo flute with English horn, and the movement ends quietly in C major.

The structure of the finale is unique, with an Allegro opening that gives way to a longer Andante section. With two startling brass fanfares, the opening music returns in the minor mode, suggesting restless, bitter conflict, interrupted by a few moments of quiet, hopeful repose. The intensity finally dissipates, and we hear the first of three distinct passages, each suggesting another stage in the move away from the violence of the Allegro. The first is built around a quiet, mournful melody in the violas. The second features four solo strings and the same shimmering, almost hallucinatory textures we heard in the second movement. With the addition of the percussion, triumphant figures in the brass, and the final establishment of E major, the music at last emerges fully into the light. But even in the symphony’s final moments, we hear reminders that the hard-won peace is tenuous, with the intrusion of quiet minor chords and, at the very end, three dissonant exclamations in the piano.

Many see this symphony as Martinů’s response to World War II, then in its fifth long year. Others have suggested that its character was shaped by his personal despair and longing for his distant homeland. However one interprets the meaning of his Third Symphony, there can be no denying the power with which Martinů conveys his message.

— Michael Strasser

Michael Strasser is professor emeritus of musicology at Baldwin Wallace University. He has published numerous articles and reviews and presented papers at international conferences on fin-de-siècle France, Arnold Schoenberg, and colonial music in British North America and Mexico.