Aino, age 17

Being the daughter of an aristocrat, namely the General August Aleksander Järnefelt, proved to be young Sibelius’ first test. The second was the protectiveness of her two brothers. Jean was still an unproven composer with no regular income. Although by then he had the reputation for being a lady’s man, Jean found himself lacking the confidence to court Aino and for a time turned his attention elsewhere – much to her disappointment.

A Brother Relents
Her brother Armas perhaps finally gave in when one evening in 1890. Aino came into his room, threw herself into his arms, bursting into tears over her apparently unrequited love for Sibelius. She confessed to Armas that she had wanted to confide about Sibelius for a long time, but feared it would only anger her brother. Full of pity, Armas consoled her, promising to help, himself unable to hold back tears for his lovelorn sister.

Jean and Aino met again later that year in her father’s home in Vaasa, played music together, both in love with each other but uncertain how the other felt. When he was leaving Vaasa at the train platform, he asked Armas to pass a message of thanks to Aino for her company – but her brother declined, citing concern that this would cause Aino untold distress.  At this very juncture when he was leaving her company, Jean suddenly realized it. “I then understood for the first time that you had never really forgotten me. I left Vaasa in a strange state, half idiot and half composer.”

On 23 September 1890, having sent Aino home after an evening of music, outside the door of her brother Arvid’s place in Helsinki, Jean asked Aino to marry him. She accepted. Coincidentally, the following night she read the manuscript of “Alone”, the first novel of Finnish author Juhani Aho, within which he declared his love for her.  When she returned home to Vaasa, she found her train compartment filled with flowers – by Jean.

Jean Sibelius, around 1890-91

The successful premiere of Kullervo in 1892 propelled Sibelius high up enough in society’s view that a marriage became possible in the eyes of Aino’s family. Although his income (from teaching and performing) up till this point was uncertain, he was soon to receive a government stipend on the account of his contributions to the Finnish nation.  These signs of his potential as a viable composer gave some hope to all. But in fact, it would be a long and extremely trying journey. Here the fairy tale ended.

The Price of the Artist
In the ensuing years, Jean and Aino’s relationship and marriage were tested to the uppermost limits by the composer’s over-indulgent taste for the high life and alcohol,  exacerbated by burgeoning debts, made even worse by the irregularities of a full-time composer’s life.

Reading about this period, you would probably be as impressed with his musical progress as you would be appalled at his apparent disregard for family and husbandly obligations. Sibelius’ personal mission to become a famous composer took priority, and he made this clear to Aino. He put it in no uncertain terms that “The sort of marriage centreing solely on rearing children is anathema to me – there are other things to think about if you are an artist.”

A happy Aino with little Eva, 1893

He would frequently abandon wife and home – and later children – in order to pursue what he perceived as the extravagant social life appropriate for a celebrity artist.  Even as his first daughter, Eva, was born, he spent increasingly less time at home, preferring to squander his money – of which he had little – on drinking, smoking and socializing. He would not just spend hours, but often days away from home. One time in 1901, he abandoned wife, daughters (including a  6-year-old Ruth who was fighting typhus) and financial uncertainties at home, simply because he could not longer stand the stress of being with them.

Aino certainly did not appreciate this, but there was one thing that she believed in with absolute, unwavering reserve:  Sibelius’ genius. In fact, this would become the single most important article of faith that kept the couple together.

Ambrosia, Anger, Ainola
Arguably worse than his debts was Sibelius’ habit of drinking. Excessively. He justified it with the belief that only alcohol kept him steady, it helped him conduct “like a young god”. But it certainly tested Aino’s patience, who on more than one occasion berated him on the way he embarrassed himself in public, and wasted precious funds on drinking.

A weary looking Aino - Portrait by her brother Eero Järnefelt, 1906

Sibelius was acutely aware of the problems he caused to his wife, but he was just as incapable of controlling it.  However, there has never been any evidence that he fought to justify himself. Indeed, there are many accounts of his deep remorse. At one time, he even considered separation from Aino, out of sympathy for her.

In 1903, seeking  to remove Sibelius from the city of Helsinki, the centre of drink and socialites, Aino and his close friend Axel Carpelan convinced Sibelius to move to the countryside. Despite having a debt equivalent to 80,000 Euros today, Sibelius borrowed enough to buy a plot of land in Järvenpää, which had then become a sort of artists’ village. There, a house was built which the Sibelius family moved in in 1904. He named his new home “Ainola” – which means, essentially, home of Aino.

Aino recounted how their happiest time as a family was during the seven years when he gave up drinking from 1908 after being diagnosed with suspected throat cancer.  But, only seven years. She was full of disgust when alcohol ensnared her husband again around the time of the Fifth Symphony.

At one point, so angry was Aino that she could no longer speak to him, choosing instead to write him a note, accusing him of demeaning himself by finding “artificial inspiration” through despicable means – alcohol. And yet, as unpalatable as the idea might be to some, it seems Sibelius might have truly only been able to reach a certain plane of inebriated assurance that allowed him to write his best, through alcohol. He could not find the steadiness of hand, it is said, to write the Seventh Symphony, except with its help.

Aino fought intense depression, as a mother, keeping the house together, struggling with her husband’s debts for many years, but to her immense credit, refused to give up. But we know today that Jean and Aino lived together into his 90s.  For more than 60 years, they remained married, and lived in Ainola till their end of days  – a feat rare even by today’s standards.

Aino, 1922

For sandwiches
Even when he finally became able to generate a stable income, Sibelius’ way of life continued to pile on the debts. In 1909, this peaked, amounting to a modern sum of 320,000 Euros (more than USD 420,000 or SGD 524,000). Only stalwart friends, publishing music, fame and its ensuing fortune, plus donations from supporters kept him from going bankrupt.

