In some ways it is possible to claim that all nine of Mahler’s completed symphonies and the unfinished tenth form part of a single overarching super-work that represents the composer’s conception of “Symphony” as “the building of a world,” a phrase he explicitly used with regard to the Third. For the first four symphonies there are explicit ways in which the works are linked to one another. The first movement of the Second Symphony, conceived as a tone poem, was a direct continuation of the triumph that had completed the First. And the Third Symphony grew to such length that Mahler finally eliminated one movement and made it his starting point in conceiving the Fourth.

That starting point was a song, “Wir geniessen die himmlische Freuden” (“We enjoy the pleasures of heaven”), whose text was drawn from Des Knaben Wunderhorn and conceived by Mahler as a seventh movement in his Third Symphony. When he removed it from the Third, it became an unconnected torso.

Des Knaben Wunderhorn (Youth’s Magic Horn) was an anthology of German folk poetry published in 1805 under the editorship of Achim von Arnim and Clemens Brentano with the aim of preserving a legacy of traditional poems. Between 1887 and 1901, Mahler preferred it to all other text sources. Because the Second, Third, and Fourth Symphonies draw so much of their substance from these poems and their musical settings, they are often referred to as the “Wunderhorn symphonies.”

The Fourth has been the most often performed and is the most easily accepted by newcomers to Mahler’s world. The frequency of performance has something to do, of course, with the relatively modestly sized orchestra required. But audiences accepted the Fourth earlier than many of Mahler’s symphonies. Surely this is partly owing to its directness, charm, apparent naïveté. Surprisingly, these very qualities originally made it one of the most maligned of Mahler symphonies, and that is saying something. Not until October 1904, when Mahler conducted the Concertgebouw Orchestra in a program that consisted of two consecutive performances of the Fourth—once before and once after intermission—did the audience response rise to the kind of enthusiasm the composer must have wanted.

The childlike sound of bells that open the Symphony, the very simple, folk-like tune that the violins begin with, and the playful back and forth of interruptions from the other sections are all elements that one finds—with great delight—in the late symphonies of Haydn. Yet Mahler’s Fourth is not an anti-Romantic work or an early step toward neo-Classicism, but rather a fusion of the humor and folklore of Austria such as Haydn might have conceived it into a late Romantic composition that emphasizes the brighter aspects of life—which makes it almost unique among Mahler’s work.

Since Mahler began this symphony with its finale already composed, he was able to insert into the early movements various elements that return in a climactic and joyous way at the end. These include the opening bell sounds and a lively flute solo in the first movement’s exposition; a clarinet tune, purposely folk-like, in the Scherzo’s central Trio, hints at the finale’s opening; and the trumpets at the massive climax of the slow movement. In short, this is not simply an elaborate song preceded by three preparatory movements, but a strikingly coherent work.

The first movement has long been regarded as a cheerful “walk through the countryside,” yet it is not without its storm clouds. That storm causes the music to collapse for a moment, only to resume when the violins grab the thread of the opening theme to initiate the recapitulation, as if consciously refusing to discuss what has just happened.

The dance in the second movement has its own sinister quality. Mahler once said that the movement might be called “Freund Hein [“Friend Hal”] strikes up,” and indeed the concertmaster has an elaborate solo part in the dance. But this “friend” is a character in German folklore who leads his followers on the dark path to death. The solo violinist must play a second instrument tuned a full step higher than those of the other violins, to produce a different, somewhat more abrasive sonority. The soloist is always to project clearly over the others. The melody twists in weirdly chromatic steps, suggesting that this dance is not any normal country celebration. The Trio, on the other hand, reverts to the sunny countryside for an effective contrast to the gloomy hints of the main dance.

The slow movement seems at first to be a gentle lullaby, but this sweet music alternates with something much sadder. And they do not simply alternate. The lamenting, sad theme in the strings becomes more urgent, more passionate, at each return, more demanding of a resolution that moves “outside the box.” The resolution turns out to be an explosive and brilliant outburst in the key of E major—a very bright key compared to the G major that is the home key both of the Symphony’s beginning and of this movement. It lifts us triumphantly for a moment to heavenly realms—and foreshadows the symphony’s heavenly ending in the same key—before returning to G in a hushed close.

The music of childlike simplicity returns for Mahler’s setting of the Wunderhorn song about the joys of heaven, with a vocal line assigned to a soprano projecting the child’s delight in all innocence—the joys of dancing and singing and (especially, it seems) of eating and drinking. The poem emphasizes in particular all the carnivorous dining possibilities of heaven—the old folk poets who created the original version of this text would not have had much opportunity to eat meat, and it must have seemed as distant to them as heaven itself. And for earthbound listeners, the sweetness and jolly cheerfulness of the music leads to the bright key of E major again, just before the soprano informs us that “There is just no music on earth that can compare to ours.” And, indeed, the delicate close is all sweetness and light. —© Steven Ledbetter