Leevi Madetoja (1887-1947)
Leevi Madetoja was one of the most popular Finnish composers after Jean Sibelius. He studied under Sibelius from 1908 to 1910. Madetoja’s memory recounts his first journey to a composition lesson at Ainola.
“I hadn’t been walking for long when a tall human figure appeared before me, whom I recognized from afar as my future teacher. ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t know the way, so I came to meet you,’ he said most kindly while shaking my hand. Although I most likely couldn’t respond to this kindness with the required politeness – I was too shy and nervous from our first meeting – it didn’t ruin the atmosphere. We came inside. The conversation soon picked up speed. In all my clumsiness, I too warmed up and felt how the intellectual and sympathetic atmosphere called forth beautiful thoughts and love for all things beautiful. Then the lesson began. ‘I am a bad teacher,’ the master said as his first words when I showed him the 5-voice fugue I had cobbled together for the first lesson. A bad teacher! Well, who is a bad and who is a good teacher? It probably depends in most cases on the extent of interaction between teacher and student. And I must say that even on my first short visit to my master, I was greatly enriched. No teaching in the strictly pedagogical sense. Just short, apt remarks. We didn’t dwell long on the fugue I had made; we moved on to discuss general musical-aesthetic questions. I still remember one good and always valid piece of advice from this lesson: ‘No dead notes! Every note must live!’ Can one give better guidance to a music student? Another essential aspect of Sibelius’s guidance was that he encouraged the student to exert their strengths. ‘You have to throw yourself into the water to learn how to swim!’ One shouldn’t fear the difficulty of the task; just tackle it with vigor and courage! I remember many winter evenings when, full of sacred enthusiasm and grand plans, I walked from Sibelius’s residence along the Järvenpää road to the station, firmly deciding to ‘learn how to swim’.”
Erik Bergman (1911-)
Erik Bergman is one of Finland’s most respected composers. He served as Professor of Composition at the Sibelius Academy from 1963 to 1976. In his memory, Bergman recounts a meeting at Ainola in the 1940s.
“Jussi Jalas called me and said that the master had heard my concert on the radio and would like to meet me. I wondered where this honor came from. I don’t remember which of my concerts from the 1940s it was, but in any case, I got to visit Ainola. Sibelius said immediately upon meeting that he was so happy to get to know me. He said he had heard that Finnish composers were working in Sibelius’s shadow. ‘Now I see that there is one who doesn’t want to and doesn’t need to be in my shadow,’ he said. It was a two-hour visit. He offered coffee and cognac. I did notice that his hands were shaking quite a bit. He knew which direction I was going as a composer and told me how, as a young man, he had been excited about new music and Schoenberg – which Tawaststjerna’s book hardly mentions – and he seemed to be very happy that something new was being created in this country. I never met him again, but he often sent greetings through Jussi Jalas after reading my articles and hearing my music on the radio.”
Einar Englund (1916-1999)
Einar Englund was one of the most respected Finnish composers of his time. Englund’s memory recounts a meeting at Ainola in the summer of 1941.
“We were doing close-order drill, it was all about ‘down on the ground, up again’. I saw a well-dressed gentleman at the edge of the field. He stopped to watch and smiled from under his wide-brimmed hat. ‘It’s Sibelius,’ flashed through my mind. That suit jacket inspired a foolhardy courage: I thought that a soldier fears nothing. I decided to visit Ainola, as my teacher had told me that Sibelius had heard my piano quintet on the radio. The next morning, I stepped through Ainola’s gate as an uninvited guest. I was surprised to hear a Georg Malmstén hit song coming from the kitchen window. A servant was listening to music there. I stated my business to her and waited. Five minutes passed, and I thought this might not work out. But then the door opened behind me, and I saw a sturdy man with a small but monumental head and, to my surprise, white stubble. He was waiting for the barber. Very kindly, he said, ‘Well, if it isn’t Englund.’ We went to the innermost room, and he offered a cigar. That began a conversation that lasted an hour and a half. I asked all sorts of idiotic questions that made him smile a lot. Like, does a composer need to drink a lot, does it help. He replied that he hadn’t composed while drunk. During the Tsar’s time, he and his friends did clench their fists in their pockets and raise toasts to future freedom at Kämp. That was rebellion, according to him. Then I asked if a composer should be married. He said that if you’ve found someone who’s willing to share their life with you, that’s a great thing. That he did defend marriage, although his own union might have been close to breaking at times. We talked a lot about the war, and he regretted being too old to participate in the battles. I immediately thought, ah, war propaganda has gotten to Sibelius. We didn’t talk about his music. I knew the eighth symphony was a tight spot. The conversation turned to my piano quintet. Sibelius had liked it, although it was too crowded. I downplayed the work and said it was a youthful sturm und drang [storm and stress] piece. Sibelius almost got angry. He said: ‘That’s how it should be, otherwise it would be nothing, don’t underestimate it, it will always be the most important work of this period for you!’ Then he looked me straight in the eyes and said: ‘I see that you will become an excellent composer.’ That gaze followed me in the war. I was afraid that my gifts would go unused and dreams unfulfilled. At the same time, I knew that my duty was to do the same as everyone else. In war, everyone was afraid, except for the insane.”
