Arts, Faculty of
Music, School of
DSpace
UBCV
Mahlberg, Daniel Sakari
Doctor of Philosophy - PhD
University of British Columbia
In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Finnish nationalists struggled to define their country’s national identity while simultaneously navigating two foreign infractions: Swedish rule, which remained influential even after Finland was annexed by Russia in 1809, and Russian colonization, which continued until Finland’s independence in 1917. Inspired by Herder, they justified claims for cultural and political legitimacy by disseminating a written form of the incipient Finnish language, manufacturing a national epic, the Kalevala, and reinforcing the myth of Finland as a homogenous national entity rooted in the natural world. Meanwhile, Finnish musicians sought to advance their nation’s international standing by producing works aimed at the elevation of Finland’s artistic canon. Jean Sibelius was only one of several influential artistic figures active in early twentieth-century Finland. Leevi Madetoja (1887-1947), who lived and worked in Sibelius’s shadow, composed a number of weighty, melancholic works, many of which include national associations. For example, Madetoja’s Second Symphony (1918) was inspired by the events of Finland’s civil war, while his first opera Pohjalaisia (1924) explores a narrative of self-determination and freedom from oppression. As there is little information available on Madetoja outside Finland, this project aims to bring an awareness of his life and work to a wider audience. It begins by situating Madetoja in the larger political and artistic nationalist movements of the time. Madetoja’s incorporation of a sense of place in his output, through the integration of folk idioms and references to the Finnish landscape, is explored through an assessment of his contemporaneous critical reception. This in turn reveals how Finnish audiences received his work with respect to Finland’s nationalist undertakings. Further, through a detailed analysis of the Second Symphony, this study discusses Madetoja’s style through a demonstration of his twentieth-century adaptation of older formal models and his development of strong organic connnections among themes and motives. This dissertation concludes by investigating the commonly held perspective that Madetoja’s work exhibits to a certain extent a French character, and it situates Madetoja vis-à-vis his colleagues Sibelius and Debussy, aiming at a broader understanding of Madetoja’s international position.
“THE MIGHTY SPRING TIDE OF FINNISH MUSIC”: NATIONALISM AND INTERNATIONALISM IN THE MUSIC OF LEEVI MADETOJA by Daniel Sakari Mahlberg B.F.A., Simon Fraser University, 1999 M.A., California State University, 2007 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE AND POSTDOCTORAL STUDIES (Music) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) October 2018 © Daniel Sakari Mahlberg, 2018 ii The following individuals certify that they have read, and recommend to the Faculty of Graduate and Postdoctoral Studies for acceptance, the dissertation entitled: “The Mighty Spring Tide of Finnish Music”: Nationalism and Internationalism in the Music of Leevi Madetoja submitted by Daniel Sakari Mahlberg in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Music Examining Committee: Vera Georgia Micznik Co-supervisor David J. Metzer Co-supervisor Alan Dodson Supervisory Committee Member Alexander Fisher University Examiner Herbert Rosengarten University Examiner Daniel M. Grimley External Examiner iii Abstract In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Finnish nationalists struggled to define their country’s national identity while simultaneously navigating two foreign infractions: Swedish rule, which remained influential even after Finland was annexed by Russia in 1809, and Russian colonization, which continued until Finland’s independence in 1917. Inspired by Herder, they justified claims for cultural and political legitimacy by disseminating a written form of the incipient Finnish language, manufacturing a national epic, the Kalevala, and reinforcing the myth of Finland as a homogenous national entity rooted in the natural world. Meanwhile, Finnish musicians sought to advance their nation’s international standing by producing works aimed at the elevation of Finland’s artistic canon. Jean Sibelius was only one of several influential artistic figures active in early twentieth-century Finland. Leevi Madetoja (1887-1947), who lived and worked in Sibelius’s shadow, composed a number of weighty, melancholic works, many of which include national associations. For example, Madetoja’s Second Symphony (1918) was inspired by the events of Finland’s civil war, while his first opera Pohjalaisia (1924) explores a narrative of self-determination and freedom from oppression. As there is little information available on Madetoja outside Finland, this project aims to bring an awareness of his life and work to a wider audience. It begins by situating Madetoja in the larger political and artistic nationalist movements of the time. Madetoja’s incorporation of a sense of place in his output, through the integration of folk idioms and iv references to the Finnish landscape, is explored through an assessment of his contemporaneous critical reception. This in turn reveals how Finnish audiences received his work with respect to Finland’s nationalist undertakings. Further, through a detailed analysis of the Second Symphony, this study discusses Madetoja’s style through a demonstration of his twentieth-century adaptation of older formal models and his development of strong organic connnections among themes and motives. This dissertation concludes by investigating the commonly held perspective that Madetoja’s work exhibits to a certain extent a French character, and it situates Madetoja vis-à-vis his colleagues Sibelius and Debussy, aiming at a broader understanding of Madetoja’s international position. v Lay Summary One of the most significant of Jean Sibelius’s small number of students, Leevi Madetoja (1887-1947) graduated from the University of Helsinki in 1910, continuing his training with Vincent d’Indy in Paris and Robert Fuchs in Vienna. Madetoja composed two operas, the first of which received international acclaim and was quickly elevated to the status of Finland’s national opera, a position it held for more than sixty years. He also composed three symphonies, the last of which is widely considered comparable in artistic merit to the symphonies of Sibelius. Many of Madetoja’s works were composed during a time of intense sociopolitical unrest. This dissertation undertakes an examination of the nationalist climate of early twentieth-century Finland, tracking the origins of the country’s journey toward independence. Through an examination of Madetoja’s life and music, it aims at an understanding of how Finnish musicians impacted, and were influenced by, this turbulent milieu. vi Preface This dissertation is an original, unpublished, independent work by the author, Daniel Sakari Mahlberg. vii Table of Contents Abstract ...................................................................................................................... iii Lay Summary ............................................................................................................... v Preface ........................................................................................................................ vi Table of Contents ...................................................................................................... vii List of Tables ............................................................................................................... x List of Figures ............................................................................................................. xi List of Musical Examples .......................................................................................... xii Acknowledgements .................................................................................................... xv Dedication .............................................................................................................. xviii Introduction ................................................................................................................. 1 Background .............................................................................................................................. 1 Literature Review ................................................................................................................... 7 Thesis Outline ....................................................................................................................... 12 ..... 16 Background and Introduction .............................................................................................. 16 “Qu’est-ce que une nation?” ................................................................................................. 17 When Is a Nation? ................................................................................................................ 24 Johann Gottfried Herder and the Reconstruction of the Finnish Language ................... 29 Constructing the Ideal Finn ................................................................................................. 37 viii The Kalevala: A Case Study ................................................................................................. 42 From Cultural to Political Nationalism ............................................................................... 52 Conclusion: Does Finland Have a History? ........................................................................ 59 .. 62 Background and Introduction ............................................................................................. 62 Folk Music ............................................................................................................................. 72 Nature and Landscape ......................................................................................................... 84 “Europeanization”: An International Awareness of National Space ................................ 92 Conclusions to This Chapter .............................................................................................. 103 ..................... 109Ostrobothnia ....................................................................................................................... 109 Juvenilia: Madetoja’s Formative Years ................................................................................ 110 University Life, Folksong Collection, and Studies under Sibelius .................................... 112 First-Period Compositions, Travel Abroad, and Gainful Employment ............................ 116 “A Costly Sacrifice”: The War Period ................................................................................. 124 Madetoja’s Rise and Fall: Late-Period Compositions ........................................................ 131 ........... 137 Introduction ........................................................................................................................ 137 The First Movement ............................................................................................................. 141 Subsequent Movements ..................................................................................................... 193 Critical Response ................................................................................................................. 203 ix Conclusions to This Chapter ............................................................................................. 207 ............................................. 215Introduction ........................................................................................................................ 215 Sibelius ................................................................................................................................. 216 Debussy ............................................................................................................................... 226 Other French Influences ..................................................................................................... 243 Conclusions to This Chapter ............................................................................................. 266 Conclusion ............................................................................................................... 268 Bibliography ............................................................................................................. 274 Appendix .................................................................................................................. 290 Formal Analysis of Madetoja’s Symphony No. 2 in E-flat Major, First Movement ....... 290 x List of Tables Table 4.1: Authentic cadences in Madetoja’s Symphony No. 2, first movement. ................ 171 xi List of Figures Figure 4.1: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, large scale tonal movement. ..... 160 xii List of Musical Examples Example 2.1: Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, opening motive. ............................................................ 78 Example 2.2: Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, act 1, measures 18-22. ................................................... 79 Example 2.3: a) Peter Hyttinen’s spiritual melody; b) “Tuuli se taivutti koivun larvan”; c) Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, opening motive. ................................................................................. 80 Example 2.4: Debussy, Pelléas et Mélisande, Act 3, Scene 4, opening motive. ..................... 81 Example 2.5: Original “Talapakan Nikolai.” ........................................................................... 82 Example 2.6: Madetoja’s “Talapakan Nikolai.” ...................................................................... 83 Example 2.7: Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, opening of act 2. ........................................................... 91 Example 4.1: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 1-2. .......................... 143 Example 4.2: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, principal theme, measures 2-18. .................................................................................................................................................. 144 Example 4.3: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, variations on subphrase 1a. ... 146 Example 4.4: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, comparison of subphrase 1a with motive A. .................................................................................................................................. 148 Example 4.5: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, variations on motive A. ........ 149 Example 4.6: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, second thematic idea, oscillating theme, measures 69-76. .......................................................................................................... 150 Example 4.7: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, motive D, measures 77-80. .... 151 Example 4.8: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, ascending octatonic variant of motive A, measures 80-83. ..................................................................................................... 152 Example 4.9: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, accompaniment patterns 4 and 3, measures 103-08. .................................................................................................................. 153 Example 4.10: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, continuous development of accomp. 3. ................................................................................................................................ 154 Example 4.11: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, third thematic idea, “conjunct melody,” measures 104-120. .................................................................................................... 155 xiii Example 4.12: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, continuous development of motive E. .................................................................................................................................. 156 Example 4.13: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, fourth thematic idea, “dance theme,” measures 176-191. ....................................................................................................... 158 Example 4.14: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 89-90. ................... 163 Example 4.15: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 104-106. ................ 164 Example 4.16: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 1-2. ........................ 168 Example 4.17: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, principal theme. ................... 169 Example 4.18: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 15-19. ..................... 172 Example 4.19: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 26-28. ................... 175 Example 4.20: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 35-39. ................... 177 Example 4.21: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 62-63. ................... 179 Example 4.22: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 68-69. ................... 181 Example 4.23: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, third thematic idea, measures 105-120. ..................................................................................................................................... 183 Example 4.24: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, 168-176. ................................. 186 Example 4.25: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, second movement, oboe solo, measures 1-5. 194 Example 4.26: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, second movement, measures 44-51, theme in first violins. .............................................................................................................................. 196 Example 4.27: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, third movement, measures 10-13. ................... 199 Example 4.28: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, third movement, measures 34-39, “waltz-like jingle.” ..................................................................................................................................... 200 Example 5.1: Sibelius, Symphony No. 5, first movement, measures 1-4. ............................. 218 Example 5.2: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 1-4. ........................ 220 Example 5.3: Sibelius, Symphony No. 5, first movement, measures 5-9. ............................ 221 xiv Example 5.4: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, principal theme fragment (above); Debussy, String Quartet No. 1, Op. 10, first movement, principal theme fragment in rhythmic augmentation (below). ..................................................................................... 228 Example 5.5: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, measures 1-4, flute solo (ex. a, above); Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, second movement, measures 1-5 (ex. b, below). ...... 230 Example 5.6: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, measures 3-5. ............................ 232 Example 5.7: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, measures 10-15. .......................... 234 Example 5.8: Debussy, Nocturnes, “Fêtes,” measures 1-2. .................................................... 235 Example 5.9: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, measures 73-79. ........................ 236 Example 5.10: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 16-18, reduction. .. 238 Example 5.11: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, melodic variation of principal theme. ..................................................................................................................................... 239 Example 5.12: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, continuous development of subphrase 1a. ............................................................................................................................ 241 Example 5.13: Madetoja, Konserttialkusoitto, op. 7, opening. ............................................ 246 Example 5.14: Madetoja, Kullervo, op. 15, measures 243-44. ............................................... 248 Example 5.15: Sibelius, Pohjolan tytär, op. 49, measures 160-61. ........................................ 249 Example 5.16: Franck, Le Chasseur maudit, opening. ........................................................... 251 Example 5.17: Madetoja, Kullervo, opening. .......................................................................... 251 Example 5.18: Madetoja, Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto, op. 53, third theme. ............................ 256 Example 5.19: Madetoja, Symphony No. 3, third movement, measures 44-45. ................. 259 Example 5.20: Madetoja, Symphony No. 3, third movement, measures 99-104. .............. 260 Example 5.21: Madetoja, Symphony No. 3, fourth movement, measures 72-79. ................ 261 Example 5.22: Madetoja, Okon Fuoko, Suite 1, “Okon Fuoko, unitaikuri,” measures 1-8. 264 xv Acknowledgements This project would not have succeeded without the guidance and encouragement of my dissertation committee. Vera Micznik was critical in shaping the direction of my research. Her sage counsel, meticulous review, and brilliant suggestions helped me clarify my thoughts and strengthen my voice. David Metzer devoted untold hours to a ruthless reading of this document, lending keen insight, pragmatic advice, and a fresh perspective. Alan Dodson, who offered pivotal support during the earliest stages of my degree, kindly stepped in at the eleventh hour with his assessment of the project. Alexander Fisher, a guiding force throughout my degree, offered a careful reading and welcome feedback. Herbert Rosengarten’s perceptive questions and gracious demeanour helped make the defence experience a pleasant one. Richard Froese served as the examination chair, an important post without which my learning would not have been fulfilled. I am honoured to have my dissertation read by one of the foremost scholars of Scandinavian music, Daniel Grimley, who offered rigorous, insightful commentary as the external examiner. Many other dedicated individuals supported me both personally and professionally over the course of my degree. Margret Andan, William Benjamin, Gregory Butler, Edward Jurkowski, and Michael Tenzer offered vital assistance on numerous occasions. Kevin Madill and the staff of the University of British Columbia library accommodated my increasingly obscure interlibrary loan requests. My cohorts Nick Steinwand and Jennifer Paulson enriched my academic experience by sharing their experiences and offering xvi ongoing advice and reassurance. The late Demi Dunlap, a cherished friend, was pivotal in inspiring me to undertake this project; it was her dream to attend my convocation. My family was a tremendous source of inspiration, sharing in my excitement as my degree took shape and became a reality. Their support, for which I will always be grateful, sustained me through a busy personal and professional period. My paternal grandparents, Annikki and the late Kauko Mahlberg, inspired me to discover and study my cultural heritage; I am proud to trace my roots to Finland and experience firsthand its rich history. My maternal grandmother, the late Ann Coles, was a strong advocate for my studies, and her “tuna surprise” sustained me through many late nights of study. My parents, Kari and the late Sheila Mahlberg, were a source of unconditional love and unfailing encouragement, without which none of this would have been possible. My father guided this journey of cultural exploration, accompanied me to Finland, doubled as my factchecker and proofreader, and motivated me to make this project a reality. My loving mother gave in every possible way, beyond what my words can justly describe; she was with me in spirit throughout the process. Christy Mahlberg and Pradeep Nair generously took time from their own busy lives to help me prepare for my defence, peppering me with razor-sharp questions and goat jokes. Christy provided the ceaseless encouragement and support that only a sibling can offer, while Deep offered every manner of concrete help. Carol Lloyd kindly offered her babysitting skills and endured countless iterations of my defense presentation. Peter and Teresa Kam selflessly welcomed me to their home and their family, offering their support in myriad tangible ways too detailed to enumerate. xvii My beloved wife and best friend, Lida, sustained me through all of this. I could not have reached this point without her unconditional love and care. My darling son, Aiden, was a source of inspiration, joy, and sleepless nights that awakened in me newfound personal strength. I would like to thank the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council for providing funding that supported my studies and allowed me to travel to Finland to conduct research. While in Finland, I was fortunate to meet with Dr. Tuire Ranta-Meyer, who shared unparalleled advice, and to receive assistance from the archivists and staff of the National Library of Finland and the Sibelius Academy. The musical examples for Jean Sibelius's Pohjolan tytär, Op. 49 are taken from the 1906 edition (Berlin: Schelsinger) and the examples for Sibelius's Symphony No. 5, Op. 82 are taken from the 1921 edition (Copenhagen: Wilhelm Hansen). My thanks to Susanna Lehtinen and Fennica Gehrman publications for sanctioning the use of Leevi Madetoja's music in this dissertation. xviii Dedication This dissertation is dedicated to my family, for their love and support, and to the memory of the late Sheila Mahlberg. 