Sibelius’ fortunes took a dramatic turn as he found fame and champions in America. He finally cleared his debts in 1927, when he was 62 years old. The full story of his debt is described here at sibelius.fi, which argues that Sibelius took a gamble, responsible or not – and succeeded. He lived the high life that he wanted, built a big house for his family, splurged on drinking that he claimed calmed his nerves as composer and conductor, and ultimately won the gamble. (Please don’t try this at home).

“Today [in 1935] life at Ainola is in many ways different from what it was in our childhood; there are no financial problems anymore nor as many bad reviews as before. Admiration, interest, understanding is flooding in from the outside world. Nowadays the public is not just talking about Valse Triste or Finlandia; countless music lovers have access to Sibelius’s orchestral poems and symphonies on gramophone records.” - Eva Paloheimo (1893 – 1978), their oldest daughter.

A well-known aspect of Sibelius’ life as a composer is that he wrote trivial tunes – the equivalent of elevator music, for the sake of publication royalties – next to extraordinary monuments in symphonic thinking. Aino herself was appalled at this uncomfortable dichotomy within the genius that she held faith to in her husband. Even in the face of financial uncertainty, she found it unpalatable, and felt as if he was betraying his own genius.

“Father sometimes fretted over not being able to spend time on his great works. He had to write small pieces for a living. We children said: ‘Then why do you write them, if you don’t want to?’ Father: ‘So that you can get sandwiches.’”  – Katarina Ilves (1903 – 1984), their fourth daughter.

Aino with daughter Katarina, in the 1910s.

In the very trees of Ainola
Despite all the stories of Sibelius’ lack of reliability as a family man, there are just as many tales from his own children about the profound sense of security Sibelius exuded at home.

“When father was at home, he filled the whole house. There was somehow a very safe and pleasant atmosphere. When he was away, we children were more free, we could play and sing. But there was an emptiness. His personality radiated everywhere and he gave a tremendous feeling of security.” – Katarina Ilves

“He had such blue eyes when he gazed at us. I have never seen anything like it with anyone else. I always remember the feeling of safety that came over me when I was sitting on his lap.” – Margareta Jalas (1908 – 1988), fifth daughter.

“We children always had such a strong sense of his presence.  It is hard to believe, but somehow you always knew, sensed, if he was at home or somewhere else, even if you did not see him… something like a density in the air when he was at home … I felt as if his presence was in the very trees of Ainola. It was quite extraordinary.” – Margareta Jalas

One Last Bouquet
During the last decades at Ainola, Aino continued to devote herself to her husband, her family and her vegetable garden. “My wife’s whole life has been dominated by a sense of duty,” Jean Sibelius said to his secretary in the 1940s.

Ironically, peace and stability seems to almost have coincided with Sibelius’ “Silence of Järvenpää”, the final 30 years or so of his life when he lived debt-free, where no major work emerged from hands (least of all the legendary Eighth Symphony). I am tempted to suggest that the lack of stress contributed to the composer’s lessened(?) inspiration.

Jean perhaps, increasingly found time for his Aino, his wife of whom his gratitude had been far too long owed. In the 1940s, she described what may have been his figurative final act as a composer, the sight of her octogenarian husband burning a large basket of manuscripts in the fireplace of Ainola, where the ashes of the Eighth Symphony probably now lie forever. It was Sibelius’ farewell to his role as master symphonist of the 20th century. As much as this episode pained her, she acknowledged that after this Jean became “calmer and gradually lighter in mood. It was a happy time.”

Blessed Destiny
Katarina related how her parents would often begin dancing in Ainola without any music playing. As if they danced to their own tune, that only the couple could hear.  On the morning of 10th August 1956, on Aino’s 85th birthday, the 89-year-old composer climbed to the upper floor of Ainola to present his wife a large bouquet of roses,  even though he had much trouble ascending the steep stairs since the 1940s.

Jean died on 20 September, 1957.  She laid a funeral ribbon on his grave. Aino’s last message to Jean.

“From your own wife, in gratitude for a life
dedicated to your great art.”

She continued to live at Ainola, arranging family documents and assisting biographers to chronicle the life and art of her husband. Aino died on 8th June 1969, aged almost 98.

Photo by Heikki Siltala

“I am happy that I have been able to live by his side. I feel that I have not lived for nothing. I do not say that it has always been easy – one has had to repress and control one’s own wishes – but I am very happy. I bless my destiny and see it as a gift from heaven. To me my husband’s music is the word of God – its source is noble, and it is wonderful to live close to such a source.”

Aino and Jean, 1948.

Photograph by Mark Kauffman © Time Life Pictures/Getty Images.
(Enjoy. I’ll have to remove this photo sooner than later due to copyright).

~

References (text, quotes, photos)

1. Rickards, Guy. Jean Sibelius (Phaidon 20th Century Composers). Phaidon: London, 1997. ISBN 0-7148-3581-1.
2. Jeremias Ylirotu (Metropoli Oy). Jean Sibelius Website of the Finnish Club of Helsinki - www.sibelius.fi (including The occupants of Ainola)
3. The Life of Jean Sibelius http://sibelius.tk/
4. The Ainola Foundation website www.ainola.fi.

Words that I’ve used myself to describe this lost work, a work so shrouded in legend and awe that it has indeed attained the status of “Even if we found it, its light would be impossible to behold”.  The article was written for the Helsingin Sanomat newspaper some two weeks ago – gosh, I can’t believe it takes two weeks for the information to travel out to the English-speaking world.

This story really begins in 1982, when the Sibelius family handed a massive collection of manuscripts to the Helsinki University and the National Library of Finland. It took the Sibelius scholar Kari Kilpeläinen next decade or so to complete the cataloging of these manuscripts.

