Antti Favén (1882-1948)
Artist Antti Favén painted several portraits of Sibelius. His memory recounts an evening with Sibelius and poet Eino Leino in December 1923.
“I was visiting Jean Sibelius when Eino Leino arrived. Sibelius was very happy about his arrival and wanted to offer something nice. It was during Prohibition, and Sibelius had managed to obtain a bottle of Swedish aquavit – it might have been the O.P. brand. Sibelius took me aside and asked if he dared offer Eino Leino a drink. He would love to offer one, but he feared Leino would continue drinking. He didn’t want to cause any harm. Well, we agreed that we would have just one single drink. That would hardly do any harm, right?
We sat down at the table, Eino Leino, Sibelius, Mrs. Sibelius, and I. Sibelius opened the bottle, poured a shot for all of us, we clinked glasses and drank a toast, and then Sibelius meaningfully put the cork back in the bottle.
The conversation continued. Eino Leino was talking with Mrs. Sibelius, and suddenly, in the middle of the conversation, his hand went to his vest pocket with the discretion of a pickpocket. All the while talking to Mrs. Sibelius, he pulled out a small bottle from his vest pocket, filled his glass with it, and closed the bottle as if nothing had happened. A moment later, he repeated the maneuver. The next time, he used another vest pocket. There was another small bottle there, which he emptied. The whole time, he spoke to us without hesitation, especially to Mrs. Sibelius. He showed great courtesy to the lady of the house. When we thought his bottle supply was exhausted, we were greatly surprised to see him reach into his back pocket. In the next moment, he held a new small bottle in his hand and — glug, glug, glug — filled his glass.
Yes, that was Eino Leino – a thoroughly discreet and sensitive gentleman, who still didn’t compromise his own personality at all.”
Santeri Levas (1899-1987)
Santeri Levas worked as Sibelius’s secretary from the summer of 1938. Levas wrote, among other works, “Jean Sibelius and his Ainola”, “Young Sibelius” and “The Master of Järvenpää”. In this selection, he recounts his first meeting in 1938 and describes Ainola in the 1940s.
“Somewhat nervously, I stepped into Ainola’s spacious hall to meet the world-famous composer, whom I had grown accustomed to thinking of as a serious, perhaps slightly irritable old gentleman based on portraits.
How surprised I was when I was greeted by a stout man with a proud posture, whose entire being seemed to exude nothing but cordiality. From under bushy eyebrows shone two grey eyes, whose expression constantly changed. Their alert gaze seemed to penetrate every corner of my consciousness. In an instant, he grasped the timidity of his future secretary and said something playful, which immediately created a warm atmosphere (…)
The overall impression of Ainola’s ground floor is bright and spacious, which is mainly due to the fact that almost all windows face south. There is always light and sunshine in the rooms. (…)
However, a deeper impression than any external memories, however abundant and honorable they may be, is made on the visitor to Ainola by the sublime atmosphere that prevails in this home. It’s difficult to describe it in words, it must be experienced. The great master’s warm humanity and his gigantic struggles in spiritual creative work, the serious, refined cordiality of Ainola’s mistress, shared experiences, sufferings and joys over decades, all these have surely created the noble and yet so warm spirit of Jean Sibelius’s home.”
Noël Coward was a well-known British playwright and songwriter. He met Sibelius at Ainola in 1939.
“During my stay in Helsinki, someone suggested that I should meet Sibelius. He would apparently be delighted to meet me, even though he lived an extremely quiet and isolated life. This later turned out to be an exaggeration. In any case, I was encouraged by the thought of how this great Master was burning with desire to meet me personally, the composer of ‘A Room with a View’ and ‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen’. So I drove nobly to meet him.
We arrived with my interpreter and guide around noon. We were greeted by a surprised, bald gentleman whom I assumed to be the family’s elderly steward. He led us unenthusiastically to the porch and left us alone.
We talked in low voices and offered each other cigars while waiting in growing tension for the Master to arrive. I bitterly regretted my scant knowledge of classical music and tried quickly to distinguish in my mind between the works of Sibelius and Delius. After a quarter of an hour, the bald man returned carrying a tray with a decanter of wine and a plate of biscuits. He set the tray on the table, to my surprise sat down, and turned his gaze to us.