1 Introduction The average Englishman is not too far wrong when he thinks, rather loosely, of Finland as a land of desolate wastes. The Finns call their country Suomi, sometimes derivated from the word suo, meaning swamp, and indeed, one third of the area consists of peaty marshes similar to the peat bogs of Ireland or the mosses of Lancashire. Moreover, the general bleakness is further emphasised by the fact that two-thirds of the year is bitterly cold and when the Land of the Midnight Sun becomes the Land of the Mid-day Moon, short nights stretch into interminable day.1 Background Denby Richards’s facetious prose, above, hints at an important truth: that Finland’s unique geography is crucial to its development as a nation. Finland’s western border is formed by the Gulf of Bothnia and its southern border by the Gulf of Finland. Its far northern latitude places a full third of the country within the Arctic Circle. This results in a strong sense of isolation from the rest of Europe. In Veikko Helasvuo’s words, “less than a hundred years ago not many people in Europe knew that such a country as Finland even existed.”2 Even today, although Finland has been part of the European Union since 1995, its capital city, Helsinki, “rarely shows up on central European television weather maps.”3 1 Denby Richards, The Music of Finland (London: Hugh Evelyn, 1968), 1. 2 Veikko Helasvuo, Sibelius and the Music of Finland, 3rd ed., trans. R. Milton and Paul Sjöblom (Helsinki: Otava, 1961), 7. 3 Glenda Dawn Goss, Sibelius: A Composer’s Life and the Awakening of Finland (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 9. 2 The idea that geography is destiny—shaping people, polity, and culture—can be traced back at least as far as the French historian Ernest Renan (1823–1892).4 Historically, Finland’s remote location separated its inhabitants from contemporary European developments. Finnish classical music before Sibelius, the celebrated Finnish conductor Robert Kajanus (1856-1933) recounted, was little more than “a feeble offshoot of the German school onto which Finnish folk elements were, shall we say, ethnographically grafted.”5 Likewise, Ferruccio Busoni—during a visit to Helsinki in 1888-89—noted with dismay the utter lack of curriculum at the Conservatory and of a regular opera company (according to him, there was only a pitiable theatre where standards like La Traviata were sung in Swedish). Any and all efforts were praised as “good,” and everyone was “talented,” Busoni lamented, and artists were content with “reproducing or imitating a fragment of that which has been achieved elsewhere.”6 Finland’s cultural Renaissance—which Kimmo Korhonen describes as the “Golden Age of Finnish Art” and “The Mighty Spring Tide of Finnish Music”—did not arrive until the closing decade of the nineteenth century, when Sibelius’s works of the 1890s gave Finland a more profound and original musical voice.7 According to 4 See Ernest Renan, “Qu’est-ce qu’une nation?” in Oeuvres Complètes, vol. 1 (Paris: Calmann-Lévy, 1947-61), 887-907; repr. as “What is a Nation?” in Becoming National: A Reader, ed. Geoff Eley and Ronald Suny, trans. Martin Thom (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 41-55. 5 Kimmo Korhonen, Inventing Finnish Music, 2nd ed., ed. Aarne Toivonen, trans. Jaakko Mäntyjärvi (Jyväskylä, Gummerus Kirjapaino, 2007), 34. 6 Goss, Sibelius, 78. 7 Korhonen, Inventing, 33. 3 some scholars, his symphonic poem Kullervo (1892) marked the birth of Finnish music as “a sign that [it] had reached, besides a high aesthetic level, a spiritual independence, having found its own tone.”8 By the turn of the century, his music was already making international inroads, most notably through a highly successful concert with the Helsingin kaupungin orkesteri at the Paris World Fair of 1900.9 Sibelius, however, was but one of several talented musicians in early twentieth-century Finland. Perhaps his most significant contemporary was Leevi Madetoja (1887-1947), whose stylistic refinement and technical polish secured him the nickname of “master of orchestral music.”10 A student of Sibelius, Madetoja is often described in relation to his teacher, even when arguing for his status as an artist in his own right. He has, for example, been characterized as “highest among the Finnish symphonists immediately succeeding Sibelius” and “possibly the most significant of the Finnish post-Sibelian Romantic composers.”11 His three symphonies, the core of his output, have garnered considerable 8 Toivo Haapanen, Suomen säveltaide (Helsinki: n.p., 1940), 362-63; trans. Matti Huttunen, “Nationalistic and Non-Nationalistic Views of Sibelius in the 20th-Century Finnish Music Historiography,” in Music and Nationalism in 20th-Century Great Britain and Finland, ed. Tomi Mäkelä (Hamburg: von Bockel Verlag, 1997), 222. 9 Goss, Sibelius, 273-87; see also Helena Tyrväinen, “Sibelius at the Paris Universal Exposition of 1900,” in Sibelius Forum: Proceedings from the Second International Jean Sibelius Conference, Helsinki, 25-29 November, 1995, ed. Matti Huttunen, Kari Kilpeläinen, and Veijo Murtomäki (Helsinki: Sibelius Academy, 2003), 114-28. 10 Kimmo Korhonen, “Leevi Madetoja in Profile,” trans. Susan Sinisalo, Finnish Music Information Centre, accessed 17 December 2013, www.fimic.fi. 11 Glenn Norman Koponen, “A Study of the Symphony in Finland from 1945 to 1975 with an Analysis of Representative Compositions” (PhD diss., Columbia University, 1980), 25. 4 praise. Evert Katila asserts that Madetoja’s Second is “the most significant of our artistic achievements after Sibelius’s monumental series,”12 while Salmenhaara argues that the Third is “one of the few items in Finnish literature on par with the works of Sibelius.”13 In certain respects, Madetoja’s achievements have even eclipsed Sibelius’s. Whereas the latter’s only opera Jungfrun i tornet (The Maiden in the Tower, 1896) was hindered by a poor reception, Madetoja’s Pohjalaisia (The Ostrobothnians, 1917-24) received exceptional critical acclaim, securing its status as Finland’s national opera, which it maintained until the arrival of Joonas Kokkonen’s The Last Temptations in 1975. Moreover, it is possible, as Salmenhaara states, to speak of a “Madetoja school” in 1930s Finnish music, but not a “Sibelius school”: whereas Sibelius largely stopped composing after the premiere of Tapiola (1926), Madetoja’s contributions to Finnish music continued through the 1930s with such important works as the ballet-pantomime Okon Fuoko (1925-27) and the opera Juha (1931-34).14 Yet Madetoja and his music are hardly known outside Finland. This dissertation is 12 “Kaikesta huolimatta ihmeellistä elinvoimaa.” [. . .] “Sinfonian tummalla traagilliselta pohjalta kohoava tunne-piiri vastaa erinomaisesti nykyajan henkeä.” [. . .] “Huomattavin saavutus, mihin säveltaiteemme Sibeliuksen monumentaalisen sarjan jälkeen [on päässyt].” Evert Katila, Helsingin Sanomat, 5 January 1919; quoted in Erkki Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetoja (Helsinki: Tammi, 1987), 179. Unless otherwise specified, translations are my own. 13 Erkki Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja: A Composer from Ostrobothnia and Paris,” Fennica Gehrman, accessed 5 July 2018, www.fennicagehrman.fi/composers/madetoja-leevi/. 14 Ibid., 176. The literature is rife with impressive claims to Madetoja’s achievements. About the Third Symphony and the Comedy Overture, Paavo Heininen states: “Their humane, unpretentious classicism and their cultured outlook on the roots of Finnish art make them unique in Finnish music.” Paavo Heininen, liner notes for Leevi Madetoja, Sinfonia III, Finnlevy SFX 20, 1974, LP; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 32. Anterro Karttunen suggests that “Leevi Madetoja was the creator and the discoverer of new modes of expression. For his was an original, national, visionary musical outlook, by virtue of which he was able to make familiar procedures serve the purpose of expressing in music previously uncaptured moods.” Antero Karttunen, liner notes for Leevi Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, Finnish National Opera, conducted by Jorma Panula, Finnlevy SFX 22-5 devoted to bringing to light Madetoja’s life and musical contributions, especially to audiences outside Finland. Leevi Madetoja is an enigma, and his artistic profile is exceptionally contradictory. The composer Seppo Nummi describes him as “the most Nordic of the northerners,”15 an epithet owing to a childhood in the remote Finnish region of Northern Ostrobothnia. He repeats an established cliché of Madetoja as “the most Finnish of all Finnish artists. Slow-moving, straight, melancholy. Somehow an entirely rustic figure, though cultivated enough in his incomplete quality.”16 The pianist Gustav Djupsjöbacka agrees, observing that Madetoja’s output appears “somehow non-communicative in a peculiarly Finnish way,” and adding that “the melancholy of the vast Ostrobothnian plains which suffuses the music of Madetoja complements the image of a profound Finnish philosopher.”17 Contrarily, Seija Lappalainen and Erkki Salmenhaara describe him as a cosmopolitan artist; “as an operatic 24, 1975, LP. Jarmo Sermilä suggests that “during Sibelius’s lifetime [Madetoja] created a completely individual cycle of three symphonies that clearly diverges from Sibelius’s massive use of the orchestra.” Jarmo Sermilä, Finland’s Composers: Short Historical Outline [sic] (Helsinki: Ulkoasiainministeriö, 1976), 6; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 32. Veikko Helasvuo notes that Sibelius’s three symphonies are equally celebrated and generally held to be the most successful efforts in the genre of Finnish symphonic literature after Sibelius. Helasvuo, Sibelius, 41; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 26. 15 Seppo Nummi, “Tänään oopperassa: Madetojan Pohjalaisia,” Uusi Suomi, 6 Sept 1967; quoted in Kauko Karjalainen, “Nationalism in Leevi Madetoja’s Operatic Works,” in Mäkelä, Music and Nationalism, 191. 16 Ibid., 191. 17 Gustav Djupsjöbacka, “A Brief Outline of the Finnish Art Song,” Finnish Music Information Centre, accessed 29 March 2012, www.fimic.fi. 6 and orchestral composer,” they argue, “he is worthy of international stature.”18 His French influences are particularly noteworthy. Kimmo Korhonen maintains that Madetoja’s oeuvre contains “an elegance indicative of French music,”19 while Vera Nilova insists that it “is imbued with a French modalism.”20 Madetoja lived and worked through a time of intense sociopolitical unrest associated with the forced Russification of Finnish language and politics. The turmoil deepened through the late 1800s, following the ascent to the throne of Tsars Alexander III (r. 1881-1894) and Nicholas II (r. 1894-1917), who were less sympathetic than their predecessors toward Finland’s autonomous status as a Grand Duchy. Simultaneously, the Hegelian call for the advancement of national culture, incited by European currents and expressed in Finland most notably through the work and legacy of the Finnish philosopher Johan Vilhelm Snellman (1806-1881), reached a new level of intensity. These developments were all-encompassing, impacting upon education, government, language, and the arts. In music, they were expressed most notably through a demand, by Finnish audiences and critics alike, for representative showpieces of national culture that contained not only a 18 Seija Lappalainen and Erkki Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetojan Teokset, trans. William Moore (Jyväskylä: Suomen Säveltäjät ry, 1987), 120. 19 Kimmo Korhonen, “Orchestral Works of Leevi Madetoja,” trans. Susan Sinisalo, Finnish Music Information Centre, accessed 2 February 2010, www.fimic.fi. 20 Vera Nilova, “Un vent parisien souffle sur Helsinki: les influences françaises dans la musique finlandaise au début du XXe siècle,” Revue des études slaves 84, nos. 3-4 (2013): 465. 7 unique, identifiably Finnish character but also a measure of patriotic spirit.21 Certain works in Madetoja’s oeuvre, including the Second Symphony (1916-18) and the opera Pohjalaisia, fit this description. This congruity is problematic in some respects, for, as Karjalainen points out, Madetoja’s music tends to be neglected when nationalist considerations form the primary basis for his assessment.22 Although this study will initially situate Madetoja within a national framework, the intention is to explore how Madetoja navigated this sociopolitical milieu in his compositions. Literature Review Madetoja’s representation in English-language scholarship is negligible at best. Although Madetoja’s contemporaneous reception was second only to Sibelius, and although his output has witnessed a present-day renaissance supported most notably by the release of his works on several major record labels, his music has not, to date, served as the sole subject of an article in a North-American academic journal, let alone an English-language book-length study. Outside Finland, Madetoja scholarship is so scarce that album notes frequently serve as source material, even among academics.23 21 Kauko Karjalainen, Leevi Madetojan oopperat Pohjalaisia ja Juha: Teokset, tekstit ja kontekstit (Helsinki: Helsingin Yliopiston Musiikkitieteen Laitos, 1991), 305. 22 Ibid., 3. 23 See, for example, Koponen, “Symphony,” 27, 31-32. 8 In English, Ruth Esther Hillila’s “The Solo Songs of Toivo Kuula and Leevi Madetoja and their Place in Twentieth Century Finnish Art Song”24 is a pioneering work. While the study avoids discussion of Madetoja’s symphonies and operas in favour of his vocal works, it offers useful biographical information and skillfully situates Madetoja within Finland’s historical, literary, and musical contexts. Another important source is Seija Lappalainen and Erkki Salmenhaara’s Leevi Madetojan teokset [The Works of Leevi Madetoja], which—despite the Finnish title—contains several pages in English translation. Unfortunately, it is not readily accessible outside Finland, and its biography—at six pages in length—is far from comprehensive. Otherwise, English sources are limited primarily to small feature pieces in the journal Finnish Music Quarterly and brief articles affiliated mainly with the Finnish Music Information Centre which, while valuable, serve mainly to whet the reader’s appetite.25 For those with a reading knowledge of Finnish, more material is available. For many years, Kalervo Tuukkanen’s Leevi Madetoja suomalainen säveltäjäpersoonallisuus [Leevi Madetoja: Portrait of a Finnish Composer]26 offered the only widely available information 24 Ruth Esther Hillila, “The Solo Songs of Toivo Kuula and Leevi Madetoja and their Place in Twentieth Century Finnish Art Song” (PhD diss., Boston University, 1964). 25 The most noteworthy include Juoni Kaipainen, “French Colouring in a Bothnian Landscape,” trans. William Moore, Finnish Music Quarterly, nos. 3-4 (1985): 45-55; Korhonen, Inventing; Korhonen, “Leevi Madetoja”; Korhonen, “Orchestral Works”; Salmenhaara, “Composer from Ostrobothnia”; and Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians: An Opera About Freedom,” trans. Susan Sinisalo, Finnish Music Quarterly, no. 2 (1986): 18-23. 26 Kalervo Tuukkanen, Leevi Madetoja: suomalainen säveltäjäpersoonallisuus (Porvoo, WSOY, 1947). 9 on Madetoja’s life and music. Published in 1947, the year of Madetoja’s death, it was hardly a neutral source; nevertheless, it presented the interested reader with a detailed biography written in an approachable manner.27 However, the centenary of Madetoja’s birth in 1987 spawned a flurry of activity. Most significant is Erkki Salmenhaara’s eponymous biography of Leevi Madetoja, a definitive and extensively cited work. While Salmenhaara’s musical discussions are—perhaps necessarily—limited in scope, his breadth of research is impressive. As one of Finland’s most respected musicologists, Salmenhaara’s other articles on Madetoja likewise present valuable perspectives on various aspects of Madetoja’s style.28 The same year, Matti Rossi oversaw the publication of Leevi Madetoja 100 vuotta [Leevi Madetoja 100 Years],29 which contains not only a collection of articles in celebration of “Madetoja week,” 17-26 [sic!] February 1987, but also programs for a series of concerts held that week in Madetoja’s birthplace, Oulu. Notable chapters include “Leevi Madetojan elämänvaiheet: lyhyt katsaus” [Leevi Madetoja’s Life Stages: A Brief Overview] and “Leevi Madetojan Säveltäjantyö” [Leevi Madetoja’s Compositions] by Erkki Salmenhaara; “Leevi Madetoja Oulun Koulussa” [Leevi Madetoja at School in Oulu], by the archivist and historian Samuli Onnela; “Madetojan Yksinlaulut” [Madetoja’s Solo Songs] by the composer 27 This appears to have been one of Hillila’s primary sources for her biography of Madetoja. 28 See, most importantly, Erkki Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetojan kauneuden filosofiasta (Tampere: Suomen filosofinen yhdistys, 1990); Erkki Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana,” Etnomusikologian vuosikirja 3 (1989–90): 205–11; and Erkki Salmenhaara, “Madetoja oli myös musiikkipoliitikko,” Arsis 1 (1987), 29–34. 29 Matti Rossi et al., Leevi Madetoja 100 vuotta (Oulu: Mainosyhtymä Oulu, 1987). 10 Olavi Pesonen; “Minun Madetojani” [My Madetoja], a set of personal recollections by the choral conductor Ensti Pohjola; and “Pulliainen Kapellimestarin sinfonikko—Leevi Madetoja” [Symphonic Conductor—Leevi Madetoja] by Riitta Pulliainen. Another significant source is Kauko Karjalainen’s 1991 publication, Leevi Madetojan oopperat Pohjalaisia ja Juha: Teokset, tekstit ja kontekstit [Leevi Madetoja’s Operas Pohjalaisia and Juha: The Works, the Texts, and the Contexts]. The work, based on Karjalainen’s doctoral dissertation, offers analyses of Madetoja’s two operas on a scene-by-scene basis. A notable strength is a lengthy discussion of the operas’ national and international critical reception, which prompts important questions regarding nationalism and reception. Meanwhile, an evaluation of European operatic and symphonic models suggests that Madetoja’s output can as easily be compared with such pioneers of early modernism as Mahler and Schoenberg as with those composers commonly associated with late romantic idioms, such as Sibelius and Tchaikovsky.30 Although it is a Finnish-language publication, the reader has recourse to an abstract and summary in English,31 as well as a short English-language companion article in Tomi Mäkelä’s Music and Nationalism in 20th-Century Great Britain and Finland.32 30 Karjalainen, Madetojan ooperaat, 310. 31 The abstract is on page 3; the summary, translated by Andrew Bentley, is on pages 302-11. 32 Karjalainen, “Nationalism,” 191-97. 11 More recently, Madetoja’s name has appeared in European scholarship focusing on links between Finnish and Parisian artists. Helena Tyrväinen and Vera Nilova have questioned the pervasive influence of Wagner in Finland by focusing on the manner in which Debussy and composers associated with Vincent d’Indy’s Schola Cantorum made their way into Finland.33 Their work provides valuable insight into Madetoja’s studies at the Schola Cantorum in 1910-1911 and his long and fruitful affiliation with Paris. Madetoja was a lifelong contributor to several newspapers and journals, including Aamu, Aika, Helsingin Sanomat, Karjala, Maailma, Musiikkitieto, Nuori Suomi, Päivä, Säveletär, Suomen Musiikkilehti, Suununtai, Turun Sanomat, Uusi Säveletär, Uusi Suometar, and Vaasa, among others. Although he was notoriously taciturn regarding his thoughts on his own output, he had no shortage of opinions on a variety of other subjects, especially regarding the music of his colleagues both within Finland and abroad. A number of these articles were compiled by Salmenhaara, and some of that material is included in this dissertation.34 33 Nilova, “Un vent parisien,” 457-67; Helena Tyrväinen, “Kansallisten piirteiden ja Ranskan musiikin vaikutteiden kohtaamisia Toivo Kuulalla, Leevi Madetojalla ja Uuno Klamilla,” Musiikki 3 (1997): 247-301. 34 Leevi Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, ed. Erkki Salmenhaara (Helsinki: Suomen musiikkitieteellinen seura, 1989). 12 Thesis Outline As Madetoja’s output was shaped by the nationalist sentiment of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, a meaningful exploration of his contribution to Finnish music must take into account not only his nation’s cultural heritage but also its political circumstances. Accordingly, this dissertation begins by probing the manner in which Finland’s nationalist agenda developed from eighteenth-century cultural endeavours, and, further, how this agenda balanced cultural and political concerns in such a manner that Finnish composers could participate directly in Finland’s struggle for independence. Weighing the tensions surrounding Madetoja’s public image as a nationalist composer and his private motivations and values, this study explores the disparity between Madetoja’s conception of his music and its interpretation by Finnish audiences. Finally, this project aims toward a broader contextual understanding of Madetoja’s life and work. Armed with a detailed analysis of the Second Symphony, it assesses the influence of French style on Madetoja’s work, situating him relative to international models. Chapter 1 offers a definition of nationalism appropriate to Finland’s situation. Because Finland’s cultural and political evolution is heavily linked with constructed or invented traditions, this chapter opens with Benedict Anderson’s and Eric Hobsbawm’s reference to the idea of “imagined communities” and “the invention of tradition.” It situates Finland midway between civic and ethnic nationalism in a type of cultural nationalism explored by Kai Nielsen and John Hutchinson. Refuting the argument that the Russian takeover of Finland in 1809 was the primary instigator of Finnish nationalist sentiment, it 13 broadens the scope to include an analysis of the influence of Lutheranism and, later, of eighteenth-century European nationalist trends. Finally, it addresses the efforts of Finnish nationalists to construct a Finnish identity and the impact of this endeavour upon the heady political situation of late-nineteenth and early-twentieth century Finland. In so doing, it lays a theoretical groundwork for a more detailed discussion of musical nationalism in the chapter to follow. Chapter 2 continues this investigation of Finnish nationalism with a look into the ways that Finnish musicians engaged with the prevailing socio-political environment. Although it opens with a look at some of the most pressing expressions of musical nationalism, it acknowledges that such examples were limited in scope and coterminous with the desperate political situation of early twentieth-century Finland. Outside the two Periods of Russification (1899-1905 and 1908-1917), Finnish musicians were far more likely to articulate a concern for the advancement of their country’s culture by engaging the familiar topics of folklore, nature, and landscape. The overriding concern of this chapter is to illustrate how composers employed these topics in navigating and constructing a Finnish cultural identity. Chapter 3 continues this avenue of exploration by way of a brief biography, focusing on the manner in which Madetoja’s life circumstances—including his upbringing in distant Oulu, his folk-music collection endeavours, his painful war years, and his frequent sojourns to Paris—may have influenced his approach to the integration of national and international elements in his music. 