  Among this body of material are a good many unidentified drafts dating from the time Sibelius was supposed to be working on the Eighth Symphony, but there has been no prima facie evidence to link them to the work itself.

One page does admittedly bear the words “Sinfonia VIII commincio”, suggesting the beginning of the work, but the reverse of the sheet of music paper contains nothing more than a sketch for a few bars of orchestral music.

Another page contains drafts for the Seventh Symphony and the cryptic “VIII” attached to a particular fragment of melody.

Basically, that was all that was assumed to exist.

- “Is this the sound of Sibelius’ lost Eighth Symphony?” By Vesa Sirén

Subsequently, Sibelius scholar Nors Josephson, while examining a large collection of unidentified manuscripts in the collection, concluded that fragments of the Eighth do survive. Enough, he argued in a 2004 paper, to reconstruct the entire symphony!

This point fills me not with joy, but with fear. It may seem a little strange for a Sibelius advocate to say, but I’ve always believed Sibelius destroyed the Eighth Symphony for good reasons. It was not good enough, I always argue. He could not write a symphony better than the Seventh or Tapiola, so he consigned it to the flames of the fireplace at Ainola. In doing so, he meant that these are sounds we are not meant to hear. It may even pain or offend him if we did.

I know the counter-argument: Sibelius was enormously self-critical, perhaps too much so. He was critical even of works we may deem to be exemplary today, like the original Fifth Symphony. Would the Eighth Symphony have been a work as remarkable as we imagine it might be, even if Sibelius rejected it?

Yet another Sibelius scholar,  Timo Virtanen, editor-in-chief of the critical edition of the collected works of Jean Sibelius – does not quite agree with Josephson’s conclusion.  “It is not possible to patch together Sibelius’s entire symphony from these sketches”, he argues. And I am inclined to agree.  In Virtanen’s view, Josephson may have simply jumped to too far a conclusion. Siren writes:

      In Virtanen’s view, Josephson drew some interesting, bold, and ultimately probably also false conclusions from what were basically only a few isolated instrumental lines for a couple of bars of music.

At the same time, Josephson did not take any account of sketches found in another file of archived documents that hinted at orchestration.

“These [other] sketches could well point us towards the Eighth Symphony, and they indicate that Sibelius had taken off in a quite startling direction”, says Virtanen.

- ”Is this the sound of Sibelius’ lost Eighth Symphony?” By Vesa Sirén

Words like these, “Sibelius had taken off in quite a startling direction” are to me, however, spine-tingling.

Is this the Eighth?

Screen from video at Helsingin Sanomat.

Virtanen assembled “from the later sketches and drafts a fragment that Sibelius has worked up for orchestration and a couple of other drafts with hints at an orchestral treatment” and copied them out. He then brought them to  Sakari Oramo, Chief Conductor of the Finnish Radio Symphony Orchestra, and to John Storgårds at the Helsinki Philharmonic.

“Phew. This is pretty heady stuff” , says a dazed Oramo. “It stops right there just as Aino [Sibelius] has called from the kitchen to tell Janne to come and eat”, he jokes.

But then he tries out the harmonies on the piano and his mood grows altogether more serious.

“There is a sense of searching and exhaustion in here. The material has an archaic dissonance to it.”

- ”Is this the sound of Sibelius’ lost Eighth Symphony?” By Vesa Sirén

The turn in mood is telling. Even Oramo has sensed something familiar, spine-tinglingly familiar – exactly the sort of feeling you get when you hear the unique sounds of a Sibelian orchestral score.  In Sibelius’ music, it is sometimes not the tune that marks it as Sibelian, but the peculiar combination of tone and harmonies – layers of being, whiffs of the organic, and yes, that sense of searching, and sometimes of inevitable collapse and exhaustion as the music winds down.

It is conductor John Storgårds who brings us a little closer. When the drafts are presented to him, he agrees to give them a try with the Helsinki Philharmonic. Go to this page and click on the rectangular thumbnail with the [play] button.

The clip begins with an interview by Siren with Virtanen. The musical experiment begins around 2:07.

The Helsinki Philharmonic playing the drafts

Screen from video at Helsingin Sanomat.

The sound is indeed familiar, then startling. I hear, very soon, Tapiola-resque woodwind – it is as if the Seventh has fused with Tapiola, both light and darkness together. It is definitely the sound of Sibelius. The second fragment has sounds from the Sixth Symphony. Next fragment… First? Woodwind figures from the Fifth?

“Whoo. Chills going up and down the spine there”, confesses John Storgårds after it is all over.

“You can recognise the composer’s late style from the fragments. But particularly in that opening passage the harmonies are so wild and the music so exciting that I’d really love to know how he went on with this.”

- ”Is this the sound of Sibelius’ lost Eighth Symphony?” By Vesa Sirén

Indeed, that first passage is the most astonishing. and definitely sounds like something Sibelius might have written anytime between 1920 and 1940.

I feel as if we are amateur astronomers looking through a powerful telescope in the backyard, staring into infinite space, looking for a fabled alien planet, and one particular twinkling light seems to beckon us. Is this it? But it is too far away, too far away in time, too far away for details and verification. We can only stare through the telescope of best educated guesses, and wonder whether we are staring at truth or merely hope. Either way, we know the field of stars we are watching, scrutinizing the tapestry of constellations,  is home to the seven symphonies. Within them dwells the Forest’s mighty god, and wood-sprites in the gloom weave magic secrets.

The “Abergavenny” Stradivarius (1724) that Kavakos played on sings wonderfully hushed pianissimi, as we heard right at the beginning of the opening movement. It was a rapt moment that captured the music’s stillness perfectly. This wondrous tranquility would be brought to full fruition in the Adagio, but to be honest, the rest of the first movement felt restrained, never quite reaching the level of conviction that Kavakos played with in the aforementioned recording for BIS. I was later told that he was not feeling well, that he had to even rehearse sitting down. Perhaps that was the reason.

