A Critic at
Large
Apparition
in the Woods
Rescuing
Sibelius from silence.
by Alex Ross
July 9, 2007
.
Sibelius at
his country home near Helsinki, in 1949. Photograph by Yousuf Karsh.
Composing music may be the loneliest of artistic pursuits. It is a
laborious traversal of an imaginary landscape. Emerging from the
process is an
art work in code, which other musicians must be persuaded to unravel.
Nameless
terrors creep into the limbo between composition and performance,
during which
a score sits mutely on the desk. Hans Pfitzner dramatized that moment
of panic
and doubt in “Palestrina,” his 1917 “musical legend” about the life of
the
Italian Renaissance master. The character of Palestrina speaks for
colleagues
across the centuries when he stops his work to cry, “What is the point
of all
this? Ach, what is it for?”
The Finnish
composer Jean Sibelius may have asked that question once too often. The
crisis
point of his career arrived in the late nineteen-twenties and the early
thirties, when he was being lionized as a new Beethoven in England and
America,
and dismissed as a purveyor of kitsch in the tastemaking European music
centers, where atonality and other modern languages dominated the
scene. The
contrasts in the reception of his music, with its extremes of splendor
and
strangeness, matched the manic-depressive extremes of his
personality—an alcoholic
oscillation between grandiosity and self-loathing. Sometimes he
believed that
he was in direct communication with the Almighty (“For an instant God
opens his
door and His orchestra plays the Fifth Symphony,” he wrote in a letter)
and
sometimes he felt worthless. In 1927, when he was sixty-one, he wrote
in his
diary, “Isolation and loneliness are driving me to despair. . . . In
order to
survive, I have to have alcohol. . . . Am abused, alone, and all my
real
friends are dead. My prestige here at present is rock-bottom.
Impossible to
work. If only there were a way out.”
Sibelius,
who was born in 1865 and died fifty years ago this September, spent the
better
part of his life at Ainola, a rustic house outside Helsinki. On his
desk for
many years lay the Eighth Symphony, which promised to be his summary
masterpiece. He had been working on it since 1924 and had indicated
several
times that it was almost ready for performance. In 1933, a copyist
transcribed
twenty-three pages of the score, and at a later date Sibelius’s
publisher may
have bound the manuscript in a set of seven volumes. There were
reportedly
parts for chorus, as in Beethoven’s Ninth. But the Eighth never
appeared. The
composer finally gave in to the seduction of despair. “I suppose one
henceforth
takes me as—yes!—a ‘fait accompli,’ ” he wrote in 1943. “Life is soon
over.
Others will come and surpass me in the eyes of the world. We are fated
to die
forgotten. I must start economizing. It can’t go on like this.”
Aino
Sibelius, the composer’s wife, for whom the house was named, recalled
what
happened next. “In the nineteen-forties there was a great auto da fé at
Ainola,” she said. “My husband collected a number of manuscripts in a
laundry
basket and burned them on the open fire in the dining room. Parts of
the
‘Karelia Suite’ were destroyed—I later saw remains of the pages which
had been
torn out—and many other things. I did not have the strength to be
present and
left the room. I therefore do not know what he threw onto the fire. But
after
this my husband became calmer and gradually lighter in mood.”
Ainola stands much as the
composer left
it. The
atmosphere of the house is heavy and musty, as if Sibelius’s spirit
were still
pent up inside. But you get a different feeling when you walk into the
forest
that abuts one side of the house. The treetops meet in an endless
curving
canopy. The ground is uncluttered: many paths fork among the trunks.
Venturing
a little farther into the wood, you lose sight of all human habitation.
A
profound stillness descends. The light begins to fail, the mists roll
in. After
a while, you may begin to wonder if you will ever find your way back.
Many
times in Sibelius’s music, the exaltation of natural sublimity gives
way to
inchoate fear, which has less to do with the outer landscape than with
the
inner one: the forest of the mind.
Milan
Kundera, in his 1993 essay collection “Testaments Betrayed,” anatomizes
the
more peripheral European cultures, using his native Czechoslovakia as a
specimen. “The small nations form ‘another Europe,’ ” he writes. “An
observer
can be fascinated by the often astonishing intensity of their cultural
life.
This is the advantage of smallness: the wealth in cultural events is on
a
‘human scale.’ ” Kundera warns, however, that the familial feeling can
turn
tense and constricting: “Within that warm intimacy, each envies each,
everyone
watches everyone.” If an artist ignores the rules, the rejection can be
cruel.