14 As an example of his musical stylistic features, Chapter 4 introduces Madetoja’s Symphony no. 2 in E-flat Major, op. 35, which was conceived during the intense period of Russian oppression preceding the 1917 Finnish Declaration of Independence and completed during the short but devastating civil war that followed. As little is known about Madetoja’s music, the chapter seeks an understanding of his symphonic style. First, it demonstrates strong organic connections among the Symphony’s themes, both within and across movements. Second, it describes how Madetoja’s approach to form constitutes a twentieth-century adaptation of older models, like sonata form. Third, it illustrates Madetoja’s approach to tonal relationships, supporting Korhonen’s seemingly offhand—yet insightful—remark that Madetoja’s music contains “a fascinating ambiguity of harmony and rhythm under a smooth surface.”35 A secondary avenue of exploration concerns the assessment of the Symphony as a nationalistic endeavour vis-à-vis a comparison of its national traits and its critical reception. The fundamental goal of Chapter 5 is to situate Madetoja with regard to his national and international contemporaries. As one of the main problems encountered by Madetoja scholars has been the primacy of Madetoja’s national peer, Sibelius, this chapter begins with a comparison of Madetoja’s Second Symphony and Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony. Although this comparison demonstrates that the two composers shared a common concern for certain musical processes or materials, it suggests that at least some of these similarities 35 Korhonen, Inventing, 50. 15 could be part of a wider response to early modernism. An appraisal of the link between Madetoja and Debussy follows by way of a discussion of the latter’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, calling attention to similar compositional procedures despite divergent sound worlds. The final portion of this chapter discusses the influence on Madetoja of the French neoclassicism of such composers as Paul Dukas, Vincent d’Indy, Maurice Ravel, and Gabriel Fauré, especially as illustrated through Madetoja’s orchestral works Kullervo (1913), Comedy Overture (1923), Third Symphony (1926), and Okon Fuoko (1927). A brief Conclusion summarizes the dissertation’s most significant findings and posits some possible directions for future research. Madetoja’s multifaceted output precludes a simple interpretation. Although he assimilated a variety of influences over the course of his career, he was not influenced by any single composer or group of composers. Rather, like other great artists, he took musical elements from a wide variety of sources, integrating these influences into his own highly personal, eclectic style. The five chapters of this dissertation work together to present a balanced view of Madetoja’s life and art. It is hoped that, together, they arrive at a picture of Leevi Madetoja as one of Finland’s most important cultural assets, a composer worthy of international stature. 16 Fashioning Finland’s History: An Overview of Finnish Nationalism A nation must have a navel, and if it has not got one, we must start by inventing one.1 Background and Introduction In spring 1910, Madetoja wrote to the Finnish composer Toivo Kuula, who was studying in Paris, to apprise him of Finland’s increasingly tense political climate: Conditions have started to become uncomfortable here. The repressive years have come again, and in a craftier form. But I believe, and I guess you do too, that our nation can no longer be killed; on the contrary, we are now beginning to develop intellectually, and we have much to contribute to the advancement of European culture. I dream that we will again see a flowering in the growth of [Finnish] culture, especially music, that will draw the attention of the whole of Europe, and therefore, the whole world.2 During Madetoja’s formative years in fin-de-siècle Finland, Finnish national consciousness was awakening in a most urgent manner. Although its trajectory has been described on numerous occasions, its ramifications for the music and art of Madetoja’s period—and, more specifically, for Madetoja’s compositional output—remain unclear. This chapter asks several important questions: How is Finland’s case unique, rather than simply part of a 1 Anthony D. Smith, “Memory and Modernity: Reflections on Ernest Gellner’s Theory of Nationalism,” Nations and Nationalism 2, no. 2 (1996), 386-87. 2 “Täällä ovat olot alkaneet käydä tukaliksi. Jälleen tulevat sortovuodet, tosin viekkaammassa muodossa. Mutta minä uskon, ja niin kai sinäkin teet, että meidän kansaa ei enää voida tappaa, vaan että se päinvastoin nyt alkaa henkisesti elää ja että se vielä on tuova paljon uusia aineksia eurooppalaisen kulttuurin kekoon. Uneksinpä vielä sitäkin, että tänne meille on kerran tuleva kulttuuripyrintöjen, varsinkin musiikin, kukoistusaika, joka vetää koko Eurooppaa, siis koko maailman, huomion puoleensa.” Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 62. 17 larger European phenomenon? How did Finnish intellectuals’ drive to fashion a national history impact its artists? Why did a fascination for nature and landscape elicit such a strong hold over Finnish artists and intellectuals? The aim here is a strong contextual understanding of the forces shaping Finnish national consciousness, which will facilitate, in subsequent chapters, a more detailed exploration of the role of nature, Finnish musical identity, and broader European trends in Madetoja’s musical output. “Qu’est-ce que une nation?” As illustrated by the title of Ernest Renan’s celebrated 1882 Sorbonne lecture, certain core terminology in the nationalism debate—notably the terms nation and nationalism—have been under discussion for some time. One of the most influential arguments comes from Benedict Anderson, who famously defines the nation as a socially constructed phenomenon. The nation is, according to Anderson, “an imagined political community—and imagined as both inherently limited and sovereign.”3 It is limited because even the largest nation has finite boundaries; sovereign because no dynastic monarchy can claim power over it; and a community because, despite the inequalities that invariably exist among its members, the nation is always perceived as offering a deep sense of kinship. Most importantly, it is imagined because, although a nation’s inhabitants almost invariably feel a deep sense of connection with one another, they never have the chance to know the majority 3 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, rev. ed. (London and New York: Verso, 1991), 6. 18 of their fellow inhabitants.4 This collective process of invention is, Anderson argues, one of the defining features of nationhood: “Communities are to be distinguished, not by their falsity/genuineness, but by the style in which they are imagined.”5 Anderson’s definition has been refuted nearly as often as it has been cited. A first area of critique concerns Anderson’s inclusive approach. Anthony W. Marx, for example, sees the nation in a more multivalent light, the product not only of exclusive racial and ethnic positions but also of conflict between elites and masses, both of which inform national boundaries also by means of religious differences.6 A second charge relates to the spontaneity of Anderson’s position.7 About the power of imagination, as Alexander J. Motyl argues, “that imagining suffices to make nations of communities seems at best a gross overestimation”8; about Anderson’s implicit claim that nationalism seems simply to emerge as a result of capitalism, he contends that “if capitalism is always the culprit, nations may ‘in 4 The influential French writer Ernest Renan (1823-1892) cleverly alluded to this sense of imagined community with the following statement: “Or l’essence d’une nation est que tous les individus aient beaucoup de choses en commun, et aussi que tous aient oublié bien des choses.” Ernest Renan, “Qu’est-ce qu’une nation?” in Oeuvres Complètes, vol. 1 (Paris: Calmann-Lévy, 1947-61), 892; quoted in Anderson, Imagined Communities, 6. 5 Anderson, Imagined Communities, 6. 6 See Anthony W. Marx, Faith in Nation: Exclusionary Origins of Nationalism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003): 103-126, especially pages 103-11. 7 For Anderson, nationalism emerged in the final decades of the eighteenth century as the spontaneous intersection of disparate historical forces that, once formed, could be adapted within a wide variety of political and ideological contexts. Anderson, Imagined Communities, 4. 8 Alexander J. Motyl, “Imagined Communities, Rational Choosers, Invented Ethnies,” Comparative Politics 34, no. 2 (2002): 235. 19 the final analysis’ somehow be reducible to capitalism.”9 A third objection involves a lack of sufficient differentiation between nations and smaller sub-national communities. Yael Tamir remarks that “all human associations, even if no larger than families or primordial villages, could, according to [Anderson’s] definition, be considered imaginary communities,”10 while Motyl writes “that nations, unlike other entities such as classes and electorates, are especially susceptible to the imagination seems wrong.”11 Even while such issues potentially undermine the usefulness of Anderson’s position, his work remains an important theory for the study of Finnish nationalism, primarily for the weight he places on the idea of invention; as we shall see, there is a strong correlation between the development of the Finnish nation and the invented traditions developed by scholars, artists, and other elites.12 Even the critiques of Anderson’s arguments are instructive. For example, although religious differences played only a minority role in Finland’s national struggle, Marx’s exclusionary outlook forces a deeper look at the country’s purportedly inclusive nationalism. In fact, there was ongoing conflict between the Swedish-speaking elite, the agrarian Finnish-speaking majority population, and the nomadic 9 Motyl, “Imagined Communities,” 237. 10 Yael Tamir, “The Enigma of Nationalism,” World Politics 47, no. 3 (1995): 421. 11 Motyl, “Imagined Communities,” 235. 12 See Eric John Hobsbawm and Terence Osborn Ranger, eds., The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), especially pages 1-15 and 263-308. Hobsbawm argues that many rituals and symbols associated with national tradition—such as flags, anthems, festivals, and folk costumes—are in fact deliberate recent constructions created as tools of national awakening. 20 inhabitants of the far north, who were often considered culturally different and morally inferior13; discord between these disparate communities became a source of disillusionment culminating in the social and political upheavals of 1899 through 1918. Likewise, Motyl’s argument against the power of imagination encourages a more fully qualified rationale for the process of invention. For this, consider Svetlana Boym’s argument that nations fill a void by building upon pre-existing needs and developing in response to feelings of incompleteness. “Invented tradition,” she writes, “does not mean a creation ex nihilo or a pure act of social constructivism; rather, it builds on the sense of loss of community and cohesion and offers a comforting collective script for individual longing.”14 In Finland’s case, this poignant loss of community developed in the years following the Russian takeover of 1809. It is widely accepted that modern nationalism contains essentially two paths: civic and ethnic.15 The former is defined by its political institutions, which are inclusive and democratic; it seeks to build a community of equal citizens irrespective of racial and religious differences. Its transformation from state to nation begins with an already mature, linguistically homogenous culture, and its struggle is mainly political; prominent examples 13 For more on Finland’s indigenous population, see Pasi Saukkonen, “Finns,” in Imagology: The Cultural Construction and Literary Representation of National Characters; A Critical Survey, ed. Manfred Beller and Joep Leerssen (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2007), 151-53. 14 Svetlana Boym, The Future of Nostalgia (New York: Basic Books, 2001), 42-43. 15 Anthony D. Smith, building on the work of Hans Kohn, was among the first to propose these terms. Krzysztof Jaskułowski, “Western (Civic) Versus Eastern (Ethnic) Nationalism: The Origins and Critique of the Dichotomy,” Polish Sociological Review 171 (2010): 290. 21 are France, Great Britain, and the Netherlands. The latter, ethnic nationalism, is determined by descent, which is inherited rather than chosen. Confronted by the political developments and perceived superiority of other nations, it seeks validation through ethnic or blood consciousness, frequently through the assertion of the language, culture, or religion of its people. Its transformation is more complex, for it lacks, at its outset, state representation, a vernacular culture, and even a complete social structure; its struggle is often initially cultural and social, with political emancipation coming at a later point.16 Although civic and ethnic nationalism are often presented as a dichotomy, their component parts intermingle in most nationalist approaches. For example, civic nationalism cannot be purely political in nature, for—as Kai Nielsen argues—nationality is not determined simply through political belief: “When Spain became fascist the Spaniards did not cease to be Spaniards. And their nationalists did not change when Spain again became a liberal democracy. It remained constant through all the political turmoil and revolution.”17 There is, then, invariably a cultural component to nationalism, and since this cannot be otherwise, it follows that an exclusively civic nationalism is a myth—the latter is 16 For more on this subject, see Liah Greenfeld, “Nationalism in Western and Eastern Europe Compared,” in Can Europe Work? Germany & the Reconstruction of Postcommunist Societies, ed. Stephen E. Hanson and Willfried Spohn (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1995), 20; Miroslav Hroch, “Introduction: National Romanticism,” in Discourses of Collective Identity in Central and Southeast Europe, vol. 2, National Romanticism: The Formation of National Movements, ed. Balázs Trencsényi and Michal Kopaček (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2007), 8-9; Mary Nikolas, “False Opposites in Nationalism: An Examination of the Dichotomy of Civic Nationalism and Ethnic Nationalism in Modern Europe” (MA thesis, Monash University, 1999), 4. 17 Kai Nielsen, “Cultural Nationalism, Neither Ethnic nor Civic,” in Theorizing Nationalism, ed. Ronald Beiner (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1999), 125. 22 simply too thin a conception upon which to define nationality or to promote a sense of national identity.18 Even so, Finland’s intermediary position between ethnic and civic nationalism is noteworthy. On one hand, it is possible to consider nineteenth-century Finland’s struggle as representative of ethnic nationalist tendencies. Finland was not yet an independent state, and therefore its concerns were initially cultural and social: the Fennoman attempt to create a national identity, for example, involved the propagation and dissemination of Finnish myths and memories.19 On the other hand, it is also possible to consider its challenges from the perspective of civic nationalism. Finland was, notably, a political unit, the autonomous Grand Duchy of Finland, and its concerns were also political: the Fennoman endeavour to form a literate high culture that encompassed an entire political unit, the total population of Finland, was an inclusive gesture that eliminated the distinction between the “low” culture of the masses and the “high” culture of the political and academic elite.20 Some scholars have pinpointed Finland’s emphasis on a national identity shaped by cultural traditions and by language as a variety of nationalism known as cultural 18 Nielsen, “Cultural Nationalism,” 125. 19 Fennomans, members of Finland’s most important nineteenth-century national movement, contributed to the development of Finnish cultural endeavors and promoted Finnish as a language on parity with Swedish. 20 Outi Laari, “Immigrants in Finland: Finnish-to-be or Foreigners Forever; Conceptions of Nation State in Debate on Immigration Policy,” in A Changing Pattern of Migration in Finland and Its Surroundings, ed. Ismo Söderling (Helsinki: The Population Research Institute, 1998), 30. 23 nationalism, which is, in Kai Nielsen’s words, “neither civic nor ethnic.”21 Although cultural nationalism sometimes takes ethnic forms, it would be a mistake to conflate the two approaches. Ethnic nationalism is cultural, but not all cultural nationalisms are ethnic; whereas ethnic nationalism tends to focus on common ancestry, race, or class, cultural nationalism tends to adopt a liberal, democratic approach, defining membership through willing participation in a common culture that is open to all.22 John Hutchinson describes cultural nationalism by painting it in opposition to political nationalism and positioning it as “a dynamic vision of the nation as a high civilization with a unique place in the development of humanity”23: Unlike the political nationalist, who is fundamentally a rationalist, a cultural nationalist […] affirms a cosmology according to which humanity, like nature, is infused with a creative force which endows all things with individuality. Nations are primordial expressions of this spirit; like families, they are natural solidarities. Nations are then not just political units but organic beings, living personalities, whose individuality must be cherished by their members in all their manifestations.24 Cultural nationalism, then, involves the creation and definition of a nation through historical, geographical, and cultural means so that it might participate as an equal partner within a broader cosmopolitan framework. 21 Nielsen, “Cultural Nationalism,” passim. 22 Ibid., 126. 23 John Hutchinson, “Cultural Nationalism and Moral Regeneration,” in Nationalism: A Reader, ed. Hutchinson and Anthony D. Smith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), 128. 24 Hutchinson, “Cultural Nationalism,” 122. 24 When Is a Nation? Almost as pressing is the question, “when is a nation?,” which has captured the interest of nationalist scholars since Walker Connor broached the subject in 1990.25 Hroch argues that “we can with relative ease demonstrate empirically that national movements, seeking to achieve a new national identity, were making their appearance in a period of serious cultural, social, and political convulsions.”26 Accordingly, many scholars pinpoint the origins of the Finnish nation with the Russian takeover of 1809,27 linking Finland’s separation from Sweden28 and its concomitant autonomous status with the maturation of its national identity.29 As Steven Duncan Huxley states, “Finland as an independent nation has arisen and developed its identity largely through an intricate on-going dialectical process of conflict and resistance and cooperation and accommodation with Russia,” an 25 Walker Connor, “When Is a Nation?,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 13, no. 1 (1990): 92-103. 26 Hroch, “Introduction,” 7. 27 Interestingly, it was Napoléon Bonaparte (1769-1821) who, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, sealed Finland’s fate. In 1807, Napoleon and Czar Alexander I of Russia (r. 1801-1825) combined forces with Prussia to form an alliance against Britain. The fiercely anti-Napoleonic King Gustav IV Adolf of Sweden (r. 1792-1809), who had entered an alliance with Britain, refused all French and Russian overtures; thus Alexander I had no choice but to initiate military operations on Finland’s southeast coast during what would become known as the Finnish War (1808-09). Although the Finns defended themselves against great odds for a year and a half, they received little help from Sweden, who ceded Finland to Russia during the Treaty of Hamina in September 1809. 28 With the permission of Pope Innocent III, Finland was officially granted Swedish protection in 1216. 29 Hroch, “Introduction,” 7. 25 affair that “began in 1808 when ‘Finland’ was conquered by Russia, and, a year later, ‘Finland’ was created by Russia.”30 While convenient, this perspective is inadequate for three reasons. First, it ignores the fact that the Russian takeover was just one of a long series of conflicts between the Swedish Empire and the Czardom of Russia. As Walter Russell Mead notes, “no country in Europe has changed its geographical outline more often than Finland […] and the entire history of its changing eastern frontier has been the product of armed conflict.”31 During the early years of the Great Northern War (1700-1721), for example, Finland lost most of Karelia32—including its capital city, Viipuri (“Vyborg”)—to the Russians; in ensuing years, Finland was twice occupied during conflicts known as isoviha (“The Greater Wrath,” 1714–1721) and pikkuviha (“The Lesser Wrath,” 1742–1743). Second, it overlooks the fact that the status of autonomous Grand Duchy benefitted Finland in many tangible ways. Finland’s new ruler, the liberal-minded Alexander I, envisioned the future of the Russian Empire as a 30 Steven Duncan Huxley, Constitutionalist Insurgency in Finland: Finnish ‘Passive Resistance’ Against Russification as a Case of Nonmilitary Struggle in the European Resistance Tradition (Helsinki: Finnish Historical Society, 1990), 82; cited in Tina K. Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations: Nationalism, Globalization, and the Changing Soundscapes of Finnish Folk Music (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003), 10. 31 W. R. Mead, “Forward,” in Anssi Paasi, Territories, Boundaries and Consciousness: The Changing Geographies of the Finnish-Russian Border (London: John Wiley, 1996), xi-xii. Mead’s assertion is something of an overstatement, considering the territorial changes of such countries as Hungary and Poland. 32 Karelia is a culturally, geographically, and linguistically ambiguous border territory extending from the coast of the White Sea to the Gulf of Finland. Its borders have remained fluid since the Viking Age. In 1323 the Treaty of Pähkinäsaari established Sweden’s eastern border with Russia, dividing Karelia into two cultural spheres: an eastern half that remained under the influence of the Greek Orthodox Church until 1917, and a western half that remained under the Catholic Church until the Lutheranization of the Nordic countries in the sixteenth century. 26 grouping of semi-autonomous units under the governance of the Czar. He declared that Finland would have its own laws, administration, and currency; that Finnish peasants would remain free and its population exempt from military service; that Finland would retain its own law courts, schools, religious services, and custom-tariffs against Russia; and that Finland be reunited with Karelia. There was little cause for national agitation; rather, it was only gradually that a sense of existential questioning emerged, as evidenced by the following catchphrase, which became commonplace in the years following 1809: “We are no longer Swedish; we will not be Russian; let us therefore be Finnish.”33 Third, as we shall see, this perspective discounts the important matter that nationalist currents beginning long before the takeover had far-reaching impacts after. As I will argue in the following pages, the making of the Finnish nation was a deliberate and protracted process, and the flowering of national consciousness in the late nineteenth century had much earlier origins. Focusing on the role of religion in nationalism, Adrian Hastings argues that, since the Christian church sanctioned the use of the vernacular and reinforced the view of the nation as sacred and entrusted with a special destiny, early national ideologies and movements could be found in Christian endeavours tracing as far back as eleventh-century Europe.34 Certainly, twelfth-century Finland benefitted from the Catholic Church, which, 33 “Ruotsalaisia emme ole, venäläisiksi emme tule, olkaamme siis suomalaisia.” Although supposedly coined by Adolf Ivar Adwidsson, this phrase was first recorded by the influential Fennoman Johan Vilhelm Snellman in the 1850s. See Goss, Sibelius, 448. 34 Adrian Hastings, The Construction of Nationhood: Ethnicity, Religion and Nationalism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), especially pages 1–34. 27 brought to Finland with Swedish rule, aided in the development of certain national traits that would later become important factors in Finland’s nationalistic awakening. When Archbishops Leimar and Humbert of Bremen, who were loyal to the Holy Roman Emperor, attempted to gain a stronghold in northern Europe, Pope Leo IX (r. 1049-1054) kept the northern churches within his own reign of influence by encouraging their individual national traits.35 Following his instructions, each of the twenty-five Catholic bishops elected to the archdiocese of Turku on Finland’s west coast between 1156 and 1550 were Finnish-born individuals, each of whom ensured a native Finnish successor.36 Sixteenth-century Finland was impacted by the spread of the Protestant faith when Finnish and Swedish scholars, returning from studies in Germany, promoted Martin Luther’s ideas to the Finnish populace, advocating for proselytization in the native tongue and in turn laying the foundations for a nineteenth-century revivification of the Finnish language. Pietari Särkilahti (d. 1529), for example, was Luther’s first Finnish student and the forerunner of Finland’s Reformation movement; a gifted orator, he was celebrated for his forceful Finnish sermons. Mikael Agricola (c. 1510-1557), inspired by Reformation and Humanist principles, followed in Särkilahti’s footsteps; he studied under Luther in Wittenberg, became ordained in 1531, and returned to Finland to develop a written form of 35 Eino Sormunen, Omalla Pohjalla (Porvoo: WSOY, 1944), 17. As Imma Penn states: “Pope Leo IX also met with Adalbert, Archbishop of Bremen. They discussed the formation of all the Scandinavian countries, including Iceland and Greenland, into a patriarchate, of which the see was to be Bremen. The scheme was never accomplished, but the Pope authorized the consecration by Adalbert of the first native bishop of Iceland.” Imma Penn, Dogma Evolution and Papal Fallacies (Bloomington, IN: AuthorHouse, 2007), 118. 