The good news is that that was far from the best part of the whole concert. The Adagio was simply: very moving. The heartfelt quietude, the hushed splendour of the music in the hands of Kavakos and SSO, was truly an emotional experience that can only be experienced “live”. I had tears in my eyes. It was perhaps because I was seated so close to the stage, second row – I could see each and every delicate movement from Kavakos and his instrument sang sunset melancholia. The couple next to me comprised a lady who sat enraptured throughout the whole concerto, but her male friend obviously belonged to the “I came along because she needed my company” category. So what was surprising was that during the Adagio, he felt compelled to hold her hand after a few minutes into the movement, and they stayed like this for the rest of the 10-minute movement.

Leonidas Kavakos receives applause. At the Esplanade Concert Hall.

For me, someone who has listened to this work for so many years, “live” and on numerous records, I guess I really need a “live” performance of this moving intensity to remind myself again why this piece is so beautiful, why I love this composer so. Kavakos held the audience in total silence for some ten seconds after the final note of the Adagio whispered away. Nobody dared to make a sound.

The driving momentum, the confident precision of the finale’s opening theme exactly reminded me of Kavakos’ 1991 recording. The galloping rhythm is exactly right, the drive powerful but not overly so, nicely sculpted. Kavakos clearly believed in this music, holding an impassioned but measured voice throughout. At the first big orchestral tutti, I watched with delight as he turned towards the orchestra and bowed along with the massed violins that distinctively stern “marcatissimo” theme. Personally, I’d always felt that for music this stirring, if I were the soloist, I wouldn’t be able to resist playing along – so I loved it that Kavakos did.

Praise also to the SSO woodwinds and brass, especially during the  Adagio. They sounded beautiful – and bode well for their upcoming journey, especially for the Third and Fifth Symphonies.

Much to my great disappointment (but I kept it well hidden, I must admit), Kavakos did not come out to grant autographs. Apparently he was due to rush off straight to the airport after this concert. Still, he found time to give two much-appreciated encores. The Sarabanda from Partita No.2 in D minor BWV 1004, and the Andante from Sonata No. 2 in A minor, BWV 1003.  The ancient voice of the 274-year-old “Abergavenny” violin did these more than ample justice. Till now, I’m still wondering if it would’ve been more worth it to trade those for an autograph session. I don’t think the rapturous audience would agree with me.

A fitting paragraph on Jean Sibelius, from the SSO programme booklet.

SSO July-Sept 2011 Season

As far as I remember, after the recording, the score was returned to the Sibelius family. Leonidas Kavakos is thus the only violinist to have performed the original work since its one and only 1904 premire (which was a bit of a disaster by the way). In any case, this unique experience Mr Kavakos had probably makes his understanding of the concerto different from other violinists. Well worth hearing.

Here he is captured in Athens in 2008, performing the concerto (the final version). We’ll be able to catch him in Singapore on 8 September, 2011 at the Esplanade.

Somewhat inexplicably, the concerto is paired with Mahler’s First Symphony. The concert also marks the beginning of a complete symphony cycle by the Singapore Symphony Orchestra conducted by Okko Kamu – only the second time in Singapore. The first complete Sibelius cycle was performed by The Philharmonic Orchestra under Lim Yau from 2007-2008.

Kavakos Plays Sibelius – 8 September 2011 (Thu), 7.30pm, Esplanade Concert Hall
SIBELIUS: Violin Concerto in D minor, Op.47
MAHLER: Symphony No.1 in D major “Titan”
Leonidas Kavakos (violin), conducted by Lan Shui. Tickets from SISTIC.

The Sibelius Symphonies: Finlandia – 16 September 2011 (Fri), 7.30pm, Esplanade Concert Hall
SIBELIUS: Finlandia
LALO: Cello Concerto in D minor
SIBELIUS: Symphony No.2 in D major, Op.43
Ng Pei-Sian (Cello), conducted by Okko Kamu

The Sibelius Symphonies: Nos. 1 & 3 – 20 September 2011 (Tues), 7.30pm, Esplanade Concert Hall
SIBELIUS: Symphony No.3 in C major, Op.52
MOZART: Piano Concerto No.23 in A major, K.488
SIBELIUS: Symphony No.1 in E minor, Op.39
Melvyn Tan (piano), conducted by Okko Kamu

This is Melvyn Tan’s debut with the SSO, and I for one am glad he has made it home.

The Sibelius Symphonies: Nos. 4 & 5 – 24 February 2012 (Fri), 7.30pm, Esplanade Concert Hall
SIBELIUS: Symphony No. 4 in A minor, Op. 63
SCHUMANN: Piano Concerto in A minor, Op. 54
SIBELIUS: Symphony No. 5 in E-flat major, Op. 82
Benjamin Grosvenor (piano), conducted by Okko Kamu

The Sibelius Symphonies: Nos. 6 & 7 – 3 March 2012 (Sat), 7.30pm, Esplanade Concert Hall
BEETHOVEN Piano Concerto No. 4 in G major, Op. 58
SIBELIUS: Symphony No.6 in D minor, Op.104
SIBELIUS Symphony No. 7 in C major, Op. 105
Marc-André Hamelin (piano), conducted by Okko Kamu

(Tickets from the usual SISTIC places).

Well, the SSO programmers have done well pairing the Sibelius symphonies with famous pianists. That should fill up some seats! And hopefully give a valuable opportunity to those unfamiliar with Sibelius’ symphonies to hear these masterpieces. Yes yes, I don’t think Sibelius is as popular as he should be, and I honestly don’t imagine many will deliberately attend a concert for his symphonies. Still, a complete symphony cycle with the national orchestra is an achievement.