Even those who rise to fame may experience isolation at the summit—the
burden
of being a national hero.
In the
nineteenth and twentieth centuries, each of the “small nations” had a
celebrity
composer. Edvard Grieg in Norway, Antonín Dvorák in Czechoslovakia, and
Carl
Nielsen in Denmark, among others, served as ambassadors for their local
cultures. In Russia and Britain, too, composers took on outsized roles,
embodying ideas of national greatness, whether or not they desired the
assignment. A little later in the twentieth century, certain composers
who had
come of age around 1900 became symbols, in a wider sense, of a rapidly
fading
pre-First World War world. They tended to be conservative in style, and
they
were haunted by feelings of obsolescence, to the point where they found
it
difficult to keep writing. The iconic British composer Edward Elgar,
who died
in 1934, failed to finish another large-scale work after his supremely
elegiac
Cello Concerto of 1918-19. Sergei Rachmaninoff produced only five major
works
from 1917 until his death, in 1943.
“I feel like
a ghost wandering in a world grown alien,” Rachmaninoff wrote in 1939.
“I
cannot cast out the old way of writing, and I cannot acquire the new. I
have
made intense effort to feel the musical manner of today, but it will
not come
to me. . . . I cannot cast out my musical gods in a moment and bend the
knee to
new ones.” Sibelius felt the same pang of loss. “Not everyone can be an
innovating genius,” he wrote in his diary. “As a personality and as an
apparition from the woods you will have your small, modest place.”
And yet the
so-called “regional” composers left an imposing body of work, which is
integral
to the century as a whole. Their music may lack the vanguard
credentials of
Schoenberg’s or Stravinsky’s, at least on the sonic surface, but
Nielsen, in
his 1925 book “Living Music,” makes a good counter-argument: “The
simplest is
the hardest, the universal the most lasting, the straightest the
strongest,
like the pillars that support the dome.” And, precisely because these
composers
communicated general feelings of mourning for a pre-technological past,
or,
more simply, a yearning for vanished youth, they remained acutely
relevant for
a broad public.
Mainstream
audiences often lag behind the intellectual classes in appreciating the
more
adventurous composers, but sometimes they are quicker to perceive the
value of
music that the politicians of style fail to comprehend. In 1952,
Nicolas
Slonimsky put together a delightful book,“Lexicon of Musical
Invective,” an
anthology of wrongheaded music criticism in which now canonical
masterpieces
are compared with feline caterwauling, barnyard noises, and so on.
Slonimsky
should also have written a “Lexicon of Musical Condescension,”
gathering
high-minded essays in which now canonical masterpieces were dismissed
as
middlebrow, with a long section reserved for Sibelius.
Sibelius was
not merely the most famous composer Finland ever produced but the
country’s
chief celebrity in any field. He played a symbolic but active role in
the drive
toward Finnish independence, which was finally achieved in 1917. When
Finns are
asked to characterize their culture, they invariably mention, along
with such
national treasures as the lakeside sauna, Fiskars scissors, and Nokia
cell
phones, “our Sibelius.” Mostly because of him, classical music has
retained a
central role in Finnish culture. The country’s government invests
enormous sums
in orchestras, opera houses, new-music programs, and music schools. The
annual
Finnish expenditure on the arts is roughly two hundred times per capita
what
the United States government spends through the National Endowment for
the
Arts.
Finns are
strangers to the European family. Descendants of an errant Mongolian
tribe,
they speak a language unrelated to the Indo-European linguistic group.
For
centuries, they were governed by the Swedes; then, in 1809, they became
a
semi-autonomous grand duchy of tsarist Russia. In the late nineteenth
century,
the Swedish influence remained strong, with a minority of
Swedish-speakers
forming the élite. Sibelius belonged to this group; he learned Finnish
as a
second language. Yet, like many of his generation, he avidly joined in
the
independence campaign, which became more urgent after Tsar Nicholas II
introduced measures designed to suppress Finland’s autonomy.
The national
legends of Finland are contained in the “Kalevala,” a poetic epic
compiled in
1835 by a country doctor named Elias Lönnrot. Cantos 31 through 36 tell
of the
bloodthirsty young fighter Kullervo, who has his way with a young woman
who
turns out to be his sister. She commits suicide; he goes off to war.
One day,
finding himself again in the forest where the rape occurred, he asks
his sword
what kind of blood it wishes to taste. The sword demands the blood of a
guilty
man, whereupon Kullervo rams his body on the blade. In 1891 and 1892,
Sibelius,
who had just completed two final years of study in Berlin and Vienna,
used this
dismal tale as the basis for his first major work, “Kullervo,” an
eighty-minute
symphonic drama for men’s chorus, soloists, and orchestra.