36 Hudson Strode, Finland Forever (New York: Harcourt, Brace, and Co., 1941), 163. 28 Finnish and publish the first recorded works in the Finnish language. His output included ABC-kirja (“The ABC Book,” 1543), Rucouskirja (“The Prayer Book,” 1544), and Se Wsi Testamenti (“The New Testament,” 1548).37 Simultaneous with European developments, eighteenth-century Finland experienced a broad awakening of cultural nationalist sentiment. The Bishop of Porvoo, Daniel Juslenius (1676-1752), was an early proponent of Finnish history, folk poetry, and language; among his output was the Suomalaisen Sana-Lugun Coetus (1745), the first extensive Finnish language dictionary with over 16,000 lexical entries.38 One of Juslenius’s most important disciples, Henrik Gabriel Porthan (1739-1804), was a historian and professor at the Royal Academy; in addition to publishing works of folk poetry and Finnish literature, Porthan authored the first detailed account of Finnish poetry, De Poesi Fennica (1778), a pivotal work that laid the foundations for Elias Lönnrot’s compilation of the Kalevala. He also founded the Aurora Society, which was designed to awaken national consciousness among the educated classes and listed among its accomplishments the publication of the first Finnish newspaper, the “Åbo Tidningar,” in 1771.39 37 Finland felt the effects of the Reformation particularly keenly; in fact, Lutheranism’s teachings continue to impact contemporary Finland. Goss, Sibelius, 21-25. 38 In his written work, Juslenius maintained a strong identification with Finland, its people, and its past; he placed Finnish on the same level as Hebrew and Greek, which he taught in his capacity as professor at the Royal Academy of Turku. He cited folk song texts as proof of an ancient Finnish civilization, believing that epic song recounted actual historical events. 39 Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 28. 29 Johann Gottfried Herder and the Reconstruction of the Finnish Language Despite increasing interest in Finnish history and folklore, Porthan did not conceive of Finland in national terms. When he died in 1804, Finland was still a province of Sweden, and, as a nation, largely dormant. However, this would change over the course of the nineteenth century, when young patriots, eager for a new form of self-identification, adopted and promoted the influential philosophies of Johann Gottfried Herder (1744-1803), whose work had made its way to Finland in Porthan’s time and initially through Porthan’s personal library.40 Herder claimed that each nation possessed an original national character, the product of a unique environment producing unique cultural characteristics: The elevation or depression of a region, its nature and products, the food and drink men enjoy in it, the mode of life they pursue, the labours in which they are employed, their clothing, even their ordinary attitudes, their arts and pleasure, with a multitude of other circumstances, which considerably influence their lives, all belong to the picture of changeable climate.41 Herder dismissed the Enlightenment view that national and cultural differences should be subjugated to the domination of reason.42 He considered culture, not politics, to be the driving force behind nationalism and argued that to survive, a nation must learn to express 40 Łukasz Sommer, “A Step Away from Herder: Turku Romantics and the Question of National Language,” Slavonic and East European Review 90, no. 1 (2012): 7. 41 Johann Gottfried von Herder, Reflections on the Philosophy of the History of Mankind, ed. Frank E. Manuel (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), 16; quoted in Taisto Mäkelä, “Imagined Affinities: Architectural Representation and the Rhetoric of Nationalism in Finland At the Turn of the Century” (PhD diss., University of Princeton, 1991), 69. 42 Mäkelä, “Imagined Affinities,” 69-70. 30 this culture. Masterpieces of religion, music, poetry, and art gave history its meaning, while political and military events were of secondary importance.43 Herder also espoused the idea that since each nation was unique, each nation should be in charge of its own destiny. “Every nation,” he maintained, “contains the center of its happiness within itself.”44 For this reason, Herder opposed the coercive imposition of an external idea of happiness onto a reluctant society; however, he did consider the education of a population for the purpose of building a national consciousness a legitimate undertaking.45 Herder argued that the purest expression of a culture lay in its ancestral language, its chief asset, which ensured its cultural identity and continuity while providing resistance to threats of assimilation by other cultures. Because a language was intrinsically linked with the mind, it reflected its speaker’s experience and way of living; thus it followed that as communities varied in their experiences and habits, so too did their vernaculars, making each language a unique spiritual phenomenon.46 According to Herder, a nation “has nothing more valuable than the language of its fathers. In it lives its entire spiritual treasury of tradition, history, religion, and principles of life, all its heart and soul. To deprive such a 43 Mäkelä, “Imagined Affinities,” 70. 44 Johann Gottfried Herder, Sämmtliche Werke (Berlin: Weidmann, 1877-1913), 5:565; quoted in William A. Wilson, “Herder, Folklore and Romantic Nationalism,” The Journal of Popular Culture 6, no. 4 (1973): 821. 45 Alan Patten, “‘The Most Natural State’: Herder and Nationalism,” History of Political Thought 31, no. 4 (2010): 686. 46 Mäkelä, “Imagined Affinities,” 71, 73; see also Sommer, “A Step Away,” 2. 31 nation of its language, or to demean it, is to deprive it of its sole immortal possession transmitted from parents to children.”47 The loftiest expression of a nation’s language, Herder maintained, is folk poetry; if a nation’s development is interrupted in any way, the solution is to collect folk poetry surviving from before the time of this interruption and employ it as a means of restoring the nation’s soul.48 Inspired by Herder’s assertion that the language of the folk expressed the nation’s Volksgeist or spirit, Finnish nationalists began the slow process of rebuilding a linguistically centered Finnish heritage. During this time, several associations that had as their focus the promotion of the Finnish language became prominent. The earliest of these was founded at the Royal Academy of Turku, where a group of young academics known as the Turun Romantiikka (“Turku Romantics”) laid the groundwork for Finland’s national agenda. Most active between the years 1818-1822, the Turun Romantiikka—convinced that language was the foundation of national identity—renounced their native Swedish tongue in favour of the still-rudimentary Finnish language. They established a comprehensive archive of Finnish folk music and poetry, undertook lengthy folk poetry collection trips through the woods of Karelia, actively sought the promotion of their work through publication, and formed men’s choirs to express their patriotic and political ideas.49 The most notorious of the Turku 47 Wilson, “Herder,” 827. 48 Ibid., 832. 49 For more information on the Turku Romantics, see David Kirby, A Concise History of Finland (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 59-67; Matti Klinge, Let Us Be Finns: Essays on History 32 Romantics—the Finnish political journalist, writer and historian Adolf Ivar Arwidsson (1791-1858)—was driven into exile by his outspoken assertions on freedom of print and Finnish political autonomy. Arwidsson argued that the Finns could only join collectively as a nation as long as their mother tongue survived: When the language of its forefathers is lost, a nation, too, is lost and perishes. All speaking the same tongue naturally form an indivisible whole; they are bound together internally by times of mind and soul, mightier and firmer than every external bond. For language forms the spiritual, and land the material, boundaries of mankind; but the former is the stronger, because the spirit means more than the material.50 The main challenge that these associations faced was that, until the early nineteenth century, the Finnish language barely existed. Finnish, a member of the Finnic group of the Uralic family of languages, survived five centuries of Swedish rule as an oral tongue comprised of a number of mutually intelligible dialects.51 Whereas Swedish was the (Helsinki: Otava, 1990), 66-95; Sommer, “A Step Away”; and John H. Wuorinen, Nationalism in Modern Finland (New York: Columbia University Press, 1931), 47-76. 50 Quoted in Anthony D. Smith, Chosen Peoples: Sacred Sources of National Identity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 191; also quoted in Euno Jutikalla, A History of Finland (London: Thames and Hudson, 1962), 201. 51 The Finnish language’s closest neighbours are Estonian, Karelian, and Sami; the often-cited link with Hungarian and Magyar is a distant one. By contrast, Swedish, like many other Scandinavian languages, is a Germanic language, and Russian a Slavic language; both are members of the Indo-European family. The dissimilarity of the Finnish language to its neighbours was crucial to the development of a distinct Finnish identity, culturally and geographically positioned between East and West. Early Finnish settlers established several distinct groups. The Suomalaiset lived in the land of Suomi, which may have been in Finland’s southwest. The Hämäläiset, their nearest relatives, lived inland from the coast in the region of Häme, which in its present form extends from Lahti as far westward as Tampere. The Karjalaiset lived in the eastern borderlands of Finland and Russia, representing modern-day Karelia; it is from here that the doctor Elias Lönnrot would, over the course of the nineteenth century, collect the legends of the Kalevala, Finland’s national epic. While these groups spoke mutually intelligible dialects, Finnish remained almost exclusively an oral tongue until its modernization in the nineteenth century. See Kirby, Concise History; Henrik 33 dominant tongue of the Finnish nobility, administration and education, Finnish remained the language of the peasantry, clergy, and local courts in predominantly Finnish-speaking areas. It is one of Europe’s youngest literary languages: the first Finnish-language newspaper (the Turun Wiiko-sanamat) was not published until 1820, and the first Finnish-language novel (Nils Aejmelaeus’s Haaksirikko) did not appear until 1838. It received no institutional support; among official circles—including government, administration, the military, and the educated classes—it was not even a common second language.52 Finnish academics’ attempts to reconstruct various dialects according to a common literary standard served to unify a diverse population and differentiate it from its neighbours.53 Problematically, academics could not agree on the selection of a foundational dialect. In the eighteenth century, the only widely known supradialectal modification was Bishop Erik Rothvius’s 1642 translation of the Bible, which was strongly influenced by western coastal dialects and the Swedish tongue. Calls to create a revised literary form of Finnish, excising Swedish linguistic traits in favour of inland Finnish dialects, clashed with conservative pleas for the maintenance of continuity and tradition. Ultimately, written Finnish not only maintained its biblical underpinnings but also absorbed some eastern influences. Ironically, in wanting to do justice to the Finnish vernacular, national activists Meinander, A History of Finland, trans. Tom Geddes (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); and Fred Singleton, A Short History of Finland (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989). 52 Janne Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén and the Constructed Nation: Art and Nationalism in Young Finland, 1800-1900” (PhD diss., New York University, 2001), 12; see also Sommer, “A Step Away.” 53 John Hutchinson, Nations as Zones of Conflict (London: SAGE, 2004), 55. 34 manufactured a new linguistic identity that moved further away from any of the local dialects actually spoken by Finns.54 In 1830, following the Great Fire of Turku and the relocation of the university to Helsinki, former pupils of the Turku academy, including Elias Lönnrot55 (1802-1884), Johan Ludvig Runeberg56 (1804-1877), and Johan Vilhelm Snellman (1806-81), founded a group known as Lauantaiseura (“The Saturday Society”) for the purpose of continuing the Romantics’ work in the new capital. Its members had a profound impact on Finnish nationalism: Lönnrot wrote the Kalevala; Runeberg penned the lyrics to the national anthem; and Snellman, the leading ideologist of the nineteenth-century Finnish nationalist movement, advocated tirelessly for the development of the Finnish language. As both a scholar and a politician, Johan Vilhelm Snellman was well positioned to become the leading ideologist of the nineteenth-century Finnish nationalist movement.57 Through his research into the German philosopher Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770- 54 Sommer, “A Step Away,” 31. 55 Lönrott is most famous for compiling the Finnish Kalevala epic; his contributions to Finnish nationalism will be discussed in detail shortly. 56 Johan Ludvig Runeberg is widely accepted as Finland’s national poet. Despite writing in the Swedish language, Runeberg was able to rouse the interest of the aristocracy in the Finnish peasant by according the Finnish population a sense of identity. For example, Runeberg’s poem “Bonden Paavo” (1830)—a depiction of the peasant Paavo of Saarijärvi, who confronts and overcomes the harsh realities of agrarian life—described what would become the archetypal Finnish peasant: virtuous, stoic, and persistent. One of his most famous collections of poems, Fänrik Ståls sägner (“Tales of Ensign Stål,” 1848-1860), is a patriotic account of the Finnish War of 1808-09, which he was—remarkably—able to express without offending the Russian authorities. The first of these poems, “Vårt land” (“Our Land”), provided the lyrics for the Finnish national anthem. 57 Huttunen, “Nationalistic,” 218. 35 1831), who followed Herder’s conception of the Volk but gave more importance to political frameworks, Snellman took the position that individual nations were the active force in history and that national literature formed the essence of a national culture. Snellman preached two core ideas. First, he argued that Finland was inhabited by a single, Finnish-speaking nation, and he urged Swedish speakers to accept this position and adopt the Finnish language. Second, he claimed that the only way to ensure the survival of the Finnish nation was through an improvement in Finnish-language education. Snellman articulated his views by way of a vicious editorial battle, writing, like many of his supporters, almost exclusively in Swedish and stressing the importance of education in the creation of national culture58: The new, modern national literature should be based on the national cultural heritage, and the new era more responsible for a foundation of patriotic pathos. Folklore is an unconscious and naive art of words, and it is the responsibility of the intelligentsia to elevate it to a new, truly artistic level.59 Nineteenth-century Finland witnessed the gradual but inexorable development of a Finnish-speaking class. Snellman founded the first Finnish speaking school in the country, an elementary school for girls, in 1845. In 1850, the University of Helsinki appointed its first professor of the Finnish language; in 1858, the city of Jyväskylä opened a Finnish-speaking 58 Many of Finnish nationalism’s strongest advocates, including Porthan, Runeberg, and Snellman, lacked fluency in written Finnish and instead used Swedish, the language of the cultured elite, to advance their patriotic ideas. 59 “Uuden, modernin kansalliskirjallisuuden tulee perustua kansallisen kulttuuri perinnön ja uutta aikaa paremmin vastaavan isänmaallisen paatoksen perustalle. Kansanrunous on tiedostamatonta ja naiivia sanataidetta, ja sivistyneistön tulisi kohottaa se uudelle todella taiteelliselle tasolle.” Cited in Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 20. 36 secondary school. In 1863—the year that Finnish was proclaimed an official language alongside Swedish—universities began offering lectures in Finnish. On 30 July 1863, Czar Alexander II (r. 1855-1881)—wishing to prevent unrest from the 1863 Polish uprising from spreading to Finland—signed a “language rescript” stating that Finnish be equal in status to Swedish in all matters concerning the Finnish population; that Finnish documents be accepted in Finland’s courts and government bureaus; that official documents be distributed to the population in Finnish no later than 1883; and that the Finnish senate take care of all measures resulting from the execution of the rescript.60 This placed Finland in a more autonomous position than ever before. Education became one of the primary vehicles of Finnish nationalism. To strengthen the Finnish language and culture, it was important to enroll as many children as possible in school. Before 1870, only 7 percent of students were from peasant backgrounds, but by 1880 the number had doubled, and continued to increase in ensuing years. Finland’s small population—just over two million in 1880—did not permit the exclusion of females from the education system, and after 1886, it was possible for women to obtain a university education.61 Literacy rates soared as the century drew to a close: in 1880, little over 12 percent of the population over the age of ten could read and write; by 1900, 40 percent of those over the age of fifteen could do so.62 60 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 13. 61 Gisela Kaplan, “Comparative Europe: Feminism and Nationalism: The European Case,” in Feminist Nationalism, ed. Lois A. West (New York: Routledge, 1997), 29. 62 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 19. 37 Constructing the Ideal Finn There are two ways in which the community can be located and its true state revealed: through poetic spaces and golden ages. The first involves the uses of landscape, the second the uses of history. The one roots the community in its distinctive terrain; the other charts its origins and flowering in the age of heroes. Both together provide a history and metaphysic of the individuality of the community, from which an ethic of regeneration issues to lead it forward.63 —Anthony D. Smith Nations have long justified their claims for cultural and political legitimacy by virtue of their rootedness in nature, and through associated ideas of folk, tradition, and community. These concepts can be traced back to Herder,64 who celebrated a “vision of a folk whose aesthetic creativity sprang from nature,”65 arguing that cultures are, to a large extent, determined by their physical environment: Nature has sketched with the mountain ranges she formed and with the rivers she made flow from them the rough but definite outline of the entire history of man. [. . .] Oceans, mountain chains, and rivers are the most natural boundaries not only of lands, but also of peoples, customs, languages, and empires; and even in the greatest revolutions of human affairs they have been the guiding lines and the limits of world history.66 63 Anthony D. Smith, The Ethnic Origins of Nations (Oxford: Blackwell, 1986), 183. 64 Max Paddison, “Art and the Ideology of Nature: Sibelius, Hamson, Adorno,” in Jean Sibelius and His World, ed. Daniel M. Grimley (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2011), 183. 65 Philip Bohlman, The Study of Folk Music in the Modern World (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1998), xix. 66 Herder, Sämmtliche Werke, 13:37-38; quoted in Wilson, “Herder,” 821. 38 Romantics considered it their duty to recover and sustain folk cultures. The growth of folklore studies during the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries was virtually synonymous with the development of romantic nationalistic movements throughout Europe; it was viewed as the “handmaiden of a politics of vernacularity”67 and justified through the representation of global civilization as a synthesis of numerous unique national cultures. Nationalists could claim that although their nation was currently underdeveloped, it had once been a leader among nations; for them, borrowing folk elements was simply a way of reclaiming a lost heritage. As part of the rediscovery of their collective selves, nationalists undertook journeys to record the distinctive qualities of their homeland. These journeys extended their sense of belonging spatially, deepening their sense of attachment to the land. In so doing, some remote areas of natural beauty or cultural significance became endowed with a sense of mystery and sacred purpose, inspiring poets, artists, and musicians to disseminate their vision of the land through their art.68 Interest in folk culture was also driven by struggles for national independence and cultural self-determination. For many nationalists, folklore research was synonymous with the pursuit of national power and motivated by patriotic sentiment, playing a significant role in the development of a national identity.69 Nationalists focused on the construction 67 Roger Abrahams, “The Past in the Presence: An Overview of Folkloristics in the Late Twentieth Century,” in Folklore Processed: In Honour of Lauri Honko, ed. Reimund Kvideland (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1992), 36; cited in Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 27. 68 Hutchinson, Nations, 50, 54. 69 Wilson notes that this was largely due to the publication of the Kalevala. William A. Wilson, 39 of the folk as rural people, inhabitants not only of specific landscapes, but also within particular politically determined spaces, employing specific stereotypical characterizations of their country, landscape, and people in the creation of a positive national self-image. Although Finland’s cultural composition draws from a diverse array of ethnicities, as is typical of many border regions, literature that dealt with Finnish cultural history in the years between 1809 and 1917 tended to avoid discussing Finland’s origins in cultural fragmentation and artistic rootlessness; rather, when Finnish nationalists recreated a national language and traditions, they necessarily presented Finland as a unified culture.70 Moreover, they took special efforts to convince the Swedish-speaking elite that the Finnish-speaking majority population was not only agrarian but also honest and upright. For example, Johann Ludvig Runeberg (1804-1877), Finland’s national poet, produced several literary works placing his characters in a romanticized pastoral or war setting; the Finnish author Zachris Topelius (1818-1898), in his Boken om vårt land (1875), endowed the national character Matti with such traits as diligence, obedience, perseverance, and stubbornness in an effort to portray the phlegmatic personality type supposedly common within the Finnish population.71 Folklore and Nationalism in Modern Finland (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1976), 62-66. 70 For more on this topic, see Tomi Mäkelä, “Poesie in der Luft”: Jean Sibelius; Studien zu Leben und Werk (Breitkopf & Härtel: Weisbaden, 2007). 71 Saukkonen, “Finns,” 151-52. 40 These images were not an accurate depiction of the Finnish character by any means. They were instead idealized creations of the Finnish character by a select group of intellectuals who rejected existing ideas of national self-identification as woefully inadequate. Moreover, in creating what they were supposed to describe, they frequently served as a thinly disguised compendium of prescribed behavior for the common folk. Yet, Finnish audiences took the idea of a homogenous Finnish culture for granted, meeting alternative representations of the Finnish self-image with harsh censure. Aleksis Kivi’s (1834-1872) literary masterpiece Seven Brothers (1870), for example, was reviled for its depiction of the titular characters not only as divergent entities, rather than a single super-individual, but also as ignorant, lazy, and resistant to bourgeois values, which clashed with ideals of national purity.72 In a review in the Finlands Allmäna Tidningen, August Ahlqvist called the book a “ridiculous work and a blot on the name of Finnish literature.”73 These territorial attitudes were a necessary precondition of Finland’s independence and became firmly entrenched—from both a foreign and a domestic perspective—as a given aspect of Finland’s cultural makeup. By the turn of the twentieth century, it became commonplace to allude to the close link Finns have with nature, and, in so doing, reinforce the myth of Finland as a homogenous national entity. For example, the painter Akseli 72 Saukkonen, “Finns,” 151-52. 