Sibelius
by Simon King

 

 

Ainola, Sibelius’ house, stood amidst a vast swathe of woodland. It was secluded by tall trees and Sibelius spent most of his time there, brooding, contemplating and relaxing. The composer of late Romantic music was a totemic figure in Finland, a national icon. The public knew that he lived hidden away in his large house on the woodland. His last pieces were Symphony Nos. four, five, six and seven as well as the Tapiola. That was in the 1920s, however, roughly twenty years before. The Second World War had just blown over and Sibelius liked to smoke cigars and entertain guests while the reconstruction of Europe went on.

Sibelius had just gone for a long stroll in the woods that morning. He was wearing a shirt and denim trousers. Several fronds surrounded him on the path. The day was oppressively cold, but he found that this energised him. He had to be careful to stick to the path, lest he fall into a deep ravine. If this were to happen, there would be a public outcry – “Finland’s national icon has gone missing!”. As he carried on walking down the path, he placed his hand on the bark of a tree. Indeed, he often liked touching them. As he walked farther ahead, he had to push aside several branches which intercepted the path. Sibelius liked walking in this woodland, but it was seldom populated and he was rarely hampered by human intervention.

Sibelius pushed aside the branches and twigs that flung themselves in his face. The birds gathered together in a thicket opposite him. Sibelius stopped walking for a while and leant on one of the birches. He walked farther ahead for a few more minutes and encountered a bramble, snatching several blackberries off them.

Sibelius wandered farther ahead up the path. He walked and walked and walked. He continued to do this until he lost his bearings. It suddenly dawned on him that he was completely lost. The woodland that surrounded his house was, after all, rather vast. He had gone on several walks around it in the past, but he always stuck to the same paths. He walked ahead on the path for a further thirty minutes, looking at the ferns and the branches which surrounded him. Sibelius clutched at his long grey beard and decided to lie down next to a large tree. There was no need to panic. Surely, if he walked to the epicentre of the woodland he would find his bearings and arrive at his house once again.

Sibelius leant his head on the bark and started to think – what would Finland think about this? What would the nation think about the loss of one of its greatest icons? The composer of Finlandia has gone missing! The man who appears on our national currency! One of our greatest national exports!

Nonetheless, Sibelius realised that he was getting ahead of himself and this was a bit of self-inflicted hyperbole. He rose up and walked farther ahead up the path. The trick was to find his bearing before the afternoon came to an end and it started to get dark. Otherwise, he would be lost in the darkness.

Sibelius walked father ahead up the path until he recognised a grove. Yes, he had reached the epicentre of the woods. He now knew what path to follow so as to reach his house. He walked through a path for about ten minutes until he reached his house, the coveted Ainola.   

The house was hidden by tall trees – for the better, as he did not want intrusive fans harassing him. Sibelius opened the door and walked in. There were rows of glasses in the cabinet. He withdrew a glass and poured himself a sizeable amount of rum. He had to reward himself after a long meander through the woods, especially when he almost ended up getting lost.

There was a Steinway piano in the corner of the room. It was surrounded by reams of sheet music. Sibelius might not be professional in his ability, but he did enjoy playing a bit of Chopin, Liszt, Beethoven and Schubert on the piano. Sibelius held the glass of rum on his right hand and placed it on the kitchen table. He took a cigar out and lit, taking a few puffs out of it. He looked at the window opposite his Steinway piano, in which a lake was visible. It was a calm and peaceful sight which Sibelius enjoyed, as he puffed away at his cigar and took a few more sips from his glass of rum. This was a commendable pursuit of pleasure, a completely harmless one.

Sibelius walked to the other end of his house, towards the back room. There was a softer woodland visible here. He always liked observing the woodland from several places in his house. He walked back towards the dining room and lit the fire. He was away from the hustle and bustle of the city, but the residents of Finland respected that. They were willing to let their national icon enjoy his well-deserved solitude and freedom. It gave him the tranquillity that he needed to pursue his creative endeavours. He was not, after all, completely cut off from the world. There were other artistic families in the neighbourhood who dropped in, but nonetheless, Sibelius also enjoyed days like this.

Recently Sibelius had started work on Symphony No. 8. Twenty years had elapsed since the premiere of Symphony No. 7, so perhaps it was appropriate to start work on a follow-up? Several motifs had started to circulate in his mind. Indeed, the entirety of the first movement swirled around his head as he walked through the woods. He had already written the opening melody for the string section.

Sibelius walked towards his grand piano and rummaged through the reams of sheet music. Buried within the Beethoven sonatas which he had been playing were the opening sections of Symphony No. 8.

He took a few more puffs on his cigar and looked at the score. He had been thinking about several of his motifs whilst going on his walks, but what he was reading now did not seem adequate. It seemed so perfunctory, as if it had been written hurriedly in a matter of minutes. No, this did not seem to be a solid follow-up to the seventh.

Sibelius threw the score into the fireplace. He let the paper burn. He took a few more swigs of his glass of rum. He might entertain more guests, he might play more bars of Beethoven, he might drink more rum and he might smoke more cigars. However, his days as a composer of symphonies were over. He looked at the hearth full of cinders, but this thought did not bother him in the slightest. He already proved his worth and the whole of Finland revered him.

 

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