The Finnish
epic has a metre all its own: each line contains four main trochaic
beats, but
vowels are often stretched for dramatic effect. Instead of smoothing
out the
poetry into a foursquare rhythm, Sibelius bent his musical language in
sympathetic
response: in the third movement, for example, the orchestra maintains a
pattern
of five beats in a bar, while the chorus elongates its lines to phrases
of
fifteen, ten, eight, and twelve beats, respectively.
In 1892,
“Kullervo” had a decisively successful première in Helsinki. For the
remainder
of the decade, Sibelius worked mainly in the tone-poem genre,
consolidating his
fame with such works as “En Saga,” “The Swan of Tuonela,” the “Karelia
Suite,”
and the tuneful “Finlandia.” Sibelius’s mastery of the orchestra,
already
obvious in “Kullervo,” became prodigious. “The Swan of Tuonela,” which
was
conceived as the overture to an unfinished “Kalevala” opera, begins
with the
mirage-like sound of A-minor string chords blended one into the next
over a
span of four octaves.
Sibelius
finished his first two symphonies in 1899 and 1902. On the surface,
these were
typical orchestral dramas of the heroic soul, although Sibelius’s habit
of
breaking down themes into murmuring textures sounded strange to many
early
listeners. Finns quickly appropriated the Second as an emblem of
national
liberation; the conductor Robert Kajanus heard in it “the most
broken-hearted
protest against all the injustice that threatens at the present time,”
together
with “confident prospects for the future.” In other words, the symphony
was
understood as a gesture of defiance in the face of the Tsar. Although
Sibelius
rejected this interpretation, images of the Finnish struggle may have
played a
role in his thinking. In the finale of the Second, a crawling,
rising-and-falling figure in the violas and cellos evokes a recurring
pattern
in the second scene of Mussorgsky’s “Boris Godunov”—the scene in which
Pimen
the monk records the villainies of Tsar Boris.
Sibelius’s
other “hit” scores of the period, the brilliantly moody Violin Concerto
and the
affectingly maudlin “Valse Triste,” cemented his international
reputation and
therefore increased his stature at home. Around this time, though,
alcohol
became an issue. Sibelius, who often conducted his own works, would
fortify
himself with liquor before engagements, then disappear for days. A
widely
discussed painting by the Finnish artist Akseli Gallen-Kallela, “The
Problem,”
depicted Sibelius drinking with friends, his eyes rolled back in his
head.
Although he was supported by a state pension, he ran up large debts. He
was
also beset by illnesses, some real and some imagined. Fissures were
appearing
in the façade that “Finland’s hero” presented to the world.
In 1904,
Sibelius tried to escape the embarrassments of his Helsinki life style
by
moving with his wife and three daughters to Ainola. There he set to
work on his
Third Symphony, which was itself a kind of musical escape. In contrast
to the
muscular rhetoric of “Kullervo” and the first two symphonies, the Third
speaks
in a self-consciously clear, pure language. At the same time, it is a
sustained
deconstruction of symphonic form. The last movement begins as a
quicksilver
Scherzo, but it gradually, almost imperceptibly, evolves into a
marchlike
Finale: the listener may have the feeling of the ground shifting
underfoot.
Shortly
after finishing this terse, elusive work, Sibelius got into a debate
with
Gustav Mahler on the nature of symphonic form. Mahler went to Helsinki
in 1907
to conduct some concerts, and Sibelius presented his latest ideas about
“severity of form” and the “profound logic” that should connect
symphonic
themes. “No!” Mahler replied. “The symphony must be like the world. It
must be
all-embracing.”
Sibelius
kept a close eye on the latest developments in European music. On
visits to
Germany, he became acquainted with Strauss’s “Salome” and “Elektra” and
Schoenberg’s earliest atonal scores. He was variously fascinated,
alarmed, and
bored by these Austro-German experiments; more to his taste was the
sensuous
radicalism of Debussy, whose “Prelude to ‘The Afternoon of a Faun,’ ”
“Nocturnes,” and “La Mer” revealed new possibilities in modal harmony
and
diaphanous orchestral color.
Sibelius, in
his Fourth Symphony, completed in 1911, presented his listeners with
music as
tensely forbidding as anything from the European continent at the time.