73 Hannes Sivo, “Aleksis Kivi,” trans. Roderick Fletcher, Biografiakeskus, accessed 5 July 2018, www.kansallisbiografia.fi/. 41 Gallen-Kallela, whose output is sometimes compared with Sibelius’s,74 wrote in 1924 that “Anyone who lives and works hard in open nature achieves in the end such a personal relationship to his environment that he may find himself speaking to the trees—like a child speaks to the flowers in the field. The deep integration in nature is particular to us Finns; this is proven by our folk poetry.”75 Similarly, Sibelius encouraged parallels between his music and a northern landscape, stating from his retreat in Järvenpää that he needed to compose in silence, surrounded by nature and the sounds of the forest. Evocations of nature are found in his works as late as the symphonic poem Tapiola, the score of which features an opening quatrain referencing “the northland’s dusky forests.”76 74 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 159. 75 Erik Tawaststjerna, Jean Sibelius: Åren 1893-1904 (Helsinki: Söderstroms, 1994), 232; quoted in Tomi Mäkelä, “The Nordic Landscape and ‘Extra-Territoriality: Jean Sibelius in the Context of Cultural Geography and Adorno’s Reception,” in Sibelius in the Old and New World: Aspects of His Music, Its Interpretation, and Reception, ed. Timothy L. Jackson et al. (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2010), 364. 76 Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 43. Tomi Mäkelä argues that the opening quatrain was likely written by a member of Sibelius’s German publishing house. See Tomi Mäkelä, “The Wings of a Butterfly: Sibelius and the Problems of Musical Modernity,” in Jean Sibelius and His World, ed. Daniel M. Grimley (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2011), 113. 42 The Kalevala: A Case Study I will sing the people’s legends, and the ballads of the nation. 77 —Elias Lönnrot A final important facet of Herder’s philosophy is the idea of historical continuity.78 When such continuity is lost through national decay, Herder argues that a nation’s history and Volksgeist can be revivified by shaping the cultural fragments of its agrarian population—which, as we have seen, lived in harmony with nature and possessed intimate ties with their nation’s geographic setting—into a unified narrative expressive of a nation’s unique spirit. Herder’s prescriptions were realized in various nation-building endeavours through the construction of a history that included tales of national myths, heroes, and adversaries.79 Roused by James Macpherson’s purported discovery of the Ossianic Lays (1762),80 the Germans rekindled their interest in the thirteenth-century Nibelungenlied, the Irish their ancient Celtic Ulster and Fenian cycles, and the Norwegians the Edda (translated 1766-68).81 77 Kalevala, rune 1, lines 5-6; trans. Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 24. 78 Wilson, “Herder,” 821. 79 Hroch, “Introduction,” 14. 80 James Macperson’s English-language translation of ancient Scots Gaelic poetry received considerable attention on the continent and was translated into Swedish between 1794-1800, serving as a strong model for the Kalevala. 81 Hutchinson, Nations, 55. 43 In Finland,82 this task was taken up by Elias Lönnrot (1802-1884),83 who—inspired by the German philologist Friedrich August Wolf (1759-1824) and his theory on Homeric epics84—travelled to Karelia85 to collect peasant ballads and tales before ultimately shaping them into a Finnish epic. In February 1834, while editing and comparing his collected materials, Lönnrot wrote: “a desire to organize and unify them awoke in me, to extract from Finnish mythology something corresponding to the Icelandic Edda,” adding that “our descendants will possibly esteem such a collection as highly as the Gothic nations regard 82 In Finland, one of this first to express the need for a national epic was not Lönnrot but rather the folklorist Carl Axel Gottlund (1796-1875). Gottlund published his first collection of Finnish folk poetry in 1818 and founded a Finnish society in Stockholm in 1828; however, he was shunned by Lönnrot and his colleagues, likely because of his long association with Sweden, where he conducted the majority of his research. See Kirby, Concise History, 94. 83 Elias Lönnrot is chiefly known for his role in the collection, editing, and publication of the Kalevala, a book of Finnish verse that has been officially recognized as Finland’s national epic. He developed a passion for folklore while studying at the Royal Academy of Turku, where he enrolled in 1822, and he submitted a Master’s dissertation on the mythical Finnish shaman and musician Väinämöinen in 1827. After graduation he moved to the newly established University of Helsinki, where he wrote about folk medicine while working toward a medical degree. In 1831, with the help of his colleagues in the Saturday Society, he established the Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura (“Finnish Literature Society”) with the intent of collecting, publishing, and studying folklore material; one of the first actions of the SKS was to raise funds to finance Lönnrot’s folk poetry collection trips to the remote regions of Karelia, where he collected material that would later be incorporated into the Kalevala. 84 Friedrich August Wolf, Prolegomena ad Homerum, 1795. According to Wolf, Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey could not have been composed in their current form without the aid of writing, and must therefore have originally consisted of loose songs; these songs would thus have been reproduced in oral tradition and collected together in the form of an epic poem only about 500 years after the date of their original composition. 85 Many of the the songs Lönnrot used in the Kalevala survived chiefly along both sides of the present-day Finnish-Russian border in Karelia, possibly owing to the region’s isolation from Western European influences and the Russian Orthodox Church’s more lenient position toward folk poetry. Thus Karelia—especially Russian Karelia, which Finnish intellectuals, ethnologists, and artists identified as the epicenter of Finnish oral poetry and the mythic home of an ancient Finnish civilization—evolved into a highly symbolic space. By the early twentieth century, the idealization of Karelia—which gave rise to a movement known as “Karelianism”—had become integral to Finnish nationalism, and some enthusiasts referred openly to Russian Karelia as an inseparable part of the Finnish nation. Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 36. 44 Edda or the Greeks and Romans, if not Homer, at least Hesiod.”86 Lönnrot’s ensuing work, the Kalevala, is one of the most powerful illustrations of the formation and recreation of an ancient collective memory, made all the more compelling by the myriad ways it was justified by generations of Finnish intellectuals. Lönnrot published the first edition of the Kalevala—titled Kalewala taikka wanhoja Karjalan runoja Suomen kansan muinosista ajoista87—in 1835, following a series of folk music collection trips. As Lönnrot considered the ancient Finns to have entered Karelia around the ninth century via the White Sea,88 he used this geographical backdrop in his portrayal of the mythical heroes of Finland’s Iron Age society.89 Aware of disputes 86 Jouko Hautala, Finnish Folklore Research 1828-1918 (Helsinki: Societas Fennica, 1969), 25. 87 “The Kalevala, or Old Karelian Poetry from the Antiquity of the Finnish People.” This version would become known as the “Old Kalevala” after the publication of the revised edition in 1849. It consists of 12,078 lines arranged into thirty-two poems or “cantos.” The text is set in trochaic tetrameter with four poetic feet per line; although this meter has been famously used by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (in The Song of Hiawatha) and Shakespeare (in Midsummer Night’s Dream), it is commonly known in poetic circles as Kalevala meter. 88 Although there has been some debate concerning the actual origin of the Finns, historians now believe that the Finno-Ugric peoples—including Finns, Estonians, and Magyars—originated in the upper regions of the Volga. They began to migrate to their present locations approximately 2,000 years ago, moving into what is now Finland through the Baltic region and eventually displacing a scattered nomadic population known as the Sami (of whom the majority currently inhabit Lapland and other parts of Nordkalotten, the area of Fennoscandia within the Arctic Circle). See Kirby, Concise History; Meinander, History; and Singleton, Short History. 89 The plot revolves around the eternal sage Väinämöinen, the epic’s main protagonist. He seeks a wife from the land of Pohjola, as do the heroic artificer-smith Ilmarinen and the handsome but arrogant Lemminkäinen, both of whom must accomplish heroic tasks to win their brides. The tragic figure of Kullervo—who figures prominently in nationalist depictions of the Kalevala—is born as a slave, sold to Ilmarinen, and exploited by Ilmarinen’s wife; ultimately, he commits suicide. The latter half of the epic concerns a struggle between two lands, Kaleva and Pohjola, over the Sampo, a magical mill that brings its owner unending wealth. 45 concerning the authenticity of Macpherson’s Ossian, Lönnrot vowed not to be pigeonholed in a similar manner. He was open about his working procedures and alterations. He justified them by way of the competence he had gained listening to folk singers and notating their oral performances, and he argued that his editing of source material corresponded to the variations in the folk performances he encountered. To support his position, he included a hundred-page appendix that provided variants to the poems he had chosen to publish.90 Thus, it was widely believed that the form Lönnrot gave to the Kalevala was representative of the epic in its original shape. To be fair, Lönnrot pursued this ideal earnestly. In a printed introduction to the first edition, he discussed how he had arrived at the chosen order of the individual poems, arguing that it was not a subjective or artistic choice, but rather an ethnographically interpretative one: Two things I have taken into consideration in the method of organization: firstly what I have seen the best singers pay attention to in regard to order, and secondly, when this did not help, I consulted the poems themselves as to the basis of the events and put them in order accordingly.91 The Kalevala’s significance for Finland’s developing nationalism was immense. A national epic, which Juslenius had implied, Porthan had refuted,92 and Gottlund had 90 Smith, Chosen Peoples, 192. 91 Hautala, Finnish Folklore Research, 34; quoted in Pertti Anttonen, “The Kalevala and the Authenticity Debate,” in Manufacturing a Past for the Present: Forgery and Authenticity in Medievalist Texts and Objects in Nineteenth-Century Europe, ed. János Bak, Patrick J. Geary, and Gábor Klaniczay (Boston: Brill, 2015), 59. 92 Porthan rejected the original Finns as uncouth. He thought of the inland Finns as a people of primitive descent, once even comparing Finland to Canada as an endless expanse of forest. Derek Fewster, 46 attempted, had at last come to fruition. It quickly became the de facto symbol of Finland’s ancient national culture for several reasons. First, the Kalevala benefited from a campaign to propel it into public awareness. Proselytism like that of the Finnish ethnographer Matthias Castrén (1813-1852) was typical: “From beyond the night of centuries,” he stated during an 1841 lecture on the Kalevala, “these poems speak to us words of our fathers’ faith, their wisdom and their strength.”93 Lönnrot’s Suomalaisen kirjallisuuden seura (Finnish Literary Society) proclaimed it Finland’s national epic—a designation that has endured, having never been contested94—and the society quickly secured patronage at a time when the authorities were wary of anything that might be construed as disloyal. Within a week of the society’s first meeting, it had secured pledges of protection from both the chancellor of the University of Helsinki and the vice-chairman of the Finnish senate. Anyone who appeared to challenge its authority was ostracized.95 Second, as a national epic, the Kalevala provided a heroic history that distinguished Finns from other peoples, transcended the Visions of Past Glory: Nationalism and the Construction of Early Finnish History (Helsinki: Finnish Literature Society, 2006), 59-62, 94. 93 Kirby, Concise History, 94. 94 Goss, Sibelius, 37. 95 Kirby, Concise History, 94; see also Irma Sulkunen, Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura: 1831-1892 (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 2004). Despite the Kalevala’s ideological success, its adoption by the public at large was not immediate, nor was its impact on the Finnish arts: the 1835 printing of 500 copies was, in fact, still being sold twenty years later. This could possibly be attributed to the repression of Finnish national activism by Russian authorities, but it was also a matter of language: in part Finland’s low level of literacy, and in part the complex language Lönnrot had documented and employed within the publication, which even enthusiasts had trouble understanding. See Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 222; Goss, Sibelius, 37. 47 periods of Swedish and Russian rule, and established a firm foundation for Finland’s national project. Possessed not only of a national language but also a noble epic, Finland could be considered a legitimate candidate for inclusion into the European concert of nations96; Finns could now say, “I too have a history.”97 Third, the Kalevala was largely considered a historical document, taken as authentic and factually based even by later generations of Finnish nationalists. Though the era it described was earlier than could be corroborated by external evidence, its linguistic mannerisms and its description of tools, weapons, and customs appeared consonant with what was known of pre-Christian iron-age societies.98 In the words of American folklorist Alan Dundes, “the forces of romanticism and nationalism were—and are—so powerful in Finland that what the people believed was—and is—more important than what was true.”99 In 1849, following a further series of folklore collection trips, Lönnrot published a revised and extended edition of the Kalevala. In contrast with his methodical approach to the 1835 edition, Lönnrot took significant liberties with the source material. He created new plots and characters, lengthened narrative episodes, and combined separate songs and their motives. He also changed the orthography, language, and poetic meter in fully 50% of the 96 Smith, Chosen Peoples, 193. 97 Wilson, Folklore, 42. 98 Goss, Sibelius, 37. 99 Alan Dundes, “Nationalistic Inferiority Complexes and the Fabrication of Fakelore: A Reconsideration of Ossian, the Kinder- and Hausmärchen, the Kalevala, and Paul Bunyan,” Journal of Folklore Research 22, no. 1 (1985): 5, 8. 48 lines, composed a further 14% of the lines anew using selected elements from the folk poems, and created 3% of the lines in their entirety, with no equivalent in the sources. Only 33% of the lines in the 1849 Kalevala match with the original folk texts.100 Because of the many changes Lönnrot made to this edition, scholars consider it “more artistic than ethnographic.”101 “One cannot speak of the second edition,” writes Jouko Hautala, “not even of a revised one, but rather of a new epic, built on the basis of the first.”102 Significantly, Lönnrot steered the 1849 Kalevala toward nation-building. He eliminated most of the dialectal and linguistic differences in the materials, thereby not only making the epic comprehensible to all Finnish speakers but also removing traces of local culture. In doing so, he intentionally nationalized the work by having the folk poetry emerge not from a narrow geographic locale between Finland and Karelia but rather from within the broader environment of Finland, meaning any place within the developing conception of the Finnish nation.103 Thanks to changing research premises—from romanticism to evolutionism and positivism—the Kalevala’s status as an authentic representation of ancient Finnish history 100 Väinö Kaukonen, Lönnrot ja Kalevala (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1979), 72; quoted in Anttonen, “Kalevala,” 65. 101 Anttonen, “Kalevala,” 64. 102 Hautala, Finnish Folklore Research, 34; quoted in Anttonen, “Kalevala,” 65. 103 Anttonen, “Kalevala,” 77. 49 gave way to a reading of the epic as a literary anthology of oral folk poetry.104 The Finnish professor Julius Krohn articulated this new attitude in the 1880s: “The printed Kalevala, although it is put together so skillfully, or in fact, for that very reason, is not at all suitable as a basis for scholarly research.”105 Curiously, this new attitude was met with attempts to legitimize the Kalevala. These were not motivated by skepticism toward the epic, but rather by an earnest wish to verify the work to the international community. Axel August Lähteenkorva106, for example, led expeditions to Karelia to find evidence of the Kalevala’s historical authenticity, hoping to disprove allegations that the epic was a hoax like MacPherson’s Ossianic texts.107 Meanwhile, in an effort to make available the Kalevala’s original source material, Krohn launched an ambitious publishing effort that would last more than a century: Kalevalan toisinnot (“The Kalevala’s Variants”) was published in 1888; Kalevalan esityöt I-III (“The Kalevala’s Preliminary Work”) in 1891-95; and the 33-volume set Suomen Kansan Vanhat Runot (“Finnish People’s Ancient Poems”) in 1908-48, with an additional 34th volume released in 1997.108 Karelianism notwithstanding, the preservation of Finnish cultural material from within those same imperial boundaries from which Finnish nationalists sought separation 104 Hautala, Finnish Folklore Research, 71; quoted in Anttonen, “Kalevala,” 61. 105 Ibid., 61. 106 1849-1931, né Borenius. 107 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 225-26. 108 Anttonen, “Kalevala,” 68. 50 was problematic. Over time, Finnish folklorists began to argue for a sense of Finnish identity aligned with the West.109 For example, Lähteenkorva, in an 1873 paper, “Missä Kalevala on syntynyt?” (Where Did the Kalevala Originate?), argued that the Kalevala’s poems did not have their origin in the places in eastern Finland or in Karelia, where they were last sung, stating that “the poetry has come to Russian Karelia from the west, from Finland, and not spread from there in the opposite direction into Finland.”110 As proof, he pointed to Swedish loanwords that had been distorted in the songs since these words were unknown in the ordinary language of the song regions. In a later work, he compared Kalevala’s poetry to equivalents in English, German, Danish, and Norwegian to demonstrate that the Finnish poem cycle was linked to the medieval tradition of Western Europe.111 Similarly, in a study published in 1885, Julius Krohn concluded that by origin the Kalevala’s source material had migrated to Finland from the West as small units or cells, later evolving into poetic cycles. These conclusions were potentially damaging to the view of folk poetry as the spontaneous expression of the Volk. Lönnrot, however, offered a loophole in his account of his working methodology in the periodical Litteraturblad (1849). In constructing the new Kalevala into a unified whole from disparate elements, he explained that he had assumed the role of a singer himself: “I considered that I had the same right that, I am convinced, 109 Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 36. 110 Quoted in Hautala, Finnish Folklore Research, 65. 111 Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 36. 51 most singers take upon themselves, namely to organize the poems according to how best they fit together [. . .] in other words I regard myself as being as good a singer as they are.”112 This allowed later academics to position Lönnrot, the son of a tailor in a Finnish-speaking family, as one of the last of the folksingers. According to Krohn: It was not so much the original subject matter as its recreation by the Finns that had imbued the poems with the Finnish spirit. […] In preserving the original character of the poems, it is most advantageous if the final shaping is performed with as sensitive hand as possible; and it is most fortunate if the compiler, in poetic matters, is as close to the folk singers as possible. This our Lönnrot has been.113 The theoretical perspectives outlined above indicate the extent to which folklore scholarship intersected with Finnish nationalism. As sociologist Alberto Melucci notes, identity is not a thing, an object that can be attained, but “a system of relations and representations.”114 Questioning origins of Finnish poems and songs and comparing Finnish folklore material with Swedish and Russian material were ways of defining Finnish identity, an identity constructed in relation to the similarities and differences between Finland and its neighbors.115 112 Quoted in Anneli Asplund and Ulla Lipponen, The Birth of the Kalevala (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 1985), 27. 113 Wilson, Folklore, 54-56; cited in Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 35. 114 Alberto Melucci, L’Invenzione del presente: movimenti, identità, bisogni individuali (Bologna: Il mulino, 1982), 68; cited in Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 37. 115 Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 37. 52 From Cultural to Political Nationalism It is a well-known fact that we always recognize our homeland when we are about to lose it.116 —Albert Camus In his discussion of cultural nationalism, John Hutchinson identifies a familiar narrative in the process of nation-building where an initial period of cultural awakening begets the drive to political independence. He notes that political nationalism is usually seen as the more progressive form of nationalism, while cultural nationalism—with its focus on nations’ golden ages and the preservation of continuity with previous generations—appears more preliminary, if not downright sentimental: The consensus is that cultural nationalism is a regressive force, a product of intellectuals from backward societies, who, when confronted by more scientifically advanced cultures, compensate for feelings of inferiority by retreating into history to claim descent from a once great civilization. Somehow or other, cultural nationalism, it is argued, is functional for the formation of nations in such backward cultures, but in itself cannot shape their path to socio-political modernization.117 This attitude illustrates a fundamental misunderstanding of the role of cultural nationalism in the formation of a national identity. Even though civic movements are generally more 116 Albert Camus, Lyrical and Critical Essays, ed. Philip Thody, trans. Ellen Conroy Kennedy (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1969), 90. 117 Hutchinson, “Cultural Nationalism,” 127. 53 effective in directing large-scale political action,118 cultural efforts regularly affect political change, especially within rigid sociopolitical frameworks: Cultural nationalism has everywhere generated a flowering of the historical sciences and the arts as intellectuals have established cultural forums in which to challenge ossified political and cultural elites and to inspire a rising educated generation to campaign to ‘recreate’ the idea of the nation as a living principle in the lives of people.119 There is, moreover, a dynamic interplay between cultural and political movements, with each becoming the vehicle for political mobilization when the other fails.120 This “contrapuntal relationship”121 becomes more complex during times of crisis, when identity formation and state power acquisition efforts achieve greater social momentum.122 It is readily apparent in late nineteenth-century Finland, where Fennoman activists—roused by increasing conflict with Swedish and Russian factions—moved from a program defined largely through cultural endeavours to one motivated by the need for political self-determination. Fennoman efforts—as we shall see—were aided by cultural nationalists, who 118 Hutchinson, “Cultural Nationalism,” 89. 119 Hutchinson, “Cultural Nationalism,” 122; quoted in Daniel M. Grimley, Grieg: Music, Landscape and Norwegian Identity (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2006), 53. 120 Hutchinson, “Cultural Nationalism,” 89. 121 Ibid., 89. 