Jussi Snellman (1879-1969)
Jussi Snellman was Jean Sibelius’s son-in-law, Ruth’s husband, and an actor at the Finnish National Theatre. Snellman’s memories from Ainola describe the composition of “The Tempest” in the autumn of 1925.
“It was a cold, starlit September night. The large log rooms of Ainola were chilled by a sudden frost. A train whistled in the distance. The household had gone to bed. But Sibelius was awake, finishing his major composition for Shakespeare’s ‘The Tempest,’ commissioned by the Royal Danish Theater. Tension permeated the entire home. At night, the composer worked until dawn, and even past seven or eight in the morning. Now, the music for Prospero and the animalistic, strange, passionate notes for Caliban were born (…) Enthralled by the music, Sibelius struggled and created, often forgoing food, drink, and sleep because the composition urgently demanded his attention, keeping him feverishly engaged. However, in the morning, after scant sleep, he would receive guests as the most gracious host—interviewers, photographers, journalists, engaging in conversation and jest, without letting the visitors suspect how inopportune their arrival was. Amid all this, he sat as a model for a painter at a designated time each day. The state had commissioned a large portrait of him [now in the conductor’s room at Finlandia Hall], and the artist Antti Favén had arrived with his horse and servants to carry out this task. Downstairs in the hall, a large easel, a heavy pine work table piled with dozens of differently-sized brushes, a couple of massive palettes, and a whole stack of bright turpentine bottles added to the aroma of Sibelius’s fine cigars mixed with the pleasant, irritating smell of oil paints and turpentine. At certain hours, the two artists, the genius of music and the master of colors, faced each other, the painter striving to capture the maestro’s expressive, nuanced personality on canvas. The lady of the house, the bright-foreheaded Aino, participated in everything, her whole soul tuned to follow the composition work, detecting even the slightest signs of her husband’s moods, sharing in the joy and struggles of the creative battle. She managed the household with gentle serenity, discussing and deciding on significant repairs with the contractor—rebuilding the sauna, thoroughly renovating the kitchen—and conjured an atmosphere of wonderful comfort, refined beauty, and harmony throughout the home. Ainola was neither luxurious nor ostentatious. Sibelius’s masterpieces were played across oceans in the far west and distant east. Yet the master himself lived in a thatched-roof cottage, where the wooden floor echoed under his footsteps, and the soft yellowing logs, like the rest of his family, were the first to hear his compositions. But it was beautiful here, uniquely personal and artistically homely.”
Jussi Jalas (known as Blomstedt until 1944) was Jean Sibelius’s son-in-law, married to his daughter Margareta, and one of the most renowned Finnish conductors of his time. He served as the principal conductor at the Finnish National Opera from 1958 to 1973 and taught conducting at the Sibelius Academy from 1945 to 1965. In this memoir, Jalas recounts his first visit to Ainola.
“I met Sibelius for the first time on a beautiful late May day in 1924. I was a 15-year-old schoolboy and music student, recently moved from Jyväskylä to Helsinki. Piiu (Margareta), Sibelius’s fourth daughter and already my best friend, had invited me to Ainola for a youth party. Since I had to perform earlier that day at a Conservatory student matinee, I arrived a couple of hours after the others. Walking through the awakening nature and into the garden of Ainola, I was understandably very nervous. Sibelius had long been an icon, a living legend whose presence could intimidate even international celebrities, let alone a young schoolboy.
At the back of the garden stood the villa designed by Lars Sonck, the house where many of the master’s most famous and beloved compositions were born. For a moment, I felt as if I had entered a place where everything was unfamiliar. Because of the warm spring day, the doors of Ainola were open, and I walked inside. Piiu came to greet me and then ran upstairs to inform her father of my arrival. Then he came down, imposing and scrutinizing me with his piercing yet incredibly gentle, cornflower-blue eyes. He greeted me kindly, telling me that he had been schoolmates with my father [architect Yrjö Blomstedt] and that my grandfather had been his Latin teacher at the Hämeenlinna Lyceum. Years later, I realized that he always made an effort to say something very personal to everyone.
He talked with me for a while and then asked me to play. For the first time in my life, I experienced stage fright and began to play my showpiece at the time, Liszt’s sixth rhapsody, with stiffening hands. I did not play well, as I was trying too hard. Sibelius listened patiently to the end and said that I played musically. I have since realized that he uses that phrase when he doesn’t have anything else positive to say if he thinks a performance has not been very successful. Sibelius was always polite and considerate.”
Marjatta Kirves (1915-)
Marjatta Kirves is, at the time of writing, the oldest living member of the Sibelius family. She is the daughter of Eva Paloheimo and the first grandchild of the composer Jean Sibelius.
“Coming to Ainola was like a ritual. First, Aino [Kari] would open the door. Then we would march in, and in the hallway, Grandma would be there with open arms to greet us. And at the door of the living room, Grandpa would be smiling, saying, ‘Welcome.’
Often, I would wake up in the night to the sound of Grandpa playing, and I would think, ‘Now Grandpa is in a good mood.’ And then I would enjoy it and fall back asleep.