(Perhaps the most searching rendition of this symphony on disk is Osmo
Vänskä’s, with the Lahti Symphony, on the Bis label. Herbert von
Karajan’s
recordings of the last four symphonies, on D.G., remain satisfying, and
Leif
Segerstam recently conducted a superb complete cycle for Ondine.)
Sibelius
wrote the Fourth in the wake of several risky operations on his throat,
where a
tumor was growing. His doctors instructed him to give up drinking,
which he
agreed to do, although he resumed in 1915. The temporary loss of
alcohol—“my
most faithful companion,” he later called it—may have contributed to
the
claustrophobic grimness of the music, which, at the same time, bespoke
a
liberated intellect. The first few bars of the symphony extrapolate a
new
dimension in musical time. The opening notes, scored darkly for cellos,
basses,
and bassoons, are C, D, F-sharp, E—an ambiguous whole-tone collection.
It feels
like the beginning of a major thematic statement, but it gets stuck on
F-sharp
and E, which oscillate and fade away. Meanwhile, the durations of the
notes
lengthen by degrees, from quarter notes to dotted quarters and then to
half
notes. It’s as if a foreign body were exerting gravitational force on
the
music, slowing it down.
The
narrative of the Fourth is circular rather than linear; it keeps
revisiting the
same insoluble conflicts. An effort at establishing F major as the key
of the
initially sunnier-sounding second movement founders on an immovable
obstacle in
the form of the note B-natural, after which there is a palpable shrug
of
defeat. The third movement dramatizes an attempt to build, note by
note, a
solemn six-bar theme of funerary character; the first attempt falters
after
three bars, the second after five, the third after four, the fourth
after
three. The fifth attempt proceeds with vigor but seems to go on too
long,
sprawling through seven bars without coming to a logical conclusion.
Finally,
with an audible grinding of the teeth, the full orchestra plays the
theme in a
richly harmonized guise. Then uncertainty steals back in.
The finale
thins out as it goes along, as if random pages of the orchestral parts
had blown
off the music stands. This is music facing extinction, a premonition of
the
silence that would envelop the composer two decades later. Erik
Tawaststjerna,
Sibelius’s biographer, reveals that the middle section of the movement
is based
on sketches that Sibelius made for a vocal setting of Poe’s “The
Raven,” in a
German translation. It is easy to see why a man of Sibelius’s
psychological
makeup would have been drawn to its melancholia. The German translation
follows
the rhythm of the original, so Sibelius’s music can be matched up with
lines in
Poe’s poem. Softly crying flute and oboe lines in the epilogue fit the
famous
words “Quoth the Raven ‘Nevermore.’ ” The symphony closes with
blank-faced
chords that are given the dynamic marking mezzoforte—half-loud. The
instruction
is surprising. Most of the great Romantic symphonies end with
fortissimo
affirmations. Wagner operas and Strauss tone poems often close
pianissimo,
whether in blissful or tragic mood. Sibelius’s Fourth ends not with a
bang or a
whimper but with a leaden thud.
“A symphony
is not just a composition in the ordinary sense of the word,” Sibelius
wrote in
1910. “It is more a confession of faith at different stages of one’s
life.” If
the Fourth is a confession, its composer might have been on the verge
of
suicide. Yet, like so many Romantics before him, Sibelius took a
perverse
pleasure in surrendering to melancholy, and finding joy in darkness.
“Joyful
and sorrowful,” he wrote in his diary. In his next symphony, he set
himself the
goal of bringing to the surface the joy inherent in creation.
Joy is not
the same thing as simplicity. The Fifth begins and ends in crystalline
major-key tonality, but it is a staggeringly unconventional work. The
schemata
of sonata form dissolve before the listener’s ears; in place of a
methodical
development of well-defined themes, there is a gradual, incremental
evolution
of material through trancelike repetitions. The musicologist James
Hepokoski,
in a monograph on the symphony, calls it “rotational form”; the
principal ideas
of the work come around again and again, though each time they are
transformed
in ways both small and large. The themes really assume their true shape
only at
the end of the rotation—what Hepokoski calls the “telos,” the epiphanic
goal.
Music becomes a search for meaning within an open-ended structure—an
analogue
to the spiritual life.
At the
beginning of the Fifth, the horns present a softly glowing theme, the
first
notes of which spell out a symmetrical set of intervals: fourth, major
second,
fourth again. Fifty years later, John Coltrane used the same
configuration in
his jazz masterpiece “A Love Supreme.” Sibelius’s key is E-flat major,
but the
melody turns out to be a flighty thing, never quite touching the
ground. A
rhythmic trick adds to the sense of weightlessness. At first, it sounds
like a
standard 4/4 metre, but, after a syncopated sidestep, it turns out to
be 12/8.