I’m unable to say which of these concerts would be the most worth going – they all are. Though of course if I HAD to pick one, it would be the last one with the Seventh Symphony.

Marc-André Hamelin! I hope pianophiles will stay back to hear the final and greatest symphony of Sibelius! If not, can you give me your ticket?

Photo of Jean Sibelius Square, Toronto by nyxie.

On the evening of September 20th, 1957, just a little over 50 years ago, Jean Sibelius died, aged 91. At the time, not far away in the capital of Finland, the Helsinki Orchestra and Sir Malcolm Sargent were performing the Fifth Symphony.

Written during the time of World War I, one might have expected such a work to reflect the times. But no, the symphony that Sibelius created was the complete opposite: life-affirming, noble, brimming with humanity in the face of nature’s majesty.

The final version was completed in 1919. It begins with a serene horn call at dawn, heralded by birdsong on woodwind. As the mood of anticipation unfolds, the developing material pours into a swinging string theme that precedes a trumpet call echoing through the mountains. Though sometimes misty and ominous, the music always retains a certain “human” feeling. We seem aware of our presence in the landscape.

Originally, the Fifth existed in four movements, but the composer ultimately fused the first two. There is no hint of separation as the first seamlessly joins to the original second movement, which energetically concludes the movement in brassy splendour.

Sibelius’ journey to complete this symphony was not easy. Even by his immensely self-critical standards, no other work had to endure so much revision. Granted we are thankful that his high demands produced music of such quality, but – why was Sibelius so “unsure” of his music?

It is often thought that the essence of a symphony lies in its form, but this is certainly not the case. The content is always the primary factor, while form is secondary, the music itself determining its outward form.

Sibelius does not discount the importance of form, but places it at the logical service of content. Content being the music’s theme, a token of identity. The cell, which makes up the body, is not aware what it grows into unless it has an “identity”, a content, a plan. Organic growth is not random – its ending is “built-in”.

Perhaps the reason why much of Sibelius’ “modern” music remains so directly appealing, so lyrical and accessible, is simply because content is king.  This is in direct contrast to the absolute formalists, who allowed the theoretical concepts of form (eg. serialism, minimalism) to determine its content.

Sibelius perceived his role as composer to determine how the theme “struggled” to its “final” form. On April 10th, 1915, he wrote in his diary:

Spent the evening with the [Fifth] symphony. The disposition of the themes: with all its mystery and fascination, this is the important thing. It is as if God the Father had thrown down mosaic pieces from heaven’s floor and asked me to put them back as they were. Perhaps that is a good definition of composition. Perhaps not. How should I know?

Sibelius Finland Jubilee Stamp - Designed by TBWA/PHS (Finland)

The composer was grappling with his paradigm of composition. What is composition? The mosaic pieces (cells? Themes?) are there before him, but their final form eludes him until he has “composed” them together. But if he isn’t aware what is the final form, how would he know when he achieves it? That perhaps is the chicken-and-egg question that he struggled with, that cost him revision after revision.

Sibelius often invoked the name “God” or attributed a “god-like” nature to things, when commenting about his compositional journeys, even though he was not in fact particularly religious. In 1946, Sibelius commented on how marvelous nature is, “What peace and deep devotion Nature can evoke in man”. He discussed with his secretary the magnificent logic of the universe, a harmony so immense as to be incomprehensible to the minuscule capacity of humanity. “That,” Sibelius concluded, “is precisely what I call ‘God’.”

In this way, Sibelius reflected upon his position as but one man in an entire universe, trying to understand the indefinable logic of nature. In composing, he is trying to harness the natural logic that causes a thematic cell to grow into a symphony.

But we must be careful of over-defining:

If someone writes about my music and finds, let us say, a feeling of nature in it, all well and good. Let him say that, as long as we have it clear within ourselves, we do not become a part of the music’s innermost sound and sense through analysis … Compositions are like butterflies. Touch them even once and the dust of hue is gone. They can, of course, still fly, but are nowhere as beautiful …

To understand a flower, you can cut it up and label the parts. But once you have done that, it is dead, dissected, no longer growing, no longer exercising its beautiful logic. The key Sibelius was pointing out is to write and listen without over-analysing, to understand without defining.

Perhaps because of this particular philosophy, which meant that the composer allowed his music to grow at its own “will”, Sibelius’ struggle with his compositional thoughts is a combination of trying to develop his themes logically, and yet allowing them to determine their logical conclusion – and then having to ask yourself if what you’ve done is true to the spirit of the material.

We can appreciate this further by understanding how Sibelius worked on the Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Symphonies around the same time. The composer had begun sketching ideas for the Sixth around 1914-1915, when he was still working on the Fifth. Material from the Sixth was even at one point planned as a second “lyrical” violin concerto (“Concerto lirico”).

The sixth symphony always reminds me

of the scent of the first snow.

The Sixth Symphony is intimately based on the D Dorian mode – i.e. all the white keys from D to D on a piano. Lacking C# which produces D major/minor, the music of the Sixth floats, and brings to mind Renaissance sacred polyphony.

But this is not church music. In sketches from 1919, Sibelius was apparently writing a tone poem called Kuutar (“Moon Goddess”) – though this never came to fruition, its material ended up in all three symphonies.

For the Sixth, a theme from the first movement was once called “Winter” – a fitting way to describe the serene opening.  It is music of tender, child-like innocence, flowing with fairy-inspired serenity and forest sunshine. The classical clarity of the score is filled with carefree delight. Although holding faith to the heavenly Dorian mode, Sibelius also alternates to C major as a second base. Indeed the astonishing ease at which he alternates between keys is one of the Sixth’s most remarkable points.