Grandpa electrified the atmosphere of Ainola with his presence. Everything had to happen in an instant, ögonblicken.
He was a very considerate person. He would remember even the cook, and when there was good food, he would jump up from the table to thank her, saying that it was delicious. Grandpa liked porridge, and we often ate honest everyday food, like potatoes and gravy.
He would get up at twelve o’clock and start working late at night. He would walk briskly to the crossroads every day, and his cane would tap lightly with each step. Then the cane would twirl, and he would listen to something for a moment—and then off he would go. He was a funny sight, a distinguished gentleman in the middle of a rural landscape.
He had blue eyes, a bottomless gaze in which expressions changed rapidly. My fondest memories are of many shared moments of laughter. He had a similar sense of humor. When he looked you in the eye, you couldn’t help but laugh. He told me, ‘Never change.'”
Erkki Virkkunen is Ruth Snellman’s son. Associate judge Virkkunen served as a bank manager and, from the late 1940s, was trusted by Jean Sibelius with financial matters.
“My parents were actors at the National Theatre. Every summer they went on a countryside tour, and we were then placed in Ainola. So I’ve been there from a very young age all the way up to the war. The system included us being there in June, and then we went with our parents to a summer place in Häme for six weeks. Then the theatre season started and we were back in Ainola until the start of school.
Sibelius composed a lot at night. He played, and it was very grand and absolutely unique to us. But I can’t say that I heard anything there that I later recognized at concerts. He did play grand pieces.
During the day, there were strict rules. No singing or playing was allowed. He would get up around noon. Newspapers were brought to his bed, and he read Hufvudstadsbladet, Helsingin Sanomat, Uusi Suomi, and foreign newspapers. He followed the reviews closely. The whole house was upset if something negative was said. You could tell it was a bad day for newspapers. Then we would just be very quiet.
He lived on the second floor, which had a balcony. Aino Kari would prepare his rinse water. I remember, as a little boy, there was a tremendous racket when the water splashed. He was always tip-top. In the summer, he wore a spotless white suit. Part of the ritual was that he then went to the garden, where my sister and I were weeding and doing other garden work. No one was lazy there. He came there and would free us, talking about something.
He walked every day, going right out to the highway, where there wasn’t much traffic yet. That kept him fit. He was a very fit man. When he returned from there, it was time for afternoon coffee, which was drunk in the garden pavilion. Often there were guests, the Järnefelts and others. It was a big occasion. Then we had dinner, which was always very lavish. Helmi Vainikainen and Aino Kari managed the household. Then there was evening tea. It was a very fun situation. We had a lot of fun with Ainola’s grandma [Aino Sibelius]. We played a game called sextonspel. Papa didn’t play; he just watched from the side. He was a kind and humorous person.
We didn’t talk about his composition work. We had a family circle where we talked about fun things, but we didn’t talk about music. It was taboo.”
Laura Enckell is Ruth Snellman’s daughter. In her memoir, she revisits Ainola during the 1920s.
“I have returned to Ainola and am enjoying the feeling of well-being. The air is filled with sunlight dust and cigar smoke; I know I am welcome and feel loved. I try to eat very nicely and be very good. And then Papa asks again:
‘Which do you like more: upholstery nails or Papa?’
‘Papa,’ I answer without hesitation. What a question!
‘And which do you like more: berry porridge or Papa?’
Now I must think about it. And the longer it takes me to answer, the sweeter Papa laughs.
‘Papa,’ I finally say in a small voice, and Papa laughs again. What on earth does he mean?
Meals last a long time at Ainola. It is primarily a time for socializing: stories are told, and there is much laughter, enjoying the meal and the company. Papa has endless stories, and he tells them amusingly, depicting various people with just a few expressions or gestures. The world unfolds before my eyes, colorful and fascinating. So when he sometimes looks at me and says, ‘Think, you have a whole long, wonderful life ahead of you,’ I believe it will be wonderful and hope that it will be long.
Sometimes, however, there is thunder in the air. Something unpleasant has come through the newspapers or mail, we talk about politics or other matters I don’t understand. Papa often looks out the window, speaks in an agitated voice, gets up to pace back and forth in the room, barely touches his food, doesn’t even glance at me. Then I shrink to a very small size and can really feel the air charged with electricity, even the table seems to tremble. But Grandma, dear, wonderful Grandma does not shrink. She stands tall, alert and interested, following Papa’s flood of words, occasionally asserting her opinion decisively, and ultimately steering the conversation into calmer waters. The storm is over.
I must have been quite obedient, as I only remember Papa really getting angry with me once. We were at the dinner table, and Papa was upset about a mistake in the printing of one of his compositions: the wrong note had been printed, a typographical error. I tried desperately to console him and said, unfortunately, to calm him, that it wasn’t so bad, ‘no one will notice’ (this is how I sometimes consoled myself when I messed up. Oh, how angry Papa got! ‘How can you THINK like that?’ He was utterly shocked. He was so upset that he got up from the table and went into another room. Of course, I regretted it immediately, apologized, and was forgiven, but my sense of shame did not fade for a long time—I still blush inwardly thinking about it.