The silence soon became unbearable. My friend muttered something in Finnish, to which the bald gentleman responded with a quick nod. Then it dawned on me that this was the great man himself, and that he had no idea who I was, who my companion was, and what we were doing there. I felt very confused and extremely stupid. I smiled and offered a cigarette, which he declined. My friend stood up and poured three glasses of wine. We toasted politely, but the same oppressive silence continued. I asked my friend if Mr. Sibelius spoke English or French. He said no. Then I asked him to tell Sibelius how much I admired his music and what an honor it was to meet him personally. This was translated, whereupon Sibelius quickly stood up and offered me a biscuit. I accepted it with perhaps exaggerated gratitude, and then silence descended upon us again. Finally, I realized that we would probably sit like this until sunset unless I took the initiative. So I stood up and asked my friend – whom I would have gladly strangled – to thank Sibelius for his hospitality and explain once again what a great honor it was for me to meet him. At the same time, I also apologized for our quick departure and explained that we had arranged a lunch meeting at the hotel. When this was translated, Sibelius smiled for the first time and shook my hand eagerly. He escorted us to the gate and waved his hand cheerfully as we drove away. My friend said that Mr. Sibelius was known for his shyness and that he was difficult to approach. I bitterly replied that in that case, it was really thoughtless towards all parties to arrange such a meeting. (…)
Later, troubled by my conscience, I wrote a small apology to Sibelius. Despite the fact that his isolation and the peace of his morning had been disturbed, he had nevertheless received me politely – and given me a biscuit.”
Eila Nortamo, nurse
Eila Nortamo worked as a nurse at Ainola in the spring of 1953.
“I had graduated a couple of months earlier and had been working as a nurse for 30 male patients in surgery. I had met Aino Sibelius before, but never Jean Sibelius. I was scared to death when I first came to Ainola with Eva Paloheimo and Heidi Blomstedt.
The first thing Sibelius said to me was that they were then Aunt Aino and Uncle Janne. He started talking to me about my grandfather, architect Yrjö Blomstedt, and their shared times in the Academic Male Voice Choir’s revelries. Sibelius had a peculiar way of receiving others’ emotional messages. He immediately noticed that I was afraid and told funny stories to calm me down.
I was there from mid-March to mid-May. I was accommodated upstairs next to Aino Sibelius’s bedroom. I was already engaged to Simopekka Nortamo [a young journalist who became the editor-in-chief of Helsingin Sanomat], who was in Tilkka Military Hospital due to illness. On March 20, I seem to have written to him that I had placed his picture between the pictures of Beethoven and Mozart on top of the score of Sibelius’s Seventh Symphony. That old workroom of Sibelius was a real treasure chamber, full of books and sheet music.
Sibelius was already living downstairs in his new workroom. Aunt Aino stayed upstairs and Sibelius downstairs due to the risk of infection. They spoke to each other in Swedish via intercom, and Aunt Aino apologized to me many times and said that they weren’t any Swedes, but it was Janne’s childhood language.
Sometimes Aunt Aino was so exhausted due to illness that she couldn’t speak on the phone. I can’t tell more details because a nurse has a duty of confidentiality. Those things would probably be the interesting ones, the ones I can’t talk about. But when Aino was too exhausted to speak, Sibelius always became very depressed. However, he was very concerned about my comfort and we dined together. Sometimes there was white or red wine mixed with water, often there was buttermilk. He often said at the beginning of the meal, “Ask Hellu [cook Helmi Vainikainen] how to make this, since you’re about to get married soon”. Once, according to my letters, we seem to have eaten salmon casserole, berry pudding, and “Spanish sherry”, as Sibelius called it.
Sibelius went to bed in the early morning, maybe around two or three o’clock. These trusted servants, Aino Kari and Helmi Vainikainen, said that the professor was working. So did Aunt Aino. I don’t know if he did it anymore except in his head, because his hands were shaking badly, which certainly made it difficult to write music. I never heard him playing the grand piano or writing notes. Because of his shaking hands, he usually didn’t dine with guests. I was told that it was a special sign of trust. “When even the food doesn’t stay on the fork,” he sometimes lamented. (…)
On the first Easter Day, I have written the following: ‘Uncle Janne was outside today, and said that parting from life is difficult for the sole reason that one must leave all the beauty and goodness of nature. He said that I could thank all the gods that I can see many such days in my life. He talked about happiness, without which it is difficult to live, and sorrows and worries, without which it is impossible to live, because they are what make life worth living.