122 According to Hroch, “National agitation, the national idea, could only be comprehensible to the masses and acceptable to them if it corresponded to some extent with their everyday experience: in that case, it was the experience of conflict, in particular, which most stimulated each social movement.” Hroch, “Introduction,” 14. 54 advocated for social improvement and renewal as a means of resistance to political and cultural domination. Beginning in the 1860s, Finland saw increasing tension between its Finnish and Swedish partisans. On one side, the Fennoman movement—which was encouraged by Russian authorities as a means of distancing Finland from Sweden123—saw significant cultural and political advances on positions historically held by the Swedish-speaking elite. On the other side, the “Svecoman” movement—which arose largely in opposition to Fennomania—insisted that Finland’s Swedish population constituted an indigenous nationality and could not be forced to renounce its native tongue.124 In support of their position, many Svecoman turned to the inherently racist writings of the Swedish journalist August Sohlman, who argued that Finnish culture was a Swedish import: If the foreign elements were removed [from Finland] and the Finnish nation started to build on its own foundation, and detach itself from contact with Swedish culture, it would cover the distance to barbarity and extinction in as many decades as it took centuries for the Swedish influence to uplift Finns to civilization, self-esteem, and a life of law and social order.125 Such sentiments, while not absolute, remained an underlying component in Svecoman arguments concerning the importance of Swedish culture. 123 Russian authorities perceived the dominant Swedish culture—but not the historically subordinate Finnish culture—as a threat to Russia’s political and territorial interests. 124 The Swedish population comprised roughly 12 percent of Finland’s population in 1860. Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 14. 125 August Sohlman, Det Unga Finland (1855); quoted in Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 14; also quoted in Jutikkala, History, 207-08. 55 Simultaneously, Finland witnessed fresh tension with Russia. Sparked by the Crimean War (1853-56), the abolition of serfdom (1861) and the Polish Revolt (1863), conservative nationalism spread in Russia through an aggressive propaganda campaign, with such sentiments as that of Russian journalist Mikhail Katkov (1818-1887) becoming commonplace: Russia needs a unified state and a strong sense of Russian nationality. […] Even the worst enemy cannot think of a worse destiny for Russia and the spreading of the Finnish example. To the political feelings of the Russian people there is nothing more contemptuous than federalism, alone the thought of it makes one sick.126 Escalating Russian mistrust of Finnish politics, coupled with changing leadership in the Russian capital127 and heightened international political tensions,128 persuaded Czar Nicholas II to back plans transforming Finland from an autonomous Grand Duchy into an obedient Russian borderland. Most troubling for Finland was the 1898 appointment of a new governor-general, Nikolay Ivanovich Bobrikov (1839-1904), to the Finnish senate. His nomination sparked a period of oppression—and a simultaneous period of cultural and intellectual activity in defense of Finland’s autonomy known as routavuodet (the “ground 126 Moskovskia Vedomosti, 10 September 1863. Quoted in Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 527-29. 127 Finland benefitted immensely from the leadership of Czar Alexander I (r. 1801-1825), who had more-or-less guaranteed Finland’s autonomous status under oath on 29 March 1809 at the Diet of Porvoo, and his successor Alexander II, who ruled Finland with such a liberal hand as to earn the sobriquet “the good Czar” (Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 529-30). However, Alexander III (r. 1881-1894) and Nicholas II (r. 1894-1917) had less sympathy for Finland’s autonomous status. 128 The growing threat of a European arms race combined with the 1882 formation of the so-called Triple Alliance between Germany, Austria-Hungary, and Italy prompted Russia to desire a more active defense of the Baltic-Finnish coast and increased authority within Finland. Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 529-30. 56 frost years”129)—that lasted until the great strike of 1905. One of Bobrikov’s first acts in his new position was to force an imperial edict known as the February Manifesto through the senate in 1899, which not only revoked the special status that Finland had enjoyed for close to one hundred years but also initiated a series of oppressive measures robbing Finland of its authority. The edict gave Russia the ability to rule Finland without the consent of local legislative bodies; it also made Russian stamps and currency the only legal tender, the Russian Orthodox Church the official state church, the press subject to Russian censorship, and the army subject to Russian rules of military service. The Language Manifesto of 1900 further curtailed Finnish freedoms through its declaration of Russian as the legal language of Finnish administration, and a 1901 military service law ordered the assimilation of the Finnish army into the Russian Empire. In spite of a tense political climate, the late nineteenth-century Finnish middle class was reluctant to challenge a government that had hitherto protected its economic and social privileges. In the years preceding the Bobrikov era, even the Fennoman movement developed increasingly conservative tendencies, refusing to compromise on the language question, institute constitutional reform, or relinquish any power to the people they claimed to represent.130 This inertia left the Finnish bourgeoisie largely helpless in the face of the 129 Matti Vainio, “How Modernism Came to Finland? An Exposition of the History of Ideas,” in Mäkelä, Music and Nationalism, 164. 130 Symptomatic of this attitude is the Fennoman society Raittiuden ystävät (“Friends of Abstinence”). Like the old Fennomans, with whom it had intimate ties, the society was old fashioned, conservative and hierarchical; its main objective was to direct the working classes toward controlled cooperation with the educated elite, thereby circumventing the possibility of independent political demands. Founded in 1884, it 57 February Manifesto: complacent with its own status, divided on the language question, and utterly incapable of tackling the Russian threat.131 However, this void was, in illustration of Hutchinson’s position above, countered by a rise in cultural nationalist forces: namely, the efforts of musicians, writers, poets, and other intellectuals who were not only responsive to this heightening political tension but also accustomed to working on the perimeter of society.132 Initially, this new union of art and politics manifested through an improved caliber of art criticism. Artists and critics increased their focus on the political connotations of art objects, while politicians and members of the Finnish bourgeoisie—in lieu of decisive action—supported the cultural endeavours best characterizing their party’s political ideology.133 Faced with the increased urgency of the Bobrikov era, however, many of these same individuals transcended their political allegiances to emphasize the national importance of a robust Finnish cultural output; accordingly, Finnish art became synonymous with the declaration of a unanimous political will. In the words of Janne Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “whether or not a work was conceived with political intent did not rapidly increased its membership, garnering the support of 10,000 members by 1892 and 40,000 members by 1905. See Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 290-92. 131 See Risto Alapuro, “Nineteenth Century Nationalism in Finland: A Comparative Perspective,” Scandinavian Political Studies 2, no. 1 (1979): 27; Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 290-92, 555. 132 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 555. 133 Ibid., 210-11. 58 matter as long as it originated from a Finnish hand and expressed or depicted something that could be seen as a metaphor of the current situation.”134 One of the most influential groups to emerge from this climate was Nouri Suomi (“Young Finland”), with which Madetoja would develop close ties in ensuing decades. Although Nuori Suomi lacked a rigid political agenda, it functioned as a political party between 1894 and the Finnish Civil War of 1917-18, tackling such political affairs as “the abstinence question, the workers’ question, and the women’s question,”135 as the Finnish writer Santeri Ivalo observed in 1910. Nevertheless, in its primary capacity as a multifaceted cultural and political movement, it was a beacon for creative energy. Its members saw the enrichment of Finland’s cultural life as a fundamental means of defense for their status as nation: they promoted Finland’s cultural autonomy, opposed cultural and political conformity, and aimed to define Finland’s identity within a modern European context—all of this accomplished, most prominently, through the Päivälehti, which today bears the name 134 Ibid., 542. 135 Santeri Ivalo, “Kahdenkymmenen vuoden varrelta: huiken ‘Nuoren Suomen’ historiikkia,” Nuori Suomi: Joulualbumi 20 (1910): 67; quoted in Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 304. The “women’s question” was, of course, suffrage, toward which Finland’s highly politicized atmosphere allowed women to make huge strides. The first Finnish women’s movement was uniquely situated as an extension of the Finnish nationalist cause: Suomen naisyhdistys (the “Finnish Women’s Association”) was founded in 1884 and grounded its policies within Finnish national events through a focus on political, educational, and social rights. Notably, the author Minna Canth, an active member of Nuori Suomi, served as branch secretary for the first external department of Suomen naisyhdistys, which opened in Kuopio in 1886. Other associations followed: for example, Unioni Naisasialiitto Suomessa (the “League of Finnish Feminists,” founded in 1892) fought for equal pay, the vote, and a voice for women in the first Finnish parliament. In 1906, Finland became the first nation to grant full female suffrage. See Kaplan, “Comparative Europe,” 30. 59 Helsingin Sanomat and enjoys the widest circulation of all Nordic newspapers.136 Such undertakings would prove a significant source of inspiration for Madetoja, who worked tirelessly toward the development of Finland’s cultural milieu through the improvement of public support for young Finnish composers.137 Conclusion: Does Finland Have a History? Nationalism is not the awakening of nations to self-consciousness: it invents nations where they do not exist. 138 —Ernest Gellner Benedict Anderson’s argument that “communities are to be distinguished, not by their falsity/genuineness, but by the style in which they are imagined”139 is particularly germane to Finland’s case. It is shown in the construction of a new linguistic identity that 136 Its members, the crème de la crème of Finnish society, included musicians Willy Burmester, Robert Kajanus, Oskar Merikanto, Alfred Reisenauer, and Jean Sibelius; artists Akseli Gallen-Kallela, Eero Järnefelt, and Emil Wikström; authors Juhani Aho, Minna Canth, Arvid Järnefelt, and Eino and Kasmir Leino; and politicians Eero Erkko and Kaarlo Ståhlberg, the latter of whom would become the first president of Finland. Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 258-59. 137 Madetoja was an active member not only of the Finnish Musician’s Union (Muusikkojen liitto, which he helped found) but also the National Music Council (Musiikkitoimikunta), the Finnish Composers’ Copyright Bureau (Teosto), and the Society of Finnish Composers (Suomen Säveltäjät); Madetoja’s will and testament even dictates the formation of a Madetoja Foundation within the last of these associations, to which Madetoja’s copyright revenue is used even today for the commissioning of new music from Finnish composers and the recording and performing of new Finnish music. Salmenhaara, “Musiikkipoliitikko,” 29–34. 138 This does not necessarily make such endeavours duplicitous or insincere, Benedict Anderson argues. Ernest Gellner, Thought and Change (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1964), 169; quoted in Anderson, Imagined Communities, 6. 139 Anderson, Imagined Communities, 6. 60 eschewed spoken dialects, the idea of a homogenous Finnish culture, the manufacture of collective memory through the wholesale creation of a national epic, and the mapping of a geographical identity not only in relation to eastern and western neighbours but also a broader European framework. Finnish academics were well aware that Finland’s culture was a recent construction. If Finland’s history could not be discovered, then it would have to be invented. Responding to Lauri Kivekäs’s statement that “We do not have a history, we must invent history,” the Finnish writer Arvid Järnefelt, in a 1900 article in the journal Nuori Suomi titled “Onko Suomella historiaa” (“Does Finland Have a History?”), wrote: Finland’s real history is unwritten. It is the history of passive resistance. Even when normal histories compete amidst themselves over who has the most bellicose emperors, who the most splendid courts, the greatest aristocracies, the Finnish people’s history is a history of a people amidst whom the feeling of equality is so great and so natural that no families among the people have been able to feel greater than others and none have transformed themselves into national emperors. […] The Finnish people who during this intermediary period between an old and a new state of awareness have become conscious of themselves will not need any history of battles and kings—something they have never had—but will from their past seek and discover altogether different events that will give them direction.140 Referring to history as an enduring series of events, Järnefelt argues that Finland’s ongoing historical reconstruction efforts were crucial to the creation of a national identity not only for the elevation of the historical status of the Finnish people but also for the promotion of 140 Arvid Järnefelt, “Onko Suomella historiaa,” Nuori Suomi: päivalehden joulualbumi 10 (1900): 9, 11; quoted in Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 551. 61 Finland’s culture as more meaningful than its written history.141 Finland’s cultural nationalists were vital in this regard. Despite their relatively small numbers, and facing the dominant assimilating pressures of Swedish and Russian influences, Finnish intellectuals and artists recognized the importance of Finnish national history, broadcast a new collective national identity to a larger populace, and ultimately legitimized their nation’s right to exist by transforming a deep sense of connection into a cultural and historical tradition.142 141 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 551. 142 John Hutchinson, “Ethnicity and Modern Nations,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 23, no. 4 (2000): 655. 62 “Beauty Knows No Racial Boundaries”: Finnish Musical Nationalism Väinämöinen old and steadfast Passed the days of his existence Where lie Väinölä’s sweet meadows. Kaleva’s extended heathlands, There he sang his songs of sweetness, Sang his songs and proved his wisdom.1 Background and Introduction Nationalist musicians, Ben Curtis argues, contribute to the same debates and intellectual activities as nationalists in other fields. They aim to produce truly national works; they intend for music, as part of a national culture, to inspire national citizens; and they hope, in the process, to elevate their nation’s cultural and historical standing. In other words, they engage in intensely political behavior.2 In Finland, especially during the heated 1 Kalevala, rune 3, lines 1-6; trans. Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 25. 2 Ben Curtis, “On Nationalism and Music” (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 2002), 3. See also Celia Applegate, “How German Is It? Nationalism and the Idea of Serious Music in the Early Nineteenth Century,” 19th-Century Music 21 (1998): 274-96; Celia Applegate, “What is German Music? Reflections on the Role of Art in the Creation of the Nation,” German Studies Review (Winter 1992): 21-32; Michael Beckerman, “In Search of Czechness in Music,” 19th-Century Music 10 (1986-87): 61-73; Michael Beckerman, “The Master’s Little Joke: Antonín Dvořák and the Mask of Nation,” in Dvořák and His World, ed. Michael Beckerman (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 134-56; Carl Dahlhaus, “Nationalism in Music,” in Between Romanticism and Modernism, trans. Mary Whittall (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 79-101; Roger Parker, Arpa d’or de fatidici vati: The Verdian Patriotic Chorus in the 1840s (Italy, Instituto Nazionale di Studi Verdiani Parma, 1997); Roger Parker, “Va pensiero and the Insidious Mastery of Songs,” in Leonora’s Last Act: Essays in Verdian Discourse (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), 20-41; Leon Plantinga, “Dvořák and the Meaning of Nationalism in Music,” in Rethinking Dvořák: Views from Five Countries, ed. David R. Beveridge (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 117-23; Jim Samson, “Nations and Nationalism,” in The Cambridge History of Nineteenth-Century Music, ed. Jim Samson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 568-600; Richard Taruskin, “Introduction: Nationalism and Music,” Repercussions 5, nos. 1-2 63 political climate of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, composers went to great lengths to promote Finland’s international standing and cement its status as an independent nation. They explored music’s potential as a vehicle of socio-political discourse by incorporating overt political references into their music; and, in recognition of Finland’s embryonic artistic climate, they promoted their nation through the adoption of folk, nature, and landscape references. Yet, as nationalism is a category not only of intention but also reception, it is important to emphasize the reciprocal nature of their nationalist undertakings. Seeking validation for their efforts, they entered into an elaborate dialogue with both national and international audiences, actively encouraging the European glorification of Nordic mythology and responding to a positive international reception through increased engagement with European stereotypes of Finnish music. An important example of these tendencies can be found in Madetoja’s first opera, Pohjalaisia (1924). Rife with folk music and landscape references, it quickly achieved the status of Finland’s national opera and today is strongly linked with the struggle for Finnish independence. Surprisingly, historical documents show that Finnish audiences received the opera’s distinct sense of locale not as stereotypically Finnish but rather as uniquely Ostrobothnian.3 Moreover, critics celebrated the opera almost exclusively for its (1996): 5-20; and Richard Taruskin, “Nationalism,” Grove Music Online, accessed 5 July 2018, www.oxfordmusiconline.com. 3 Ostrobothnia (“Pohjalaisia” in Finnish) is the Finnish province where Madetoja was born; it forms the title for Madetoja’s first opera. 64 contribution to the canon of Finnish national art; international audiences applied patriotic sentiment retroactively, a finding that questions the idea of Madetoja as a national composer. During the 1890s, Finland’s political environment became increasingly heated. Although tensions escalated most dramatically between 1898 and 1904 with the appointment of Governor General Nikolay Bobrikov, a general sense of political anxiety pervaded many aspects of Finnish society. Finnish artists made a conscious attempt to steel the people for the coming struggle for independence; many were ardent nationalists, quick to profess their dedication to Finnish nationalism and language and eager to use their art in the service of Finland. For example, the sculptor Emil Wikström wrote to Akseli Gallen-Kallela asking him to “pave the road for national art,” declaring that he, too, was “ready to live and die for the sake of national art.”4 This encouraged greater intertwinement between Finnish culture and national politics, and, accordingly, a dramatic increase in the volume of politically inspired works. Composers who explored facets of Finnish identity in their music were now perceived as agents of the national cause, quick to profess their dedication to Finnish nationalism and language.5 One of the most celebrated was, naturally, Sibelius, who was not only a symbol 4 1883 letter from Emil Wikström to Akseli Gallen-Kallela; quoted in Markku Valkonen and Olli Valkonen, Suomen taide: Suomalaisuus (Porvoo: WSOY, 1984), 202; quoted and translated in Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 19. 5 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 540. 65 of Finnish resistance but also a political activist with well-known White sympathies.6 Veijo Murtomäki states: Sibelius was not an innocent composer, who was exploited or misused for patriotic and political purposes. On the contrary, he was an active and conscientious citizen, who was worried about Finland’s fate and tried to influence that fate through his art (about 40 pieces), which was decisively aimed at securing the liberation of Finland. He was aware of his role as a symbol of Finland’s fight, and it was even expected of him to strengthen the morale of his compatriots.7 Arguing for Sibelius’s increasing political activity from the start of the 1890s to 1918, Murtomäki catalogues Sibelius’s efforts within several broad categories: language politics; domestic politics, or the stand regarding the gradual division of the Finnish people into left-wing workers and right-wing middle- and upper-class society; “foreign” politics, or the stand regarding Russia’s oppressive measures and legislative integration with Finland; patriotic politics, or the national movement to gain independence; and imperialistic politics, or the national aspiration to incorporate Karelia and Karelian tribes into Finland.8 Sibelius is purported to have stated: “I cannot influence circumstances in any other way than by composing.”9 Most of his political or patriotic works are works for men’s choir, the most popular musical medium for patriotic sentiment; notable examples include 6 The Finnish Civil War was fought between the “Whites,” supported by Germany, and the Social Democratic “Reds,” supported by Lenin and the Bolsheviks. 7 Veijo Murtomäki, “Sibelius, Composer and Patriot,” in Matti Huttunen, Kari Kilpeläinen, and Veijo Murtomäki, eds., Sibelius Forum II: Proceedings from the Third International Jean Sibelius Conference, Helsinki, 7-10 December 2000 (Helsinki: Sibelius Academy, 2003), 333. 8 Ibid., 333. 9 Ibid., 336. 66 “Atenarnes sång,”10 “Isänmaalle,”11 “Jääkärimarssi,”12 “Skyddskårsmarsch,”13 and “Karjalan osa.”14 There is nothing specifically Finnish in the music; patriotic intent was communicated through the lyrics.15 For example, “Atenarnes sång,” one of the most famous musical responses to Russian oppression, inspired nationalist fervor in concert audiences on account of Viktor Rydberg’s text: Splendid is death, when thou fallest courageous, leading the onslaught, Fallest in war for thy land, dying for birthright and home. Rise with thy strong arm furious, rise to fight for thy country, Hasten to yield up thy life, life for the races to come!16 Other pieces were composed in support of specific nationalist causes; “Skyddskårsmarsch” was written for Finland’s civil guards, and “Karjalan osa” for an organization that was later to become the extreme-right Lapua movement. 10 “Song of the Athenians,” 1899; lyrics by Viktor Rydberg. 11 “To the Fatherland,” 1900; lyrics by Paavo Cajander. 12 “March of the Finnish Jaeger Battalion,” 1917; lyrics by Heikki Nurmio. 13 “Skyddskår’s March,” 1925; lyrics by Nino Runeberg. 14 “Karelia’s Fate,” 1930; lyrics by Aleksi Nurminen. 15 Ilkka Oramo notes that the March of the Jaegers uses a melodic pattern related to a Southern Ostrobothnian folk song, “Tuli se taivutti koivun larvan,” but in such a way that the connection is not immediately recognizable. Oramo, “Beyond Nationalism,” in Mäkelä, Music and Nationalism, 36. 16 Jean Sibelius, “Atenarnes Sång,” op. 31, no. 3, lyrics by Viktor Rydberg, trans. William Wallace (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf and Härtel, 1904). 67 Madetoja explored a similar direction in “Viipurin Marssi” (op. 33, no. 8),17 which referenced Viipuri, the capital of the contested region of Karelia, and issued a blunt call to war: Finland’s wall has stood since ancient times with Karelia’s aid. Viipuri’s castle is Karelia’s lock; aid us in our fight, God of Thunder! Again we are called to defend the Fatherland, Karelia! Finland is protected. Karelia will not be conquered! Singing, we commence battle!18 Similarly, his “Kymmenen virran maa” (op. 8, no. 8), references battle, bravery, and national pride.19 The same lyrics were used by the composer Oskar Merikanto in a 1906 composition adopted as the provincial anthem of North Ostrobothnia and Lapland: This vigorous land at the border of the North Is an exemplary battlefield; So brave, brisk, and unwavering, It is a wonderful land of memories. This land inspires me, This land of ten streams!20 The militarism of Atenarnes Sång and Viipurin Marssi takes Finnish cultural nationalism in a bold new direction. The lyrics do not romanticize the Finnish landscape 17 “Vyborg’s March,” 1914, for male choir; lyrics by Eero Eerola. 