A rotation process begins: the melodic material is broken into
fragments and
repeatedly reshaped. In the fourth iteration, an electrifying change
occurs:
the tempo accelerates by increments, until the music is suddenly
hurtling
forward. Sibelius achieved this effect by way of an exceptional feat of
self-editing. After the première of the first version of the symphony,
in 1915,
he decided to rework it completely, and one thing he did was cut off
the ending
of the first movement, cut off the beginning of the second, and splice
them
together. The accelerating passage becomes a cinematic “dissolve” from
one
movement to another.
The second
movement of the Fifth provides a spell of calm, although beneath the
surface a
significant new idea is coming to life—a swaying motif of
rising-and-falling
intervals, which the horns pick up in the finale and transform into the
grandest of all Sibelian themes. The composer called it his “swan
hymn”; he
recorded it in his diary next to a description of sixteen swans flying
in
formation over Ainola. “One of my greatest experiences!” he wrote.
“Lord God,
that beauty! They circled over me for a long time. Disappeared into the
solar
haze like a gleaming, silver ribbon. . . . That this should have
happened to
me, who have so long been the outsider.” The swans reappeared three
days later:
“The swans are always in my thoughts and give splendor to [my] life.
[It’s]
strange to learn that nothing in the whole world affects me—nothing in
art,
literature, or music—in the same way as do these swans and cranes and
wild
geese. Their voices and being.”
The swan
hymn transcends the depiction of nature: it is like a spiritual force
in animal
form. When the horns introduce the theme, during a flurry of action in
the
strings, it’s as if they had always been playing it, and the listener
had only
begun to hear it. A moment later, a reduced version of the theme is
heard in
the bass register of the orchestra at one-third the tempo, creating
another
hypnotic Sibelian effect of layered time. Then the winds launch into
their own
melody: a wistfully circling figure that bears an odd resemblance to
Erik
Satie’s “Gymnopédies.”
This is not
“masculine” heroism on the order of Beethoven’s “Eroica,” which is also
in the
key of E-flat major. As Hepokoski suggests, Sibelius’s later music
implies a
maternal rather than paternal logic—God-given themes gestating in
symphonic
form. Only by way of wrenching dissonances does the music break loose
from its
endlessly rocking motion and push toward a final cadence. The swan
hymn, now
carried by the trumpets, undergoes convulsive transformations, and is
reborn as
a fearsome new being. Its intervals split wide open, shatter, and
re-form. The
symphony ends with six far-flung chords, through which the main theme
shoots
like a pulse of energy. The swan becomes the sun.
Sibelius was
at the height of his powers, yet he had precious little music left in
him: the
Sixth and Seventh Symphonies, the tone poem “Tapiola,” incidental music
for a
production of Shakespeare’s “The Tempest,” a smattering of minor
pieces, and
the phantom Eighth. His pursuit of a final symphonic synthesis made the
process
of composition almost impossibly arduous. Suddenly dissatisfied with
the fluid
form that had evolved in the Fifth, he began to dream of a continuous
blur of
sound without any formal divisions—symphonies without movements, operas
without
words. Instead of writing the music of his imagination, he wanted to
transcribe
the very noise of nature. He thought that he could hear chords in the
murmurs
of the forests and the lapping of the lakes; he once baffled a group of
Finnish
students by giving a lecture on the overtone series of a meadow.
Whatever he
succeeded in putting on paper seemed paltry and inadequate. As the
revisions of
the Fifth show, he looked at his own creations with a merciless eye,
slashing
away at them as if they were the scribblings of an inept student.
Harbingers
of silence proliferate in Sibelius’s last works. As Hepokoski writes,
his sonic
narratives end not in a blaze of victory, as in the Fifth, but in
“dissolution,” “decay,” “liquidation.” The Sixth Symphony echoes the
sober
spirit of the Third, with antique modes underpinning the harmony; it’s
as if
the composer were trying to flee into a mythic past. Yet brutal choirs
of brass
keep slicing into the gossamer string textures and through the neat
ranks of
dancing winds. The Seventh Symphony is anchored on a grand theme for
solo
trombone, which sounds three times against a mercurially changing
background.