The Sixth is noteworthy for recalling the transparent sparkling waters of the Third Symphony, while also embodying the heart-strung refinement of the Fourth. It is a masterpiece of orchestral transparency, of music free from the norms of bars and rhythms.

The second  movement, Allegretto moderato, begins with flutes and bassoons, creating a sense of distant space. Faintly intoxicating, somewhat dreamy, the music evokes perhaps the image of being in a forest in dim light, looking up at the canopy with shreds of light seeping through. It seems to foreshadow the tone poem Tapiola, Sibelius’ last published masterpiece, the dark brother of the Seventh Symphony. Particularly towards the end, when suddenly in the quiet, the strings play flautato. This means to bow lightly and further away from the bridge to produce harmonics that sound flute-like.  Along with the woodwind birdsong punctuating the air, it is not surprising that this passage has been related to the “Forest Murmurs” section from Wagner’s Siegfried.

Less than 4 minutes long, the scherzo is dominated by an insistent trochaic (accented note followed by unaccented) rhythm that suggests an over-the-hills horse ride. Woodwinds take their turn before being answered by strings, with formidable violin passages that perhaps came from the planned violin concerto.

The final movement opens with alternating phrases on the wind and strings , a sacred atmosphere preparing for a conclusion.  Like the finale of the Third Symphony, there is a feeling of tight, indefatigable concision – no excess, and a miraculous logic where the energy foresees its ending even as it is being born. Like the Fourth Symphony, the momentum at times gives a sense of depletion at the same time it is being generated. Before you know it, the music has reached the calm of dusk – again the “sacred” mood is re-invoked, night is falling – or is it ending? The cycle is completed, and the symphony fades into starlit tranquility.

The Sixth might have been a sacred invocation to the Moon Goddess; the Fifth’s journey a struggle with “God”. The Seventh has a passage that Sibelius described “as if before the face of God”. And Tapio IS a god. Now that we have an idea what Sibelius meant by “God”, what is the nature of their relationship?

On November 13, 1914, Sibelius wrote in his diary another one of his heartfelt bits of literature that beautifully fuses nature’s beauty and his own emotions. He was working on the Fifth Symphony:

I have had a wonderful idea. The Adagio of the symphony – earth, worms and heartache – fortissimos and muted strings, very muted. And the sounds are godlike.

Earth, worms and heartache. We cannot underestimate the power, influence and bond that existed between Sibelius and nature. In his hands, the very earth sings. But there is also “heartache”, a human feeling.

This planned Adagio was not, in fact, realised. In its place is the lyrical Andante mosso, quasi allegretto as we know it today. Over a light orchestral field of soft grass, the woodwind and strings take turns to weave a tender pastorale. Thereafter the strings unfold an expressive and nostalgic melody. Hints of the finale’s mighty “Swan Hymn” appear inconspicuously on the basses and brass.

One day, on his routine walk through the countryside, Sibelius watched as sixteen swans flew overhead, a sight that took his breath away:

One of my greatest experiences! My God what beauty! … Their call the same woodwind type as that of cranes, but without tremolo. The swan-call closer to trumpet, although there is something of a sarrusophone sound. A low refrain reminiscent of a small child crying. Nature’s Mysticism and Life’s Angst! The Fifth Symphony’s finale-theme: Legato in the trumpets!

This momentary encounter evidently inspired the majestic swinging horn theme of the Fifth’s finale. The orchestral strings summon a great ascending wind of energy before the horns begin their wonderful tribute. They are soon joined by a long-breathed melody on the woodwinds, which intone a beautifully free theme soaring above the undulating current of basses. As the swans soar into ever-higher skies, Sibelius modulates the music’s dignified E-flat major into the grandeur of C major, creating one of the most heart-burstingly affirmative climaxes in music.

The original 1915 version of the Fifth Symphony is considerably “darker” music. Quieter, not quite as openly “emotional” as the final version. Its sound world is closer in tone to the austere Fourth Symphony. If you have ever wondered where is the link between the Fourth and the final Fifth, it is probably here. When Sibelius was working on the first major revision of the Fifth, he wrote:

I must confess I am working again on Sym.5. Struggling with God. I want to give my new symphony a different, more human form. More earthy, more vibrant.

“I want to give my new symphony a different, more human form.” Not just earth, worms and swans – but heartache. Sibelius wanted his music to be more than just earth-song, but to have heart-song, heartache. This is perhaps how the composer now struggled to reconcile the inexpressibility of nature’s universe, both her beauty and her logic, with the consciousness of a human being.

And then, he would draw upon all his powers to give us the Seventh Symphony.

It begins with the soft timpani tremor of distant thunder, on a C major scale beginning on the note G, but ending enigmatically on a distant A-flat. Is this a sunrise or a sunset? Perhaps neither – it is simply Time.

Mists float by, and the woodwind greet the twilight with the Seventh’s important motif, the foundationary up-down, down-up figure D-C-B-C which in this case on the woodwinds is: D-C-D-E, C-Bb-C-E. Strings shimmer, urging gently forward – momentum is the other key. Light fills the sky, but it is neither night nor day. Surging from the undercurrents, the great trombone theme surfaces and fills the universe with a grand evocation of infinity cast in primeval C. An urgent development section follows, full of moving strings, distant winds, cries of life, pulsating rhythms.

The Seventh was originally planned as a three-, possibly four-movement work. Sibelius developed it alongside the composition of the Fifth and Sixth Symphonies, and there was of course, Kuutar.  One of its themes is related to material from the opening “Adagio” section of the Seventh Symphony. This was called Tähtölä – “Where the Stars Dwell”.  A fitting, “god-like” image.

