The deeply forested, lake-strewn country of Finland was celebrating a national festival. Every Finnish hamlet was gaily festooned and beflagged. Schoolchildren had the day off. Deputations from the provinces and from many foreign countries, converging on Helsingfors, the capital,, bore testimonials signed by many a foreign bigwig. At night the festivities culminated in a gigantic concert in the city's largest auditorium, with two symphony orchestras and a choir of 500 voices. There were 8,000 people in the audience. In places of honor sat President Svin-hufvud, Field Marshal Baron Mannerheim and the visiting Prime Ministers of Denmark, Norway and Sweden.
Focus of all this celebration was a vigorous, severely dressed oldster, whose polished, monolithic head rose above an oversized collar. For many hours he stood patiently erect—with a curious bearing of rustic urbanity and retiring self assurance —receiving the congratulations of state officials, municipal leaders, foreign envoys and friends. At the concert all eyes were upon his rugged figure as he sat, with his small, dapper wife, between the President and the Field Marshal. Though urged, he declined to make a speech. Even when Finland's Premier, Dr. Kivimaki, addressing the great audience, presented him with a laurel wreath symbolic of an entire nation's debt, he remained firmly and shyly silent. It was only later, at a banquet given by intimate friends, that he tried to express his gratitude. As he stood up, however, emotion overcame him. Dumbly, the fierce-faced old man clasped his wife in his arms, expressed in a long embrace feelings he could not utter. The old man was Jean Julius Christian Sibelius, most famous of present-day composers and "Uncrowned King of Finland"; the occasion was his seventieth birthday.
That was two years ago. Next week Sibelius has another birthday. This time there will be no speeches, no receptions, no disquieting crowds of idolaters. That birthday belonged to Finland. This belongs to Sibelius. Full of years and honors, he will pass the day at his villa, "Ainola," in the forests some 30 mi. north of the capital, not expecting a visit from even one of his five married daughters. Yet for him his 72nd birthday will be more important than his work. A good part of his day will be spent "working in undisturbed peace." His Eighth Symphony, for which the world has been waiting twelve years, is drawing towards completion. So perhaps is his life's work. As a level-headed countryman, he knows that, having passed three score and ten, none of his remaining vigor need be spared for fripperies. At 72, important tasks still remain to be accomplished.