In its final appearance, it generates such a heat of elation that it
teeters on
the edge of chaos. The “dissolution” takes the form of a metallic smear
of
dominant-seventh chords in chromatic sequence followed by a high,
exposed line
in the violins. And “Tapiola,” a twenty-minute tone poem conjuring the
Finnish
forest, turned out to be Sibelius’s most severe and concentrated
musical
statement. In a central section depicting a physical or mental storm,
whole-tone harmony crumbles into near-total chromaticism—upward- and
downward-slithering patterns of notes. Like a wanderer lost in the
woods, the
listener struggles to find a path through the thicket of sound. When
the home
chord of B minor is finally reasserted in the brass, it has a hollow
ring, its
middle note pushed deep into the bass. We are apparently back where we
started,
with no exit in sight.
Finally came
the music for “The Tempest,” commissioned by the Danish Royal Theatre,
in 1925.
Perhaps Sibelius felt some conscious or unconscious identification with
the
figure of Prospero, who, at the end of the play, decides to set aside
his magic
powers and resume a semblance of normal life:
But this
rough magic
I here
abjure. And when I have required
Some
heavenly music—which even now
I do—
To work mine
end upon their senses that
This airy
charm is for, I’ll break my staff,
Bury it
certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper
than did ever plummet sound
I’ll drown
my book.
Sibelius
wrote no music for this tremendous speech, but its rhetoric infuses the
cue for
“solemn music” that follows, with dissonances sounding at earsplitting
volume.
Then the chaos melts away into a clean open fifth, which sounds alien
in
context. All this evokes Prospero dimming the sun, setting sea and sky
at war,
waking the dead. A quiet hymn for strings follows, in which the
chromaticism of
the tempest is woven back into classical harmony. It is “heavenly
music,” but
also sweet, ordinary music, dispelling the rage and pain that fuel
Prospero’s
art.
Did
Sibelius, like Prospero, think about abjuring his magic and drowning
his book?
If so, he gave no sign of it in the late nineteen-twenties and the
early
thirties. The Eighth Symphony was under way, and the composer seemed
happy with
it. He is known to have worked on the piece in the spring of 1931,
while
staying alone in Berlin. Writing home to Aino, he said that the
symphony was
“making great strides,” although he was puzzled by the form it was
taking.
“It’s strange, this work’s conception,” he told his wife. That is all
we know
about it.
Fame can
confuse any artist, and it had an especially disorienting effect on
Sibelius.
Why his symphonies struck such a chord with Jazz Age audiences is
difficult to
explain. Perhaps they achieved mass popularity precisely because they
were
foreign to the neon light and traffic noise of contemporary urban life.
In any
case, no composer of the time caused such mass excitement, especially
in
America. Celebrity conductors vied for signs of favor from Ainola. New
York Philharmonic
listeners voted Sibelius their favorite living symphonist. His name
even
cropped up as a plot point in Hollywood movies. In Otto Preminger’s
chic 1944
thriller “Laura,” a detective, played by Dana Andrews, interrogates a
shady
Southern gentleman, portrayed by Vincent Price:
DANA
ANDREWS: You know a lot about music?
VINCENT
PRICE: I don’t know a lot about anything, but I know a little about
practically
everything.
DANA
ANDREWS: Yeah? Then why did you say they played Brahms’s First and
Beethoven’s
Ninth at the concert Friday night? They changed the program at the last
minute
and played nothing but Sibelius.
“Nothing but
Sibelius” comes close to summing up American orchestral programming of
the
period. Serge Koussevitzky, the conductor of the Boston Symphony,
presented a
cycle of Sibelius symphonies in the 1932-33 season, and hoped to cap
the series
with the world première of the Eighth.
Olin Downes,
who from 1924 to 1955 served as music critic of the Times, was crucial
to
Sibelius’s American reputation. The son of Louise Corson Downes, a
crusading
feminist and Prohibitionist, Downes believed that classical music
should appeal
not just to élites but to common people, and in the Times he condemned
the
obscurantism of modern music—in particular, the artificiality,
capriciousness,
and snobbery that he perceived in the music of Stravinsky. Sibelius was
different; he was “the last of the heroes,” “a new prophet.”
Downes
travelled to Finland in 1927 to meet Sibelius. The composer had fallen
into one
of his periodic bouts of depression. Meeting Downes temporarily lifted
his
spirits, although, in the long term, Downes’s devotion may have had a
deleterious effect. Glenda Dawn Goss, in a book-length study of this
singular
composer-critic relationship, suggests that Sibelius was in some way
crushed by
the attention that Downes heaped on him.
In the early
thirties, just as Koussevitzky was expecting to conduct the première of
the
Eighth Symphony in Boston, Downes pestered Sibelius for the completed
score. In
1937, Downes wrote a follow-up letter in which he passed along the
sentiments
of none other than Louise Corson Downes: “My mother and I often speak
of you
and she asked me again about the Eighth Symphony. . . . ‘Tell Mr.