There is an interesting comment relating the Seventh to the Fifth. Nearing the completion of the Fifth’s final revision, in April 1919, Sibelius cast doubt once again on his work.

Have cut out the second and third movements. The first movement is a symphonic fantasia and does not require anything else. That’s where it all began!!! Shall I call it “Symphonie in einem Satze” ["Symphony in one movement"] or “symphoniesche Fantasie: Fantasia sinfonica I”?

Sibelius did not follow through with this plan for the Fifth. But for the Seventh, Sibelius finally abandoned the multi-movement plan in favour of a continuous single movement in 1923, and the symphony was completed on 2nd March 1924. Except that he didn’t at first considered it a “symphony”. It was premiered in Stockholm as the Fantasia sinfonica or “Symphonic Fantasy”. The composer grappled with the name and its subtitles until on February 25, 1925, with the publication of the score, did he finally direct the publisher, Hansen, to title it “Symphony No.7 (in one movement)”.

Sibelius had realised that “that” is where it – his symphonic holy grail — all began: the concept of the continuous symphonic singularity, total unity of musical expression based on the organic development of the most basic cell.

Jean Sibelius, 1949

There was a time when composing in C was considered fruitless – it had “nothing more to offer.” But in response to the Seventh, Vaughan Williams declared that only Sibelius could make C major sound completely fresh. Peter Franklin, writing of it in the Segerstam/Chandos recordings (c.1999), calls the conclusion “the grandest celebration of C major there ever was.”

The development of the material is tightly concentrated, leading into the second appearance of the trombone theme, an imposingly stern C minor storm. Dark clouds rolling with silent lightning, ominous winds swirling and stirring solemn thunder with the enduring force of life. As this passes, the mood flows into a pastorale-like sequence. The alpine trombone theme finally achieves its highest being in its third and last appearance, once again centered on the tonality of C. The strings swell, the winds billow with understated power before it roars into being. Raising a great storm of brass and strings, the symphony seems to struggle in its birth, life and culmination all at once, driving vast galaxies of intense energy.

Suddenly, we are transported beyond. Intensely, the violins soar higher and ever higher, piercing unreachable star-studded blackness. As if returning to the dawn-touched opening, distant horns reveal a quiet flute solo – the hymn of the trombone transformed, all children of the D-C-B-C figure.

Ultimately we return to the source – C. The Symphony gathers for one final paean to universal life – every instrument joins in “the grandest celebration of C major there ever was”.  Gathering with the force of revolving planets, upon a monumental C major chord held by the winds and timpani, the strings descend from D and ascend from B, and at long last, coalesces space, time, stars and logic into C.

Sibelius had built the final resolution from the point the symphony’s key and cell were born. The decisive way in which the penultimate B resolves to the concluding C, as simple as it seems, resounds with such incredible finality that we are left staring into the awesome vastness of silence.

And so it seems too, for Jean Sibelius. But that is another story.

On that day, September 20th, 1957, Sir Malcolm Sargent would have directed the Helsinki Orchestra in one more unique ending in music. As the Fifth Symphony’s Swan Hymn is revived on the trumpets, triumphantly ascending out of the darkness, the orchestra concludes with six massive chords. But these are not the hammer blows of death – they are the affirmations of life.

As the orchestra forges each chord into being, the silence between each one reverberates in the ears, in the air, the earth.  Heartache. We hear around this space, the divine life of nature, the everlasting momentum between heartbeats and the sublime harmony of the universe.

Nature is coming to life: that life which I so love, now and always,
whose essence shall pervade everything which I compose.

JEAN SIBELIUS

RELATED ARTICLES:

• The Chagrin of a Nationalist Romantic – Sibelius’ First and Third Symphonies
• Strength and Satisfaction – Sibelius’ Second and Fourth Symphonies

REFERENCES:

• The Flying Inkpot – Articles by this writer.
• Goss, Glenda Dawn. Jean Sibelius and Olin Downes: music, friendship and criticism. Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1994.
• Jean Sibelius Website by the Finnish Club of Helsinki. http://www.sibelius.fi/english/
• Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Symphony_No._7_(Sibelius)

Sibelius around 1910

Sibelius’ Fourth Symphony is often related to a difficult period in his life – not only was he in a financial crisis, but the threat of cancer hung over his life. Many commentators describe the bleak, dark music of the Fourth as a reflection of impending doom.

While there is no doubt that such thoughts would find a place in his art, it is important to understand that the Fourth is not about doom – rather, the composer must have thought this was his final chance to set down his symphonic ideals once and for all, before he loses his life.  Sibelius’s (and his critics’) mixed feelings about his preceding three symphonies, and the threat of death propelled him from the world of his first three symphonies, all the way to the absolute core of his symphonic thinking.

“It stands as a protest against present-day music. It has absolutely nothing of the circus about it.”

- Jean Sibelius.

The Fourth Symphony begins with its famous tritone incantation, C-D-F#-E. It growls, it threatens, it calls, it questions, it may even be a prayer. “As harsh as fate,” Sibelius instructs. Heart-searing, chilling, humbling.  The entire symphony stems from this single seed, the tritone – all themes and harmonies are tightly integrated and can be related foundationally back to it.

Of course a lot of music is about development of a basic theme. The difference here is that there is only one basic “theme”, indeed merely a tiny cell. The growth of the symphony is as mystifying as the growth of an entire person from a single ova.

The tritone generates movement using its own inherent disharmony. It constantly undermines the sense of key, traveling to the edge of tonality. Because it is not a “balanced” force, it teeters, seeking equilibrium, and in moving, grows as if being molded and remolded. It grows within its own sphere without need for new thematic material. We are in an aural womb.