In the evenings, Grandma and I sat at the table under a large lamp playing games. On the other side of the table was a tray with lingonberries or something else tasty. Papa paced back and forth in thought, smoking a cigar; his steps were brisk and purposeful, and their echo remains in my mind as an essential part of the evening ambiance. Grandma is a peerless companion to me in everything. The game becomes fun and exciting, she is as enthusiastic as I am, and sometimes she laughs so hard that tears come to her eyes. Occasionally, Papa stops to say something to us; our presence does not seem to bother him. He is in his thoughts, but not unreachable, present and absent at the same time.
I sleep next to the dining room, in a room with floral wallpaper. It may happen that I wake up at night, but a sense of security surrounds me and a bad dream is forgotten when I hear Papa’s steps. They approach and recede, approach again, and from the sound of the steps, I can precisely tell where in the rooms he is moving. He may stop at the piano, take a chord, play for a bit longer, and then, suddenly, the playing stops and he starts walking again.
I feel unspeakably well and soon fall asleep again. (…)”
Merike Ilves (1925-)
Journalist Merike Ilves is the daughter of Katarina Ilves.
“In the 1930s, I spent quite a lot of time at Ainola. My father was a bank manager and handled Sibelius’s accounts and taxes. Often, our whole family would go to Ainola in the bank’s car and return home late. We were also there for Christmas, a whole week at a time.
It was well known that one could not make noise there. This was not only for his children but also clearly understood by us. If you wanted to sing, you had to go to the forest.
I remember how he would play chords on the piano at night. We slept in the children’s room, near the current library, right below his study, and sometimes the sound of the piano could be heard. Sibelius’s last study was originally my mother’s chamber.
He told us the tale of Aino and Armas. I didn’t know that the same story had been told to his daughters. He always left it unfinished. There was something terribly compelling about it.
Because he composed at night, there was no common breakfast. We children ate porridge in the kitchen, and coffee was taken upstairs to the grandparents. We only sat down together at the table for breakfast at 12 o’clock.
He was very amused by children. He would walk with me in the forest, and there was always a mischievous twinkle in his eye. My mother told me that when I was very small, I had gone into the forest with my grandfather, and as soon as the roof of Ainola was out of sight, I asked if he was sure he knew the way home, wondering if we were lost. He found this incredibly amusing.
On walks, we often went to Grandpa’s temple, which was at the farthest point of the forest cape. It looked completely different then. There was a dark green garden chair made from roots. The place really looked like a temple. Now it is just a thicket.
He always listened to the radio, mainly his own works. Of course, we loved Uncle Markus’s children’s hour, but we could only listen to it in the rooms of the household helpers, Hellu and Aino. Behind the kitchen was a radio where we listened to the children’s hours.
Grandma was very proud of her tomato house. We never had to do garden work, but we were allowed to harvest. Aino always brushed her white hair in the garden, and once a bird’s nest was found that was completely woven from them.
The charm of Ainola was that it was such a place of celebration, not because Grandpa was so famous, but because it was so static! It was always the same and always had the same atmosphere. You were never surprised there; it was a wonderful Shangri-La.”
Juhana Blomstedt is Heidi Blomstedt’s eldest son, a visual artist and professor.
“I was apparently quite difficult to handle, because mother once told me she had called Ainola and asked how Juhana was doing. Grandfather had answered that Juhana was doing well, but his guardian angel was very tired. From the bombings during the Continuation War, I remember once we were sheltering in the sauna and saw the sky lit up white for a long way towards Helsinki due to explosions. Having lived in the city, I asked if we could put curtains on the window. Grandmother said something approving. The adults listened to news on the radio, and in the evenings I sometimes snuck to the stairs to listen when the radio talked about great losses. I thought the losses were those big knobs on the radio and wondered about the adults’ serious expressions. Grandfather was otherwise very friendly, told us funny stories and liked to laugh. I believe he was a happy person who found peace of mind in the significance of his life’s work. I remember how he listened to his own compositions on the radio. His forehead was furrowed. He tended to those works like his own children. There were strict rules of behavior there. For example, you weren’t allowed to speak at the dinner table unless spoken to. I was still so young that I didn’t know how to swear. Siimes was a good friend of mine, he was the caretaker, although he didn’t live in Ainola but on the Järvenpää side. I often visited them nearby to listen to him play the accordion. Once I asked him to teach me at least one swear word. I had to try it immediately at the dinner table, and Grandfather immediately sent me to eat in the kitchen. It was supposed to be a terrible shame, but I preferred eating there because I could be more free. At the dining room table, you weren’t allowed to speak unless asked. The swearing was horrified until grandfather and grandmother understood that I hadn’t understood what the word meant. It might have been ‘perkele’ or ‘saatana’ [Finnish swear words]. Under the dining room table, there was a button that you pressed with your foot, and in the kitchen, they knew when to bring the next course. It was mysterious to be allowed to press that button with grandfather’s permission. I also remember grandfather’s long walks, which he took to keep himself in shape. And in the evenings, grandmother played solitaire and together we assembled huge jigsaw puzzles.”