Joonas Kokkonen (1921-1996)
Academic Joonas Kokkonen was one of the most respected Finnish composers of the latter half of the 20th century. His memory recounts a meeting at Ainola in 1952 after an afternoon concert of the Finnish Red Cross held in Järvenpää. Young Kokkonen had performed as a pianist in the concert.
“Eva Paloheimo said that it might be time for the master to meet grandpa now. Ainola was within walking distance, so we cut across the fields. It was said that only Eva Paloheimo dared to bring visitors to Ainola uninvited. This was, of course, an unforgettable opportunity for a young musician. Sibelius came down the stairs: a massive figure. We were offered coffee, pastries, and cognac. I noticed that Sibelius’s cognac glass was much larger than the others. No more was poured into it than the others. When the glass was large, and he lifted it with both hands, the drink didn’t spill despite the trembling of his hands. Sibelius, like elderly people often do, talked a lot about his childhood. He told how he had listened to his mother’s piano playing while lying between the piano stool and the piano. He had looked at the colors of the rag rug and associated certain colors with certain keys. Sibelius had perfect pitch, just like I do. He also talked about Mozart. When I said I might go to Salzburg to study, he greatly regretted that he, a great admirer of Mozart’s music, had never been to Salzburg. I returned to Helsinki a bit dazed. I’m very annoyed that I didn’t write down the conversation. So much has been forgotten. But I remember the atmosphere, and the scent of the cigar…”
Einojuhani Rautavaara (1928-)
Einojuhani Rautavaara is one of Finland’s most well-known composers, whose music’s popularity rose even further in the 1990s thanks to successful recordings. Jean Sibelius recommended Rautavaara for a scholarship to the United States in 1955. Rautavaara visited Ainola several times between 1955 and 1957.
“I was present when the Soviet Musicians’ and Composers’ Union came to deliver a massive stack of leather-bound Soviet scores accompanied by speeches. Jean Sibelius stood in the middle of his log-walled hall, with his back to a large table, a monument again, but with a certain cautious stiffness in his expression, one where through the cracks of the mask of good manners, one could clearly sense an internal aversion. We were still in the first decade after the war’s end. The same mask can be seen in pictures of Mannerheim on his birthday when Hitler unexpectedly came to visit. Later, I got to thank him for the trip and visit Ainola also as a substitute for HKO’s assistant intendant Veikko Helasvuo [Helasvuo was HKO’s librarian] taking artists to Ainola. I took there at least Emil Telmányi, who played Bach’s Chaconne for Sibelius with a baroque bow. Sibelius was clearly moved and said the performance had given him great joy. After this, the conversation became even more lively, so much so that the host rang the bell and asked for more coffee and cognac to be brought. Control behind the scenes worked, however, and nothing more was brought — too much would be too much for a ninety-year-old. During the same visit, Sibelius began to tell anecdotes about himself as if about a third person. All too familiar was the story of when he had once said that birds were the best singers. Then a crow had cawed, and Sibelius had said, there’s the critic. But I felt ‘cold shivers down my spine’. This man, who for the amusement of his guests offers stories that he undoubtedly has heard and read elsewhere himself, hardly even trying to remember if such a thing had really been said or ever happened – and of course it doesn’t matter; anecdotes are told because there is someone about whom they can be told, not because they really happened – this man is not really a living person anymore. His biography is folklore, his private life is folk poetry, his work is national property. For nearly twenty years, he has been his own monument, full-time, performing nothing else. (Or could it be, could it still be, that I see a small ironic twinkle in those eyes that observe our polite reaction…) Surely he must have known that we knew all these stories. Maybe he was just playing at our expense. In his place, I would have certainly amused myself at the expense of the guests!”
