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Cold Water. Though his eminence is still somewhat grudgingly conceded in Central Europe, for Central Europeans have a firm faith that only a Central European can write a good symphony, little Finland's great man Sibelius is regarded by many a musician as the lineal successor of Beethoven and Brahms. His present fame has arrived slowly and late. His music, individual, serious, austere and sometimes forbidding, contains no trace of modernistic tricks or formulas. As he once remarked to his publisher (in Swedish) "Här i utlandet fabricemr ni cocktails i olika külorer, och nu kommer jag med rena källvattnet" ("Other composers may manufacture cocktails of every color; I offer the public pure cold water").
Among his 150-odd compositions, chief importance attaches to his seven symphonies, acknowledged masterpieces in a form that has been successfully tackled only by a handful of the greatest figures in music. The first two symphonies—more ingratiating, less austere than the rest— have long been popular.
Only a decade ago Sibelius' cold water was considered a drink for connoisseurs to sip. But of late the public taste for his invigorating music has reached the proportions of thirsty demand. In 1935 a poll of the Columbia Broadcasting System's U. S. and Canadian listeners gave him first place in popularity (Beethoven was second) among all composers, past and present. This autumn Manhattan's Radio City MusicHall Conductor Erno Rapee unhesitatingly undertook to broadcast Sibelius' entire set of seven symphonies. The Boston Symphony and Philadelphia Orchestra play them far oftener than the once-popular symphonies of Tchaikovsky and Cesar Franck. The great bald Finn has come into his own.
The Bohemian garret-&-starvation conception of a great artist does not apply to Sibelius. Since 1897 he has enjoyed a modest pension from the Finnish state, which has provided him with leisure to compose. At his house at Jarvenpaa he lives the secluded life of a highly respectable country gentleman. His five daughters have long since gone forth to marry and raise families of their own. He and his wife live alone, looked after by two maids. He relishes good food and drink, smokes continually the best and largest Havana cigars, is partial between meals to well-aged whiskey served in beautiful cutglass tumblers. Visitors to "Ainola" are impressed by his measured hospitality and particularly by the genuine good nature which belies his fearsome face.
I, Sphinx. About his own music Sibelius is cagey. Some have called him Sphinxlike, and he has found the description a great convenience. Nowadays, when English-speaking visitors get too inquisitive about how he composes or when his next symphony will be finished, he replies with regretful, laconic shrug: "I, Sphinx." There are grounds to suspect that he has quantities of early unpublished compositions stored about the house, that he has already outlined the movements of a Ninth Symphony in addition to those of his forthcoming Eighth. A visitor's inquisitiveness invariably brings the same Finnish shrug, the favorite, inevitable reply.