Worry about something can turn into happiness, because that’s when you feel connected to everything that’s most important.’
Then Aunt Aino asked Sibelius to take me to the Temple. It was that clearing in the middle of the forest. We walked slowly to the Temple, and he said to me: ‘Listen to how nature smells.’
At the end of April, Aino Sibelius recovered so much that the couple could see each other after a break of about a month and a half. Sibelius waited at the bottom of the stairs, and Aino Sibelius came down the stairs. When they came around the bend, they saw each other. Sibelius said quietly: ‘Thank you, Aino.’
Then I couldn’t see anything anymore, I cried with emotion and wanted to run upstairs. Aino patted my hand and said, go ahead. They hadn’t seen each other for such a long, long time.
I stayed until mid-May. I felt that I wasn’t needed so much as a nurse anymore, but perhaps more as a conversation partner. Aunt Aino was so happy that Sibelius had had someone to talk to while she had been ill.”
Einari Marvia (1915-1997)
Einari Marvia was a composer and a significant music historian who, among other things, conducted a high-quality study on Sibelius’s Freemason music. His memory tells of a meeting at Ainola in the autumn of 1955.
“In the autumn of 1955, I was tasked with writing an article about Jean Sibelius’s musical family heritage for the Sibelius jubilee issue of Uusi Musiikkilehti to be published in December of the same year (…)
On November 27, Mrs. Paloheimo called me saying that “now grandpa has become curious”. He wanted me to come to Ainola to show him mainly the Sibelius family photographs that I had selected to be published with my article. (…)
We arrived before 3:30 PM, and the reception was very cordial, as always. In the hallway, I unwrapped from multiple layers of paper the orchid I had brought with me, which looked pretty in its cellophane box with a silk ribbon, and handed it to Aino Sibelius. She was delighted with the flower in her sweet way, as was Sibelius, whom I then greeted. Aino Sibelius had become a bit hunched and smaller since I last saw her, but her gaze was alert and her mental vigor as perfect as her husband’s. The Master was also a bit lankier, maybe a little stooped, the lines on his face deeper. He asked about my compositions and said he liked my songs, which he had often listened to on the radio. He offered cigars and asked us to come to the coffee table – he is an equally polite host to everyone – but the women said decisively that “business first”, and after some resistance, Sibelius obediently complied.
The Master said that anything written about him in Finland could grow into anything elsewhere, especially in America, and therefore it was good to follow statements about his person as much as possible. To the women’s diplomatic question about which pictures interested him most in my article, he answered affirmatively, and so I pulled out a small bundle containing all the personal and exterior photos of the Sibelius family. The Master sat down in the rattan chair in the corner of the library, where there was a lamp right next to it, and began to look at them, his trembling thin fingers selecting one picture after another. He noted that under the picture of his Uncle Edvard was the wrong name Carl, to which I said that for some reason his first name had been marked there, and the master replied that he didn’t know his Uncle Edvard had such a name. (…)
About Uncle Johan, the sea captain, it was told that he brought an English tableware set from his travels, which Jean and Christian Sibelius divided between themselves. I was shown this dinnerware from the china cabinet, which was indeed very beautiful, and especially Aino Sibelius asked her daughter to show the gravy boat and the charming porcelain gravy spoon that went with it. Holding the bowl in my hand, I said that this is so beautiful that its picture should have been included in my article. I was told that the dinnerware is still used on Sundays, and when the master comes down – usually around noon – from the bedroom, when he sees the tableware set, he usually claps his hands together in “amazement” and exclaims: “But now it’s Sunday!” (…)
The evening had begun to darken quickly, and the allowed visiting time had already been greatly exceeded. As we said goodbye, the master playfully stretched to his full height and said in his deep voice: “Yes, soon I will turn ninety years old. Isn’t that a respectable age?” And I congratulated him and wished him, with a lump in my throat, the highest blessing. I never saw him alive again after that.”
The main source for the Memories from Ainola section is Vesa Sirén’s book “He Always Smoked a Cigar – Jean Sibelius Through the Eyes of His Contemporaries” (Otava 2000).