Sibelius that
I am not concerned or anxious so much about his Eighth Symphony, which
I know
he will complete in his own good time, as about his Ninth. He must
crown his
series of works in this form with a ninth symphony which will represent
the
summit and the synthesis of his whole achievement and leave us a work
which
will be worthy of one of the elected few who are the true artistic
descendants
and inheritors of Beethoven.’ ”
As if
pressure from music critics’ mothers were not enough, Sibelius was also
brooding over his music’s reception in Europe. Paris had no time for
him.
Berlin, before Hitler came to power, viewed him with condescension
bordering on
contempt. In those cities, expansive symphonies and evocative tone
poems had
little intellectual market value. The critic Heinrich Strobel referred
to
Sibelius’s Violin Concerto as “boring Nordic dreariness.”
In America,
Downes’s pugilistic praise of Sibelius aroused resentment among
Stravinsky’s
many followers and admirers. In 1940, Virgil Thomson became the music
critic of
the New York Herald Tribune, and in his début review he tore lustily
into
Sibelius, calling the Second Symphony “vulgar, self-indulgent, and
provincial
beyond all description.” Equally venomous attacks emanated from the
Schoenberg
camp. The émigré theorist Theodor W. Adorno prepared a dire analysis of
the
Sibelius phenomenon for a sociological think tank called the Princeton
Radio
Research Project: “The work of Sibelius is not only incredibly
overrated, but
it fundamentally lacks any good qualities. . . . If Sibelius’s music is
good
music, then all the categories by which musical standards can be
measured—standards which reach from a master like Bach to most advanced
composers like Schoenberg—must be completely abolished.” Adorno sent
his essay
to Thomson, who, while agreeing with its sentiments, sagely advised
that “the
tone is more apt to create antagonism toward yourself than toward
Sibelius.”
Sibelius’s
confidence was by that time already gone. You can see it slipping away
in his
correspondence with Koussevitzky, which is preserved at the Library of
Congress. The conductor sends letters and telegrams almost every month,
pleading for the Eighth. Sibelius replies in an elegant, slanting hand
on
parchment-like paper, tantalizingly mentioning a symphony that is
almost, but
not quite, finished.
In January,
1930, Sibelius reports, “My new work is not nearly ready and I cannot
say when
it will be ready.” In August, 1930, he is more sure: “It looks as
though I can
send you a new work this season.” But he is worried about American
copyrights,
which do not protect his music. Koussevitzky reassures him that the
symphony
will be safe from piracy. In the end, it does not appear. Then, in
August,
1931, in the wake of his productive stay in Berlin, Sibelius writes,
“If you
wish to perform my new Symphonia in the spring, it will, I believe, be
ready.”
In December, the information is leaked to the Boston Evening
Transcript:
“Symphony Hall has received an important letter from Sibelius, the
composer,
about his new Symphony, the Eighth. It is completed, and the score will
soon be
on the way to Boston.” Another apologetic telegram from Finland arrives
two
weeks later. Sibelius probably heard of the Transcript article and
panicked.
The
following June, the Eighth is back on its feet: “It would be good if
you could
conduct my new symphony at the end of October.” Then comes a fresh
panic.
“Unfortunately I have named October for my new symphony,” he writes
just a week
later. “This is not certain, I am very disturbed about it. Please do
not
announce the performance.” Eventually, it is promised for December,
1932.
Koussevitzky sends a “restless” telegram on New Year’s Eve, as if he
had been
checking the mailbox every day. Two weeks later, he receives yet
another terse
telegram, yet another postponement. There are a few more tentative
mentions of
the Eighth in subsequent correspondence, then nothing.
In the late
thirties, Sibelius again hoped to set the Eighth free from its forest
prison.
By that time, he knew better than to say anything to the garrulous
Koussevitzky. Then, in 1939, Hitler invaded Poland, and Finland became
part of
a chess game between Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union. Early in the
war,
Finland was applauded in the West for its hardy stand against the
Soviets, and
Sibelius was more popular than ever. In 1941, though, Finland aligned
itself
with the Germans, partly because Fascist elements had infiltrated the
government and the Army, and partly because the Nazis would have taken
over the
country anyway. Sibelius went from being a symbol of freedom to serving
as an
apparent Nazi stooge. As a Nordic, “Aryan” composer, he had enjoyed
glowing
notices in Nazi Germany. Now he became almost an official German
artist,
receiving as many performances as Richard Strauss. He allegedly said,
in a
message to Nazi troops, “I wish with all my heart that you may enjoy a
speedy
victory.”
