Going with the Flow of Smetana's The Moldau
The Listen Guide
Vltava, JB 1:112/2
I'm Bedřich Smetana, and this is the listen guide to my Moldau. I'll show you how to follow the one main tune as it travels from the first small trickles to the wide, flowing river, so the whole piece feels like a single journey. If you'd like to put it to the test, open the Trainer , where my fellow composers and I teach you to recognize our pieces as soon as they start.
---
How to Listen Without a Degree
The easiest way to listen to The Moldau is to picture yourself in a small boat, drifting downstream while the scenery changes at every bend. Keep one ear on the main tune, because that tune is the river itself, and it keeps coming back, sometimes broad and calm, sometimes tossed about. Everything else is scenery, and you can tell the scenes apart by who is playing: flutes and clarinets for the first trickles, horns for the woods, the strings for the dancing on the bank, and the harp for the moonlight. You don't need to know a single note by name, so just ask yourself at each moment where the boat has got to.What's in a Name, Besides Two Spellings
I called the piece Vltava because that is simply the Czech name of the river, and the river is the hero of the whole story. You may know it as The Moldau, which is the German name for the same water, and many listeners abroad have come to use that one. I chose a river because it runs through the country I love, and because a river makes a wonderful subject: it has a beginning, an end, and plenty to see along the way. So the title is really a promise that you will follow the water from its two springs all the way towards the Elbe.Not a Sonata, Not a Rondo, Just a River
Choosing the form was an adventure in itself, because I had no wish to squeeze a river into a box that was made for something else. So this is neither a sonata nor a rondo but a symphonic poem, where the shape of the story decides the shape of the music. The main tune works like a refrain that returns between the scenes, and it gives you one clear thread to hold on to from start to finish. I count six sections: the springs, the woods, the festivities, the moonlit water-nymphs, the rapids, and the final broad stretch past Vyšehrad, and we'll take them one at a time.Section 1: Two Trickles and a Very Relaxed Tempo
I mark the opening Allegro commodo non agitato, which means lively but comfortable and not agitated, so the two springs simply burble along without any hurry. Flutes and then clarinets pass little rippling notes back and forth while the strings underneath keep everything light. When the main tune arrives, it is a wistful melody that is much older than I am, because I adapted it from La Mantovana, a tune attributed to the Italian tenor Giuseppe Cenci and printed in 1600. That same old tune also lies behind Hatikvah, which became Israel's national anthem, so it has travelled a good deal further than any river.Section 2: Horns Among the Trees
Once the two streams have joined, the river leaves the open ground and runs into the woods, and the music grows brighter and more energetic. The horns call out from between the trees, and you can almost feel the shade falling across the water. The river tune keeps flowing underneath those calls, so the boat never stops while the forest goes by. Listen for how the calls seem to echo from different distances, which is how a handful of horns can sound like a whole forest.Section 3: A Dance on the Riverbank
Out of the woods, the river reaches some festivities, and the music turns into a lively dance that seems to come from a gathering on the shore. The mood here is plain, uncomplicated joy, with a bouncing rhythm that makes your feet want to join in. The best part is that the boat doesn't stop, so the dance slowly fades into the distance as the current carries you onward. That cheerful noise makes the hush that follows sound even deeper.Section 4: Moonlight and Water-Nymphs
Then evening comes and the whole mood changes, because the music slows down and becomes hushed and glassy. This is the scene of the moonlit water-nymphs, where the flutes float high above, the harp sparkles, and the strings shimmer like light on the surface. The harmony feels softer and more mysterious than anything before it, as if the river had wandered into a dream. If you want one moment to close your eyes, take this one, because I wouldn't dream of disturbing the nymphs.Section 5: The Rapids Lose Their Patience
Gradually the calm breaks, and the river hurls itself into the St John's Rapids, where the mood turns stormy and urgent. The trombones, timpani and cymbals join the strings and woodwinds, and the main tune is battered from every side but never drowned. The pace quickens and the rhythm churns, and this is among the loudest and busiest moments in the whole piece. Then the water slowly settles, and the tune comes back broad and triumphant, as if the river were proud of having survived.Section 6: A Nod to Vyšehrad, Then Onward
In the last stretch the river broadens, and as it passes Vyšehrad you hear the four-note Vyšehrad motif return like a greeting from the first poem of my cycle. It rings out solemnly, as a reminder that this river flows through the heart of my country. After that the river carries on towards the Elbe, and the music gradually thins and fades into the distance. Nothing is wrapped up with a big announcement, and the river simply keeps going, as rivers do.Your Turn at the Oars
Now I invite you to experience The Moldau for yourself, so press play and let the music carry you along. The first audience heard it at the Žofín in Prague in April 1875, with Adolf Čech conducting, and it was an instant triumph. As you listen, keep in mind what we talked about: the tune as the river, and the changing scenery around it. I hope the journey feels as thrilling to you as it did to me when I created it.---
I hope you enjoyed finding your way through The Moldau with me. Did this listen guide give you a good feel for the river and its changing scenery? There is still more to discover in this piece, and I'm happy to say that a few of those things are the ones I never had room to mention. The Moldau is only the second of the six symphonic poems in my Má vlast, so the rest of that cycle is waiting for you, beginning with Vyšehrad, whose four-note motif comes back in the river's music. You might also look into where the main tune came from, because it has a much older history than my own piece, and it has travelled further than I could have imagined. When I wrote this music in 1874, I could not hear a note of it, and I think that is part of why I hope you will listen closely on my behalf. Next time you hear the river begin, with those two small springs, notice how much more you hear than the first time. Please click on the links provided to explore The Moldau further, and let the river carry you wherever it likes.