Written between 1909-1911, the Fourth’s  extraordinary concentration and integrity means that frankly, no narrative description of the “musical flow” of the Fourth Symphony is likely to help the listener “follow” the music. Rather, think of the Fourth as a growing organism, one structure or harmony growing another. Listen to it not as a song, but as an act of aural evolution.

The second movement, a scherzo, begins in F major, but is constantly disrupted by the tritone. The  disruptions serve to generate a trio – but whereas traditional trios are a contrasting breakaway from its “parent” scherzo, this trio grows out of the disharmonies within the scherzo. The trio itself becomes the rest of the movement, which ends abruptly.

The third movement, a largo, is quiet contemplation, the tritone now generating music of desolation and sympathy, laden with bleak sadness, but spiritual in tone. It hums an air of compassion over a long forlorn pedal, then gradually grows into a broad hymn. Then quietens. The orchestra sighs in weariness. Sibelius said to the writer August Strindberg, regarding the symphony, that “being human is misery”. The tritone surfaces out of the dark water, spine-tingling. Sibelius asked for this movement to be  played at his funeral.

The finale opens in a deceptively bright mood quite at odds with the rest of the symphony. A set of woodwind figures in E-flat flit against the strings playing in A major – two keys a tritone apart. The orchestra gradually darkens as Sibelius unravels and depletes the music’s inherent energy. The symphony decelerates miraculously, extraordinarily, and ends in an awesome nothingness cast in A minor.

THE FOURTH has traversed the frontiers of tonality, reached the brink of atonality – but not crossed over. Sibelius described the beyond as  either “madness or chaos”, an area inhabited by the atonalists which he would not cross into. He had, as it were, and if you would pardon the contemporary reference, seen and grasped hold of the Matrix. In this way, the ending of the Fourth is not a picture of nothingness which brings a sense of loss – rather it is a sadness brought on by the realization that we have reached the edge and cannot go beyond.

Jean Sibelius

And he was still alive. His tumour was successfully removed, and he would live to age 91. Curiously, in having to accelerate his symphonic thinking because of the threat of death, Sibelius had now mastered his symphonic prowess ahead of time, so to speak.

The future of the symphony now lay before Sibelius to hone and sculpt. He would return to the soundscape of which he is master, and write for us music of heartfelt “tonality” riding upon the principles of the Fourth as a foundation. This sweep of masterpieces comprise, among others, his Fifth and Sixth Symphonies, as well as those at the one frontier Sibelius truly could do no more to surmount, Tapiola and the Seventh Symphony.

“I am pleased that I did it, for even today I cannot find a single note in it that I could remove, nor can I find anything to add. This gives me strength and satisfaction. The fourth symphony represents a very important and great part of me.”

- Jean Sibelius, in the 1940s

The crowd-favourite Second Symphony, completed in 1902, seems very far removed from the soundscape of the Fourth – but like the latter, also makes use of the basic idea of growing larger structures from simple cells of material, as well as the synthesis of seemingly unrelated themes into a greater singular theme like in the Third.

The Second Symphony begins with a shimmering rising string figure, woodwinds and horns answering, always in 3-note figures – which would reach final magnificence in the glorious finale. No true melody really develops in this movement, more like a series of calls and answers. The music mysteriously seeks form using this 3-note figure and another comprising a long note, “trill” and a descending interval of a fifth.

One way of understanding the latent drama in this music is to realize that Sibelius had originally planned to write a cycle of tone poems based on the legend of Don Juan, similar to what he had done for his Lemminkäinen cycle. When this “Orchestral Fantasy” was finished Sibelius realized that it was in essence, a symphony – his Second Symphony. The music thus seems to accompany a drama, without itself bursting into a big song/theme.

The mysterious slow movement begins with a brooding pizzicato theme on cellos and basses. Sibelius ascribed the music to Don Juan’s encounter with Death – Death appearing on the ominous bassoons. The music builds to a dramatic climax exhorted by brass, before the clouds part to reveal a serene second theme. Tranquility and ominosity both speak, battle for dominance – a sense of heroic defiance rings true for both, and tightens the dramatic tension in the symphony.

The blistering scherzo is linked directly into the finale, its oscillation between the fast excited section and its lyrical pastorale serving only to heighten its internal tension. The link is as appropriate as it is powerful in the way the pastorale’s second iteration, now turning hope into defiance, churns and unravels its encapsulated energy – the release is as ecstatic as it is monumental. The 3-note figure now blazes to full splendour.   Like the previous movements, a second contrasting theme, like thunderclouds waiting to reveal the sun, moodily fills the orchestra before allowing the luminous silver of D major to retake the stage. Strings climb inexorably, trumpets pierce radiantly, timpani and trombones lay a sonic carpet of solidarity in their path. In the final climax, with booming basses and timpani as herald, the trumpets take up the 3-note figure, and for the first and last time cast a decisive fourth note into being, generating a titanic paean that consummates all that has gone on before.

The Second Symphony, from its first performance to today, remains one of Sibelius’ most popular works.  Its importance during its time is also due to the Finnish struggle for independence. The symphony’s heroic stature was exactly what the Finns needed to hear – the ardent song of their fellow Finn, the frost-carved sound of their landscape, the dauntless spirit of Finland.

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RELATED ARTICLES:

• The Chagrin of a Nationalist Romantic – Sibelius’ First and Third Symphonies (Northern Exposure II)
• And the sounds are godlike – Last Three Symphonies of Sibelius (Northern Exposure III)

REFERENCES:

• Goss, Glenda Dawn. Jean Sibelius and Olin Downes: music, friendship and criticism. Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1994.
• Rikards, Guy. 20^th Century Composers: Jean Sibelius. Phaidon Press, 1997.
• Jean Sibelius. Finnish Club of Helsinki. http://www.sibelius.fi/english/