Marian Anderson (1902-1993)
Marian Anderson, the American contralto, was one of the legendary singers of her time. She visited Ainola in 1933.
“Before our departure to Ainola, we were informed that we would be allowed to stay for half an hour with Sibelius, who at that time was about 70 years old [67 years old]. In that time, I would be able to sing several songs, and then we would drink coffee. Sibelius and his family greeted us warmly. I was surprised to find that he wasn’t as tall as I had assumed from pictures, but with his sturdy head and broad shoulders, he resembled a granite sculpture. I sang one of his songs with German lyrics – Im Wald ein Mädchen singt – Pohjola’s Daughter and many others. When I finished, he rose, strode over to me, wrapped his arms around me, and embraced me gently. ‘My ceiling is too low for you,’ he said, and then shouted to his wife in a loud voice: ‘Not coffee, but champagne.’ Kosti’s [pianist Kosti Vehanen] face was beaming, and I could hardly get a word out. We stayed at Ainola much longer than the promised half hour. With Kosti acting as interpreter, we discussed Sibelius’s songs. Sibelius himself sat at the grand piano to clarify certain passages. As I left, I glowed with pleasure at having met such a great man. Additionally, I was inspired by the knowledge that I had managed to penetrate the content of songs like Pohjola’s Daughter. It felt as if a veil had been torn away from my eyes. Whenever I sang Sibelius’s songs after that, I sensed a new understanding bringing me closer to them.”
American violinist Isaac Stern visited as a soloist during Sibelius Week in 1951 and performed for the composer at Ainola.
“My good friend Roger Lindberg drove me to Ainola, but I didn’t dare to bring the violin inside. The door was opened by a large figure with a massive head. We spoke mainly French, because I didn’t know German and Sibelius didn’t speak much English. He asked where my violin was, so I fetched it from the car. As I was tuning the violin, Sibelius sat at the grand piano and asked me to play his concerto. He himself played the piano and roared out the parts he couldn’t manage to play. At times, he conducted an invisible orchestra like a conductor. His piano playing skills were serviceable. I played through the concerto, and Sibelius said he liked my tempos and phrasing. He said he was very frustrated with certain violinists’ recordings. He confirmed my own understanding of the concerto. According to him, it had to be played in a grand style. I don’t remember much else from the visit, as his personality filled the entire room.”
Eugene Ormandy (1899-1985)
Eugene Ormandy was one of the most famous conductors of his time. He served as the principal conductor of the Philadelphia Orchestra from 1938 to 1980.
“In June 1955, I had the honor of introducing the Philadelphia Orchestra to the master of composition, Jean Sibelius. (…) This had been my wish for the many years when we had played his music and when I had the privilege of conducting his music at the annual Sibelius festivals: I wanted to bring my orchestra, which was so closely connected to his music, close to Sibelius as a person. As I watched my colleagues walk up the long birch-shaded path leading to his isolated villa in Järvenpää, I could see that the rain did not dampen their enthusiasm at all. At the same time, I remembered my own first visit to the great master and the feelings I experienced then. It happened in 1951, after I had conducted several concerts at the first international Sibelius Week. I knew well what my colleagues felt when Sibelius stepped onto the front porch to greet them. His step was steady, and he held his head proudly high. When you are face to face with a true manifestation of genius, when you are in the presence of a person who speaks to the world through his music, you know you have experienced something very rare and unforgettable (…) Conversation with him was rarely limited to music. He kept his finger on the pulse of the world even though he had voluntarily chosen isolation. He was amazingly sharp in many of his musical and other analyses. He was also completely honest about his own music. He owned many recordings of his symphonies and tone poems, which he listened to carefully and critically. His criticism concerned both the interpretations and the compositions themselves.”
Yehudi Menuhin, the American violinist, was one of the most famous musicians of the 20th century. He met Sibelius while visiting as a soloist during Sibelius Week in Helsinki in 1955.
“I was lucky because at that time he wasn’t drunk. As I understand it, he drank a lot, but when we met, he was sober and very friendly and hospitable. It was a beautiful autumn day, and we sat on the porch. He was a relaxed old man, at peace with himself.
I was startled when he asked who the greatest composer of the century was. He himself had a certain claim to the title, and it would have been impolite to mention someone else. Fortunately, he let me off the hook and said that in his opinion, the greatest composer of the century was Bartók. That pleased me, as I had known Bartók and I respect him tremendously.”