Sibelius was
privately tormented by the promulgation of Nazi-style race laws in
Finland. In
1943, he wrote in his diary, “How can you, Jean Sibelius, possibly take
these
‘Aryan paragraphs’ seriously? . . . You are a cultural aristocrat and
can make
a stand against stupid prejudice.” But he made no stand. As the culture
god of
the Finnish state, he had long since ceased to see a difference between
music
and history, and now with the world in flames his music seemed destined
for
ruin. At the same time, obscure private agonies consumed him. The diary
again:
“The tragedy begins. My burdensome thoughts paralyze me. The cause?
Alone,
alone. I never allow the great distress to pass my lips. Aino must be
spared.”
The final page of the diary, in 1944, contains a shopping list for
champagne,
cognac, and gin.
Sibelius
lived to the age of ninety-one, making wry jokes about his inability to
die.
“All the doctors who wanted to forbid me to smoke and to drink are
dead,” he
once said. In a more serious mood, he observed, “It is very painful to
be
eighty. The public love artists who fall by the wayside in this life. A
true
artist must be down and out or die of hunger. In youth he should at
least die
of consumption.” One September morning in 1957, he went for his usual
walk in
the fields and forest around Ainola, scanning the skies for cranes
flying south
for the winter. They were part of his ritual of autumn; when he was
writing the
Fifth Symphony, he had noted in his diary, “Every day I have seen the
cranes.
Flying south in full cry with their music. Have been yet again their
most
assiduous pupil. Their cries echo throughout my being.” When, on the
third-to-last day of his life, the cranes duly appeared, he told his
wife,
“Here they come, the birds of my youth!” One of them broke from the
flock,
circled the house, cried out, and flew away.
There is a
curiously moving photograph of Igor Stravinsky kneeling at Sibelius’s
grave, a
horizontal metal slab on the grounds at Ainola. The visit took place
four years
after Sibelius’s death. The master of modern music had practical
reasons for
making the pilgrimage: the Finnish government had promised him the
Wihuri
Sibelius Prize, worth twenty-five thousand dollars. But the gesture had
a
certain gallantry. In the past, Stravinsky had belittled Sibelius: on
the
occasion of the old man’s death, he had slammed down the phone when a
reporter
called for a comment. In his last years, though, Stravinsky warmed to a
few
Sibelius scores, and made an arrangement for octet of the Canzonetta
for
strings.
The notion
that there might be something “modern” about Sibelius was risible to
self-styled progressives of the immediate postwar era. The
Schoenbergian
pedagogue René Leibowitz summed up the feelings of many new-music
connoisseurs
when, in 1955, he published a pamphlet titled “Sibelius: The Worst
Composer in
the World.” Surveys of twentieth-century music labelled the composer a
marginal
figure in the central drama of the march toward atonality and other
intellectual landmarks. Yet performances of Sibelius’s music continued
unabated; conductors and audiences had it right all along.
In the last
decades of the century, the politics of style changed in Sibelius’s
favor. He
began to be understood in terms of what Milan Kundera called, in
another
meditation on the culture of small nations, “antimodern modernism”—a
personal
style that stands outside the status quo of perpetual progress.
Suddenly,
composers and scholars were paying heed to Sibelius’s effects of
thematic
deliquescence, his ever-evolving forms, his unearthly timbres.
New-music
luminaries, from the hyper-complex Brian Ferneyhough to the
neo-Romantic John
Adams, cited him as a model. Among them was a group of Finns—Magnus
Lindberg,
Kaija Saariaho, and Esa-Pekka Salonen—who found new respect for the
national
hero after having rejected him in their punkish youth. Lindberg made
his name
with a gripping piece called “Kraft” (1983-85), whose orchestra is
augmented by
scrap-metal percussion and a conductor blowing a whistle. At any given
point,
it sounds nothing like Sibelius—Lindberg cites the influence of German
noise-rock bands—but the accumulation of roiling sonic masses from
microscopic
material feels like a computer-age reprise of “Tapiola.”
In 1984, the
great American avant-garde composer Morton Feldman gave a lecture at
the
relentlessly up-to-date Summer Courses for New Music, in Darmstadt,
Germany.
“The people who you think are radicals might really be conservatives,”
Feldman
said on that occasion. “The people who you think are conservative might
really
be radical.” And he began to hum the Sibelius Fifth. ♦