18 “Suomen muurina vanhastansa seistä on saanut Karjalan kansa. Viipurin linna on Karjalan lukko, taistossa auta ein’ meitä, Ukko! Taas meittä katsuvi taattojen mantu, Karjala! Suomen on suojaksi pantu. Karjalan maa, sua sorreta ei! Laulaen tiemme ain’ taistohon vei!” 19 “The Land of Ten Rivers,” 1913, for male choir; text by August V. Koskimies (né Forsman). 20 “Maa ponteva Pohjolan äärillä on, Se on entistaistojen tanner; Niin rohkea, reima ja horjumaton, Se on muistojen mainio manner. Tämä maa minun mieltäni innostaa, Se on Kymmenen, kymmenen virran maa!” 68 or its people; rather, they represent a call to action.21 Madetoja, like Sibelius, was unequivocally involved in the promotion of his country’s patriotic efforts through his artistic output. Given the intense political developments within early twentieth-century Finland, it would have been difficult to avoid a level of participation. However, Finnish musicians were just as likely to advocate for social improvement and renewal as a means of resistance to political and cultural domination. Recognizing that their country’s musical scene was embryonic, they considered the advancement of a unique cultural output as the surest way to gain international standing and secure status as an independent nation. Inspired by the nineteenth-century “Volksgeist” philosophy, which explained nations as manifestations of a collective national spirit, they interpreted Finland’s history as owing to the steady development of national consciousness.22 This framework was, in particular, a logical choice for Finnish music historians, who reinterpreted Finland’s history according to a nationalist model. Beginning in the early 1900s, interest in Finnish music history grew rapidly, and, owing to the political climate, attempts to document this history were strongly nationalistic. 21 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 541. 22 Hegel’s philosophy of self-determination arrived in Finland relatively early, around 1820, via Johan Jakob Tengström, a professor of philosophy at the University of Helsinki, who connected nationalistic thoughts to Hegelian philosophy and disseminated the theories throughout the university. Huttunen, “Nationalistic,” 218. 69 The first major achievement in Finnish musicology was Martin Wegelius’s Hufvuddragen af den västerländska musikens historia.23 Wegelius—himself a composer—wrote this book for students at the Helsinki Music Institute. His dedication to Wagner and the German music tradition, however, deterred him from surveying Finnish music. “In Finland a music history must first be made before it can be written,” Wegelius famously argued in the closing pages of his book, “and the generation growing now may probably in this respect both experience and be able to produce more excellent things than we.”24 These words seem prophetic, for Sibelius would emerge as a counterpart to the national sentiment of Finland’s inhabitants. Many Finns considered Sibelius an agent of Weltgeist, whose role, in the Hegelian sense, was to birth music that was truly Finnish in character.25 In the words of Toivo Haapanen: In the history of Finland’s music it is possible to see a clear development towards national independence, which can be said to have been reached in the final decades of the last century. Our musical culture, which at the end of the 18th century had already blossomed, turned in the 19th century towards national development, and the fruits were ripe by the end of the century. Jean Sibelius’s works of the 1890’s were, above all, a sign that Finnish music had reached, besides a high aesthetic level, a spiritual independence, having found its own tone.26 23 Main Features of the History of Western Music (1891-93). 24 Hufvuddragen af den västerländska musikens historia från den kristna tidens början till våra dagar 3:584; trans. Huttunen, “Nationalistic,” 218. 25 Herder conceived of Weltgeist (world-spirit) as the invisible force elevating world history. Huttunen, “Nationalistic,” 222-23. 26 Haapanen, Suomen säveltaide, 362-63, trans. Huttunen, “Nationalistic,” 222. 70 Describing Finland’s “own tone,” though, is no easy matter. Intertwined with Finland’s nationalist endeavours is the oft-cited view that its cultural output is somehow connected with its landscape or geography. Robert Simpson relates that the slow movement of Sibelius’s Third Symphony expresses repose and underlying tension “such as may be felt in the vast and mysteriously monotonous forests and lakes of [Sibelius’s] country”27; Leonard Bernstein notes that the use of the Dorian mode in Sibelius’s Sixth Symphony evokes Finland’s “remote, lonely forests.”28 Because of their pervasiveness in the discourse, such observations cannot be easily dismissed. As Tomi Mäkelä states, “this kind of contextualizing observation […] even today seems to be almost an obligatory trope in any other than a strictly analytical reading of Sibelius and his music.”29 The portrayal of the Finnish populace as having close ties with nature was crucial to the development of Finland’s cultural character. As discussed in the previous chapter, Finnish nationalists, in their struggle for cultural and political self-determination, necessarily presented Finland as a collective national identity with a unified language and heritage. Inspired by Herderian views of the folk, they highlighted the morality of the 27 Robert Simpson, Carl Nielsen: Symphonist (London: Kahn and Averill, 1986), 203; quoted in Daniel Grimley, “Landscape and Structural Perspective in Nightride and Sunrise,” in Huutunen, Kilpeläinen, and Murtomäki, Sibelius Forum II, 248. 28 Leonard Bernstein and Jack Gottlieb, Leonard Bernstein: Young People’s Concerts (Cambridge: Amadeus, 2006), 298; quoted in Eero Tarasti, Signs of Music: A Guide to Musical Semiotics (New York: Mouton de Gruyter, 2002), 104. 29 Mäkelä, Nordic Landscape, 359. 71 mostly Finnish-speaking agrarian population, drawing attention to their mystical connection with nature and their deep sense of attachment to the Finnish landscape. Finnish musical nationalists engaged with similar concepts, adding two main categories of national musical material to their music: references to Finnish folklore—especially the Kalevala—and folk music, and allusions to nature and landscape, including but not limited to politically charged locales.30 The challenge lies in attempting to define these elements. Musical nationalism is an ideology, and although it may have artistic consequences, it should be regarded not as a technical or stylistic feature but rather as a category of intention and reception.31 As Dahlhaus observes, almost any stylistic feature can be nationalistic: If a composer intended a piece of music to be national in character and the hearers believe it to be so, that is something which the historian must accept as an aesthetic fact, even if stylistic analysis—the attempt to “verify” the aesthetic premise by reference to musical features—fails to produce any evidence.”32 This can be clearly seen in an early Finnish national effort. Although the creation of national symbols was of primary importance, the origin of these symbols was, at least initially, of lesser concern. In 1848, Pacius and Runeberg composed Vårt Land (Our Land).33 30 Anssi Paasi, “Geographical Perspectives on Finnish National Identity,” GeoJournal 43, no. 1 (September 1997): 45. 31 Tomi Mäkelä, “Towards a Theory of Internationalism, Europeanism, Nationalism and ‘Co-Nationalism’ in Twentieth-Century Music,” in Mäkelä, Music and Nationalism, 10. 32 Dahlhaus, “Nationalism in Music,” 86-87. 33 Vårt Land is the original Swedish title; the Finnish title is Maamme. 72 The composer, Pacius, was German, his music was rooted in German Romanticism and Biedermeier (he was a pupil of Spohr), and the melody based on a German folk tune in mazurka style. This was evidently a non-issue: it has served as an important anthem since its creation. Its status was determined by its reception among the populace, not by its origins or substance.34 Folk Music According to Herder, the “folk” preserved an ancient cultural heritage and bore past traditions as timeless as the nation itself.35 Accordingly, various nationalist movements have propagated the view of folk music as an inherent part of a nation’s cultural life with its roots in the distant past.36 As recently as 1955, for example, the International Folk Music Council defined folk music as the orally transmitted traditions of rural communities that have remained impervious to influences from other genres such as popular and art music.37 Such movements posit the claim that folk music, or at least the oldest and purest manifestations of it, was already an archetype of a perfected art. As Bartók suggests: Peasant music, in the strict sense of the word, must be regarded as a natural phenomenon; the forms in which it manifests itself are due to the instinctive transforming power of a community entirely devoid of erudition. It is just as much 34 Oramo, “Beyond Nationalism,” 35. 35 Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 3. 36 Ibid., 5. 37 Ibid., 4. 73 a natural phenomenon as, for instance, the various manifestations of Nature in fauna and flora. Correspondingly it has in its individual parts an absolute artistic perfection, a perfection in miniature forms which – one might say – is equal to a musical masterpiece of the largest proportions. It is the classical model of how to express an idea musically in the most concise form, with the greatest simplicity of means, with freshness and life, briefly yet completely and properly proportioned.38 Dahlhaus, however, argues that the nineteenth-century position that folk music invariably embodies or reflects the music of a nation is questionable, since “It is not clear how far the ‘ethnic raw material’ in which nineteenth-century nationalism purported to discover the roots of national musical styles belongs of its original nature in the category of national at all.”39 The distinction between folk and art music is a construction, relying on fixed ideas of what exactly constitutes a universal style. Moreover, folk music is no more a construction than other preconceived notions of nationalist or universal music.40 According to Dahlhaus, the same musical tools and techniques that represent folklore are also used in representations of exoticism: It is no easy matter to see a definite distinction between the combination of a double bourdon, Lydian fourth, and chromatic coloration in the Jumping Dance of Grieg’s purportedly Scandinavian Nordic Dances and Folk Tunes Op. 17 (1870), and the similar stereotype combination used as an orientalism in the dance “L’Almée” from Bizet’s Djamileh. In neither case can the local colour be localised in purely musical terms without a scenic or linguistic tag. Regardless of the milieu being depicted, exoticism and folklorism almost invariably make do with the same technical devices: pentatonicism, the Dorian [raised] sixth and Mixolydian [flatted] seventh, the raised 38 Béla Bartók, “The Relation of Folk Song to the Development of the Art Music of Our Time [1921],” in Béla Bartók Essays, ed. Benjamin Suchoff (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1976), 321-22; quoted in Michael John Malone, “Symbols of Transformation: Reconceptualizing the Boundaries of Organicism in the Music of Béla Bartók” (PhD diss., University of Texas at Austin, 2008), 58. 39 Dahlhaus, “Nationalism in Music,” 92; quoted in Grimley, Grieg, 20. 40 Grimley, Grieg, 21. 74 second and augmented fourth, non-functional chromatic colouration, and finally bass drones, ostinatos, and pedal points as central axes.41 By no means, however, is Dahlhaus arguing for the dismissal of a nationalist interpretation of folklore as illegitimate: Aesthetically it is perfectly legitimate to call bagpipe drones and sharpened fourths typically Polish when they occur in Chopin and typically Norwegian when they occur in Grieg, even if some historians are irritated by the paradox of something which is common to national music in general and yet is felt to be specifically national in the consciousness of the individual nations.42 The most important aesthetic arbiter is not the original ethnic substance but rather musical context. Folk music signifies otherness by sounding against a universal style, and in so doing, suggesting a sense of archaism that references nationalism. However, as Grimley points out, the cultural output of the dominant nation defines any ostensibly universal style. By extension, any given division between folk and art music is arbitrary, since it relies on the presumption that one musical style is superior to another.43 The first mature composition to draw inspiration from the Kalevala was Sibelius’s Kullervo (1892), a symphonic poem for soloists, chorus, and orchestra with stylistic elements drawn from modal rune singing.44 Its premiere on 28 April 1892 inspired 41 Carl Dahlhaus, Nineteenth Century Music, trans. J. Bradford Robinson (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), 306. 42 Dahlhaus, “Nationalism in Music,” 95; quoted in Grimley, Grieg, 21. 43 Grimley, Grieg, 20. 44 Ilkka Oramo and Ilkka Kolehmainen, “Finland,” Grove Music Online, accessed 5 July 2018, www.oxfordmusiconline.com. 75 nationalistic fervour in Helsinki; composer Oskar Merikanto wrote in Päivalehti that “Sibelius takes us to entirely new territories, to unknown melodies, he brings before our eyes the most beautiful pearls of our national epic, he caresses our ears with Finnish melodies which we know to be our own even if we have not heard them in this form.”45 But Sibelius was just one of many composers to turn to the Kalevala and the Karelian landscape as a source of inspiration. With the advent of the Karelianism movement, folk poetry and rune singing became a powerful source of inspiration for Robert Kajanus, Erkki Melartin, Fredrik Pacius, Filip von Schantz, and Madetoja.46 Although the return of the great Kalevalan hero, Väinämöinen, was of great interest to fin-de-siècle poets, artists, and composers, the Kalevala’s tragic hero, Kullervo, would become the most popular inspiration. Kullervo’s sinister character attracted many fin-de-siècle Finnish artists as the archetype of an idealized national Finnish character: taciturn, but fiercely vehement when roused. Adriaan van der Hoeven argues that Kullervo’s popularity between 1890 and 1910, particularly in the roles of “The cursing Kullervo” and “The Kullervo who goes to war,” had national motivations, for he “symbolized the Finnish will to resist Russian political activities.”47 45 Einari Marvia and Matti Vainio, Helsingin Kaupunginorkesteri 1882-1982 (Porvoo: WSOY, 1993), 214. 46 Vainio, “Modernism,” 165. 47 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 498. 76 Finnish composers were inspired not only by the Kalevala but also by their country’s wealth of folk tunes. Folk music collection and transcription was very much en vogue, and many of Finland’s young composers undertook lengthy folk music collection trips through rural areas. Calls for the integration of these melodies into composers’ works became increasingly common. For example, the Finnish musicologist Dr. Ilmari Krohn ended a talk at the 1900 Paris Universal Exposition with a manifesto for his country’s composers: “The melodies of the Kalevala songs […] must always be the natural basis for our national Finnish music.”48 As a musicology student at the University of Helsinki under Ilmari Krohn, Madetoja simply could not avoid folk music research. Typical of his assignments was a cataloguing of the Helsinki library collections of printed and unprinted folk tunes, which he undertook in 1910.49 The same year, as a degree requirement, Madetoja completed at Krohn’s request a study of Lithuanian folk tunes, which comprised 56 handwritten pages and a comprehensive index of 1605 tunes.50 In spite of Madetoja’s folk music collection efforts, however, the arranging of these tunes played a much less central role in his compositional 48 Helena Tyrväinen, “Ilmari Krohn and the Early French Contacts of Finnish Musicology: Mobility, Networking and Interaction,” Res musica, no. 9 (2017): 55. 49 Unfortunately, the 14-page catalog has not been preserved. Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana, 205. 50 Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana,” 209. 77 output than that of his colleagues, even if he was in some cases inspired by the Kalevala’s lyrical folk poems and various texts by Finnish authors.51 Madetoja’s most celebrated work, the opera Pohjalaisia, had its genesis in the folk music collection trips of the early twentieth century. In 1907, Madetoja’s friend Toivo Kuula undertook a folk music collection trip to the Finnish province of Southern Ostrobothnia (adjacent to the province of Ostrobothnia) with classmate Artturi Järviluoma; they procured 262 folk tunes. Järviluoma subsequently wrote a patriotic folk drama The Ostrobothnians (1913), which included ten folk songs from this collection and two fiddlers’ tunes; it was first performed at the National Theatre on 2 October 1914.52 Madetoja—at the urging of opera singer Vaino Sola—began work on an opera based on the play in December 1917.53 51 Tyrväinen, “Kansallisten piirteiden,” 282. 52 Pohjalaisia is a verismo opera in three acts. Act 1 introduces the farmer Antti Hanka, who visits his fiancée, Maija Haari, while awaiting trial for stabbing a neighbour. He arrives at the Haari farm singing the folk tune “Tuuli se taivutti koivun larvan.” The sheriff demands to see Antti’s leave pass. Maija’s brother, Jussi, presents it without removing his hat, a sign of disrespect. The sheriff knocks Jussi’s hat off with his whip, but Jussi grabs the whip and breaks it. Act 2 chronicles the developing relationship between Jussi and the servant girl, Liisa. The romantic mood is broken when Antii reppears, announcing that he has been ordered to prison. Maija pursuades him to flee. A group of thugs arrive at the Haari farm, but withdraw when their leader loses a wrestling match with Jussi. During the fighting, Antti disappears. Act 3 opens with Jussi and Liisa planning their wedding. The sheriff returns to the Harri farm to investigate Antti’s escape. Jussi is wrongly accused, handcuffed, and whipped, but he manages to break his shackles and brandish his knife. Jussi is shot twice by the sheriff, but he still manages to stab the latter to death, describing with his dying breath a vision of freedom for the Ostrobothnian people. 53 Sola originally approached Kuula, but the latter demurred, considering the subject matter overly realistic. Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians,” 19. 78 The folk music material Järviluoma attached to the play offered a natural starting point for Madetoja’s opera. Madetoja integrated the material into his own musical vocabulary in two ways: by setting it in a rich polyphonic texture and innovative harmonic framework, and by using it as a source of inspiration for the opera’s motivic content. Although, as Salmenhaara points out, the use of folk songs in this manner resembles a Leitmotiv technique, Madetoja integrated these melodies in a carefully nuanced fashion that was largely distinct from Wagnerian constructivism.54 Several of the tunes Madetoja featured in the final work would have been familiar to early twentieth-century Finnish audiences, including “Se ilta oli pimiä” (The Evening Was Dark), “Luullahan, jotta on lysti olla” (People Think I Am Happy), and “Tuuli se taivutti koivunlarvan” (The Wind Bent Down the Tops of the Birches).55 The latter melody, “Tuuli se taivutti koivun larvan,” is a famous Ostrobothnian folk song that Kuula had collected during his travels. In the overture to Pohjalaisia, it is restated almost verbatim; the only changes from the version Kuula collected are those of key (from E minor to C minor) and 54 Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians,” 21. 55 Pekka Hako, Finnish Opera, trans. Jaakko Mäntyjärvi (Helsinki: Finnish Music Information Centre, 2002), 63. Example 2.1: Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, opening motive. 79 notated meter (common time in contrast to the original duple meter). It is a central feature of the Overture, in which it is played three times, the last time tutti and fortissimo.56 Even more crucial to the opera is the four-note motive that precedes the first statement of “Tuuli se taivutti koivun larvan” (ex. 2.1). It is of singular importance to Pohjalaisia and is revisited throughout the opera; Karjalainen calls it the work’s signature motive.57 The opening of the Overture serves as an example of the way in which it is integrated into the opera’s fabric. In measures 1-8, the motive is played four times in succession; later, in measure 20, it is extended through the addition of a rising and falling contour, serving as a prime example of the way Madetoja develops new thematic material from existing substance (ex. 2.2).58 Example 2.3 shows some of the possible sources of inspiration for this important motive. Although the most salient is naturally “Tuuli se taivutti koivun larvan,” Madetoja has himself suggested an alternate origin. In a 1937 interview, he recalled that his grandfather, the playwright Peter Hyttinen, was a keen singer who was especially fond of 56 Karjalainen, Madetojan ooperaat, 46. 57 Ibid., 46. 58 Examples 2.1 through 2.3 are indebted to Karjalainen, Madetojan ooperaat, 46-47. Example 2.2: Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, act 1, measures 18-22. 80 traditional Osthnobothnian hymns. Madetoja speculated that his childhood exposure to these tunes had a profound impact on his music, and he singled out one melody with a rising melodic contour as especially significant.59 When this melody is transposed into the same key as “Tuuli se taivutti koivun larvan” and the opening of Pohjalaisia, clear similarities emerge, especially in the alignment of dominant, tonic, and supertonic.60 Although Kai Maasalo notes that these scale degrees are typical of Madetoja’s melodic cells, he also proposes an international model for the motive by linking it with act 3, scene 4 of Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande, which Madetoja first encountered during his 1911 studies in 59 Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana, 205-06. 60 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 46. Example 2.3: a) Peter Hyttinen’s spiritual melody; b) “Tuuli se taivutti koivun larvan”; c) Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, opening motive. 81 Vienna.61 Indeed, the opening measures of the Golaud/Yniold scene do present a possible melodic resemblance, in spite of differences in scoring and voice leading (ex. 2.4). Madetoja seemed to have delved into folklore only in so far as it satisfied his immediate, individual artistic requirements; he was not, by and large, particularly interested in the coordinated pursuit of folksong.62 However, Madetoja was a proponent of the idea that a professional composer should know how to compose a “folk melody.” In 1910, he wrote an article for the Northern Ostrobothnian Students’ Association explaining the qualities of northern styles of folk tunes.63 Such qualities include the avoidance of the leading tone or of overly straightforward dominant-to-tonic progressions; complex 61 Kai Maasalo, Suomalaisia sävellyksiä (Porvoo: Söderström, 1969), 2:123-24, 2:132; see also Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 46. 62 Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana, 208. 63 Leevi Madetoja, “Muuan sana pohjoispohjalaisista kansansävelmistä,” Jouko 1 (1910); cited in Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana, 208. Example 2.4: Debussy, Pelléas et Mélisande, Act 3, Scene 4, opening motive. 82 rhythmic combinations; ambiguous key structures; and the “neutral” third, which Madetoja encountered in the historical Finnish region of Ingria.64 These features are also present in Madetoja’s own melodies. In his oeuvre, there are a number of beautiful and touching melodies that could pass as folk tunes. These include Folk Song for Violin and Piano, op. 14, no. 1; works for mixed choir, including “Ei mitään multa puutu”; many spiritual choral works, including “Tuolla ylhääll’ asunnoissa” (also known as “Tuolla taivaan asunnoissa”) and “Jo lännen mailla ruskot leimuaa”; and the well-known Christmas carol, “Arkihuolesi kaikki heitä.”65 Interestingly, some sections of Pohjalaisia were commonly mistaken for folk tunes, including Liisa and Jussi’s duet in the third act and the choral rendering of the ballad-like “Talapakan Nikolai.” The latter, sung following the pastoral introduction to the second act, was in fact composed by Madetoja, who confirmed this fact in an interview: “I had previously composed Nikolai’s folk song, and it was [subsequently] published as a melody in the folk ensembles of the Folk Education Society, but in my opera I feature the tune with 64 A neutral third is wider than a minor third but narrow than a major third. Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana, 210. 65 Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana, 208-09. Example 2.5: Original “Talapakan Nikolai.” 83 an orchestral accompaniment.”66 Madetoja’s melody differs in both extent and melodic structure from a similarly titled melody featured in Järviluoma’s play. The original song is a simple E-minor melody with a dominant-to-tonic-style couplet (ex. 2.5). By contrast, Madetoja’s version consists of distinct phrases which feature ascending and descending melodic curves and modal cadences (ex. 2.6). At the end of the second act, the melody undergoes extensive development and is integrated into the orchestra’s polyphonic fabric.67 66 Anna-Liisa Primus-Nyman, Leevi Madetojan radiohaastattelun käsikirjoitukset 1945 ja 1947 (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, n.d.); quoted in Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 75. 67 Examples 2.5 and 2.6 are indebted to Karjalainen, Madetojan ooperaat, 74. Example 2.6: Madetoja’s “Talapakan Nikolai.” 84 Nature and Landscape People maintain that music is an international language but I am not sure that the evidence bears this out. Take, for example, the misunderstanding of Wagner prevalent in the Latin countries, in spite of the fact that his operas are now fashionable in both France and Italy. But as far as inspiration is concerned, I think that nature and landscape play a greater part than national origins. Let us take the case of Grieg, whose music it is impossible to conceive in any other than a Norwegian landscape.68 —Jean Sibelius Arthur Lovejoy, in his 1948 essay “Nature as Aesthetic Norm,” attempts to list all the ways nature appears in the aesthetics of Western art music. His compilation includes, but is by no means limited to, the following aspects: “Human nature, the cosmic order, imitation of nature, truthfulness, objective beauty, simplicity, symmetry, balance, the primacy of emotion, spontaneity, naïvety, primitivism, irregularity, avoidance of symmetry, expression of the artist’s voice, the fullness of human life, savagery, fecundity, evolution, and so on.”69 Lovejoy’s intention is to illustrate that, in the words of Friedrich Nicolai, “Der Begriff und das Wort ‘Natur’ ist ein wahrer Scherwenzel.”70 Not only are there a multitude of interpretations of nature in music, but many of them are directly contradictory. This is to 68 Sibelius’s answer to a September 1910 interview in which he was asked whether he considered ethnic origin relevant to the understanding of music. Erik Tawaststjerna, Sibelius: Volume 2, 1904-1914, trans. and ed. Robert Layton (London: Faber, 1986), 145. 69 Tarasti, Signs of Music, 91. 70 “The idea and the word ‘nature’ is a real scoundrel.” Arthur O. Lovejoy, “‘Nature’ as Aesthetic Norm,” Modern Language Notes 42, no. 7 (November 1927): 444. 85 be expected, since music’s power to tell stories or create images in our minds without the assistance of words is limited at best. Even Berlioz, one of the founding fathers of Romantic program music, seriously questioned music’s inherent capacity to transmit images. Berlioz allows for the imitation of songbirds in music because it amounts to a transcription. However, he states that for music to effectively communicate extra-musical images, extra-musical signifiers need to be present to carry the references. As an example, he cites the second act of Die Freischütz, noting that Weber did not actually describe moonlight, nor, in William Tell, did Rossini depict the movement of oars; rather, both composers created sounds that the listener, notified of the context, accepted as credible aural reproductions of moonlight and the movement of oars. It is also, rigorously speaking, necessary, in order for the model of these images to be recognized, for the listener to be made aware, by some indirect means, of the composer’s intention, and for the point of comparison to be plain. Thus people think that Rossini, in William Tell, paints the movement of oars, whereas in fact all he does is to place in his orchestra a regularly accented and equally spaced rinforzando, representing the rhythmic effort of the rowers whose arrival is announced by other characters.71 Eduard Hanslick supports this perspective in his influential 1854 book, Vom Musikalisch-Schönen, where he argues for the view that while we readily associate images with music, 71 Hector Berlioz, Cauchemars et passions, ed. Gérard Condé (Paris: Lattès, 1981), 107; quoted in Peter Dayan, Music Writing Literature: From Sand via Debussy to Derrida (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 48. “Encore faut-il, de toute rigueur, pour que le modèle de ces images soit reconnu, que l’auditeur soit averti par quelque voie indirecte de l’intention du compositeur, et que le point de comparaison soit en évidence. Ainsi, Rossini passe pour avoir peint, dans Guillaume Tell, les mouvements des rames, tandis qu’il n’a fait réellement que placer, dans son orchestre, un rinforzando régulièrement accentué à des intervalles égaux, image de l’effort cadencé des rameurs, dont l’arrivée est annoncée par les autres personnages.” 86 the link between the two is only fixed when united by external circumstances.72 Music can imitate movements and physical sounds, but not images, and that when we think it does so, we can usually point to something extra-musical that has suggested the image to us. Certainly, at the rudimentary onomatopoeic level it is sometimes possible to discern extramusical meanings. Examples in Grieg’s music—which Sibelius describes above as “impossible to conceive in any other than a Norwegian landscape”—include the use of pictorial devices such as wedding marches and distant folk melodies to suggest landscape and provide local colour; the exploration of environmental elements such as bell sounds, mountain echoes, horn calls, birdsong, and herding calls to create a sense of musical depth and distance; and musical folk symbols such as pedal drones and open fifths.73 These are “topics” or semiotic codes, defined by Raymond Monelle as essentially symbols, “[their] iconic or indexical features governed by convention and thus by rule.”74 Even so, as Dahlhaus argues above, they are open to misrepresentation; however, while they may be valuable in engaging the composer or listener, they are not essential to a musical work. In circumstances where a composer may have one clear image in mind and the audience another, the quality of the music is not impacted. In the words of George Sand, “le musicien 72 Eduard Hanslick, Vom Musikalisch-Schönen: Ein Beitrag zur Revision der Asthetik der Tonkunst (Leipzig: Johann Ambrosins Barth, 1854); quoted in Dayan, Music Writing Literature, 48. 73 Grimley, Grieg, 55-56. 74 Raymond Monelle, The Musical Topic: Hunt, Military, and Pastoral (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006), 17; quoted in Michael Leslie Klein, Intertextuality in Western Art Music (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005), 56. 87 crée pour les autres des effets opposés à ceux qu’il a créés pour lui.”75 Debussy weighed in on this matter too, for he frequently held specific images in his mind when he composed. While he continued to associate these images with given passages in his works, he noted that such passages may evoke different images for his listeners, a fact that for Debussy was quite natural. In Iberia, there is a man selling water-melons and a group of boys whistling; I see them quite clearly . . . And yet, you see how easy it is to deceive oneself, since some people think that passage is a serenade. Anyway, the matter is of no importance at all.76 We may disagree on Debussy’s final point, since for fin-de-siècle Finnish composers, the matter was of great importance. Pristine images of the Finnish landscape—glorified in the writings of Johan Ludvig Runeberg and Zacharias Topelius as the “land of a thousand lakes”77—acted as a tangible vehicle for artists, writers, and musicians, aiding the communication of Finland’s national character and serving as a key component of its cultural nationalist efforts.78 The portrayal of landscape is, however, a complex process. As Edward S. Casey argues, the perception of landscape is possible only through a skilled representation, by musical means or otherwise: 75 “The musician creates for others effects which are opposed to the effects he created for himself.” George Sand, Lettres d’un voyageur (Paris: Michel Lévy frères, 1863), 56; quoted in Dayan, Music Writing Literature, 48. 76 “Il y a un marchand de pastèques et des gamins qui sifflent, que je vois très nettement . . . Et pourtant regardez comme on peut se tromper, puisqu’il y a des gens qui ont pris cela pour une sérénade. Ça n’a d’ailleurs aucune importance.” Claude Debussy, Correspondence 1884-1918, ed. François Lesure (Paris: Hermann, 1993), 264; quoted in Dayan, Music Writing Literature, 49. 77 This phrase has its origins in Runeberg’s “Vårt land”; see Chapter One, footnote 56. 78 Paasi, “Geographical Perspectives,” 45. 88 Places, like the landscapes they collectively compose, are bound up with representation, just as representation in turn calls for places as the bounded particulars of any given landscape domain. The truth is that representation is not a contingent matter, something merely secondary; it is integral to the perception of landscape itself—indeed, part of its being and essential to its manifestation.79 Daniel Grimley argues that the idea of landscape in the Western art tradition is tied to the artificial construction and perception of environments, characters, and perspectives. It is not a natural phenomenon, created by nature without human intervention; rather, it is a form of invention.80 The representation of landscape presumes not only the active participation of a viewer, whose presence provides a sense of perspective, but also fixed boundaries or reference points, within which the viewer can perceive the landscape. However, while these reference points define the landscape’s spatial organization, they ultimately cannot contain it. Therefore, there is within the perception of landscape an inherent tension between the infinite and the enclosed.81 This tension is of particular importance to nineteenth-century Romanticism, and its irresolvable nature accounts for the era’s melancholic depictions of landscape, which are particularly prominent in Finnish music.82 79 Edward S. Casey. Representing Place: Landscape, Painting and Maps (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2002), xv; in Grimley, Grieg, 56. 80 Grimley, Grieg, 56. On the deceptive “naturalness” of landscape, see Stephen Daniels, “Marxism, Culture, and the Duplicity of Landscape,” in New Models of Geography: The Political-Economy Perspective, ed. Richard Peet and Nigel Thrift (London: Unwin Hyman, 1989), 196-220. 81 Grimley, Grieg, 56. 82 See Charles Rosen, The Romantic Generation (London: Harper Collins, 1996), 131-32. 89 However, as Casey suggests, the musical representation of landscape has not only a spatial dimension, but also a temporal one. Sibelius, and other contemporary Northern composers such as Grieg and Carl Nielsen, express landscapes as static and contemplative objects that are distinct from their musical context.83 This is, according to Julian Johnson, common within late Romantic music: Nature music, in its apparent self-containment and avoidance of linear motion, seems to suspend time. In this it seems to offer an analogy for our experience of spaciousness in which there is little or no movement. Space without perceived directed movement appears timeless. The perception of time, correspondingly, requires boundaries and limits against which things move, which is why mountain landscapes were so often associated with images of the eternal.84 Therefore, there is a contradiction in landscape music between its perception in real time and the way it appears to suspend linear notions of time into an infinite sense of space.85 This view is supported by Dahlhaus, who states that many such musical depictions of nature, particularly in nineteenth-century music, are conventionally defined in opposition to mainstream musical discourse, often through the suspension of regular musical time and the evocation of stillness: A musical depiction of nature is almost always defined negatively, by being excluded from the imperative of organic development which, at least in the mainstream of compositional history, dominated the thematic and motivic structure of nineteenth-century music as well as its harmonic schemes. The Klangfläche (sound sheet) conveys a landscape because it is exempted both from the principle of teleological progression and from the rule of musical texture which nineteenth-century musical 83 Grimley, Grieg, 57. 84 Julian Johnson, Webern and the Transformation of Nature (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1999), 232. 85 Grimley, Grieg, 58. 90 theorists referred to, by no means simply metaphorically, as “thematic-motivic manipulation,” taking Beethoven’s development sections as their locus classicus. As Hegel would have it, musical landscapes arise less from direct tone-painting than from “definite negation” of the character of musical form as a process.86 In this way, the musical representation of landscape can play a significant—albeit abstract—role as a means of organizing musical space and time. It is possible, for example, to organize musical events in time to suggest a structural parallel with landscape objects in visual space, so that the listener’s temporal perception becomes analogous to the viewer’s visual perception. Landscape then becomes as much a structural process as a representative one.87 An example of this occurs in the pastoral scene that opens the second act of Pohjalaisia (ex. 2.7). At 18 measures in length, the introduction is brief and its outer limits are clearly defined by the opening of the second act and the ensuing cries of the shepherd girls (“paimentyttöjen huhuilut”) in measure 19. Over a sustained D pedal in the violins (doubled in harmonics), flutes (later bassoons) alternate with horns in imitation of conventional herding calls. The introductory flute/bassoon material sounds a total of three times in open fifths; the second and third statements (beginning in mm. 8 and 16 respectively) feature movement to the Neapolitan while also suggesting Phrygian modal 86 Dahlhaus, Nineteenth Century Music, 307. 87 Grimley, “Landscape,” 248-49. 91 origins for the melodic material. Horns alternate con sordino; in measure 15, the three-note opening motive features an intriguing chromatic shift—suggestive, perhaps, of a more distant echo—that is also reminiscent of the flutes’ movement to the Neapolitan. Madetoja promotes the pastoral quality by largely avoiding development and discouraging a sense of regular meter; while flutes sound a steady pulse, rhythmic spacing between flutes and horns deliberately interrupts any suggestion of metric regularity. Thus, in the opening to Example 2.7: Madetoja, Pohjalaisia, opening of act 2. 92 the second act, Madetoja—commonly typecast as “the composer of the flatlands”88—has composed a representation of landscape. Overall the affect is one of stillness and a deliberate simplicity that sets the introduction apart from the surrounding music. Within its clearly defined borders, conventional musical signifiers such as herding calls and echo effects suggest space and distance. “Europeanization”: An International Awareness of National Space In the 1880s, Finland saw the first serious efforts toward Europeanization. “Windows open to Europe” was a frequently used catchphrase.89 The country not only suffered from an inferiority complex caused by centuries of Swedish rule and cultural domination, but it also lacked a developed institutional framework that could properly support a national artistic output.90 Thus, international approval was needed to substantiate claims of Finnish art as a signifier of collective nationalism.91 This prompted Finns to look to Europe for validation. 88 Einojuhani Rautavaara, Pohjalaisia, program notes (Helsinki: Finnish National Opera, 1973); quoted in Karjalainen, “Nationalism,” 194. 89 Vainio, “Modernism,” 163. 90 Anttonen, “Kalevala,” 70. 91 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 347. 93 While there had long been a tradition of Finnish intellectuals studying abroad,92 this renewed intellectual migration of ideas set the groundwork for many composers’ travels to mainland Europe.93 Initially, Paris—the European capital of cultural life—was the main destination.94 Finnish music was celebrated there for its representation of mythology, folksong, and nature, partly in response to Finnish artists’ concerted efforts to brand it as such.95 For example, whereas in Finland the painter Akseli Gallen-Kallela exhibited both Finnish and Parisian scenes to market himself as a cosmopolitan painter, in Paris he exhibited paintings of Finnish peasants and hoped to earn recognition for himself as a Finnish painter.96 Over time, Parisian audiences came to demand depictions of folklore, nature, and landscape as de rigueur for Finnish music, as Helena Tyrväinen has shown in a case study of the Helsingin kaupungin orkesteri at the Paris World Fair of 1900.97 In turn, even reluctant members of the Finnish public responded to international expectations by embracing their national culture and identity. French audiences had inadvertently 92 Following its completion in the late thirteenth century, the Bishop’s Court in Turku functioned as an important academic center and inspired many of its students to continue their studies at foreign universities. Strode, Finland Forever, 163. 93 Madetoja’s powerful French influences were inspired by this new cross-pollination of ideas, and he travelled throughout Europe—most frequently to Paris—throughout his life. 94 Vainio, “Modernism,” 163. 95 See Tyrväinen, “Sibelius,” 114-28. 96 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 69-70. 97 Tyrväinen, “Sibelius,” 114-28. See also Goss, Sibelius, 273-87 and Tyrväinen, “Les musiciens finlandais à Paris au tournant des xixe et xxe siècles: dans les remous du cosmopolitisme et du nationalism,” Relations internationales, no. 156 (2013): 3-20. 94 nurtured nationalism in Finnish music, warming Finnish audiences to this new mode of cultural production after critical success abroad.98 During the last quarter of the nineteenth century, Germany replaced Paris as a centre for Scandinavianism. The primary instigator was Richard Wagner, who promoted the concept of the north within Germany through Der Ring des Nibelungen. By virtue of Wagner’s music dramas, Strindberg’s books, Ibsen’s plays, and Munch’s paintings, German audiences developed a wide-ranging admiration for Nordic art and culture. Many considered similarities between the Nibelungenlied and Scandinavian sagas a sign of common cultural heritage. At a lecture at the Berlin Academy of Science in 1845, for example, Grimm even compared the Kalevala to German epic poems and fairytales. Thus, it was only natural that many writers, artists, and musicians would turn to Nordic mythology as a source of inspiration for German national art.99 The same elements that sold Finnish music abroad, however, also threatened to pigeonhole it. Nordic composers incorporating folk melodies were often understood as an alternative to the German symphonic tradition, and their attempts at composing in “international” German style were often dismissed. A review of a 1919 Parisian concert of Norwegian music, for example, asked: “Why do all these composers, who have the good fortune to live in a country in which an abundance of folklore exists, insist on casting their 98 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 347, 351. 99 Gallen-Kallela-Sirén, “Axel Gallén,” 348-49; Ramnarine, Ilmatar’s Inspirations, 35. 95 music in the mold of the great symphonic forms (which at least so far do not seem to suit them) when their musical sensibility seems so at ease in works of pure fantasy?”100 It appears that audiences at concerts of Nordic music—accustomed to the music of Grieg—preferred music with folk song, Nordic mythology, and landscape references; anything else was met with disappointment. In February 1902, for example, in front of an audience of 3,300 at the Concerts Colonne, Finnish Soprano Ida Ekman performed the melancholic folk song “Oi äiti parka ja raukka” (“Oh, Poor Mother”) to enthusiastic applause, while Sibelius’s “Flickan kom ifrån sin älsklings möte” (“The Girl Returned from Meeting her Lover”, Op. 37. No. 5—a Lied with a principle tune reminiscent of Tchaikovsky) received only polite acknowledgement.101 The most logical course of action was, correspondingly, to promote Finnish composers as musical emissaries of the Finnish landscape and even “fundamental expression[s] of the Nordic spirit.”102 Tomi Mäkelä has documented how German publisher Robert Lienau aided Sibelius in fashioning one of the most quintessentially Nordic titles in his oeuvre, Pohjolan tytär, op. 49, which could be translated as “Pohjola’s Daughter” or more literally “The Daughter of the North.” Initially, Sibelius wanted to entitle his 1906 tone poem either “Väinämöinen,” reflecting the work’s programmatic basis in the story of 100 Quoted in Helena Tyrväinen, “‘La Nature de primitif affiné qui le caractérise’: Sibelius’s Music in Paris and the Construction of the Nordic ‘Other’,” in Jackson et al., Sibelius in the Old and New World, 406. 101 Djupsjöbacka, “A Brief Outline.” 102 Paddison, “Art and the Ideology of Nature,” 173. 96 Väinämöinen and Pohjola’s daughter, or “L’aventure d’un héros,” a possible reference to Richard Strauss’ Ein Heldenleben (“A Hero’s Life,” 1898). Lienau, however, rejected both ideas, insisting on the Finnish term “Pohjola” (“North”), which he felt would be more attractive to German audiences. In a postcard written on 22 July 1906, he wrote, “The word Wainamoinen [sic] is [. . .] too marked as a title for us Germans. Could we perhaps say “Pohjola’s Daughter” or quite literally “A Finnish Fairy Tale” or something similar?” On 30 August 1906, Lienau insisted: “Your proposed title, ‘L’aventure d’un héros,’ does not please me either. In German, the word ‘héros’ implies the idea of something magnificent, violent, and in this sense your symphony is not really heroic. But why not ‘Pohjola’s Daughter’?”103 Surprisingly, the 25 October 1924 première of Pohjalaisia was not met with an outpouring of national sentiment. Critics made scarce mention of the opera’s patriotic elements, even though the opera’s plot concerned the liberation from oppressive regimes; the independence, integrity, and honour of the Ostrobothnian peasant; faith in victory and justice; and the right of the people of Finland to determine their own affairs.104 Rather, Pohjalaisia was greeted as a long-awaited work of national significance and a sure contribution to the Finnish musical canon. Its favourable reception was virtually guaranteed: its première was coincident with the Finnish Opera’s one thousandth performance, and Finland’s president, ministers, members of parliament, and other 103 Erik Tawaststjerna, Jean Sibelius: Åren 1904-1914 (Helsinki: Söderström, 1991), 58. Quoted in Mäkelä, “Nordic Landscape,” 360. 104 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 221. 97 influential members of Finnish society were in attendance. As a clear indication of Madetoja’s public standing, critics Sulho Ranta (representing the newspaper Ylioppilaslehti), Ilmari Krohn (Uusi Suomi) and Toivo Haapanen (Iltalehti) had prewritten their concert reviews prior to opening night, glorifying the premiere as an unmitigated success. Reviews such as those by pseudonym “P.” were typical: “Madetoja has created the best national opera, and it is very possible that he will usher in a new period in Finnish operatic production.”105 By comparison, Järviluoma’s play had received only a lukewarm critical reception.106 Critics were, nonetheless, quick to point out Pohjalaisia’s geographical bearings. In contrast to later—primarily international—readings of the opera, however, they considered the setting not to be generically Finnish, but rather specifically Ostrobothnian. For example, Lauri Ikonen commended the “excellent atmosphere […] of the ‘Ostrobothnian rhapsody’ parts,”107 while Kosti Könni noted the “historically idealized Ostrobothnianism.”108 Evert Katila described the opera’s “colourful, rich depiction of folk life,”109 noting its wide open character and stating that “Ostrobothnian folk melodies have 105 “Madetoja har skapat den bästa inhemskaoperan, och det är mycket möjligt att hän inleder med denna skapelse en ny period in Finlands operaproduktion.” Quoted in Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 175. 106 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 169. 107 “Erinomaisen välittömällä tunnelmatasolla seisovat myös enimmät ‘pohjalaisen rapsodian’ osat.” Ibid., 169. 108 “Aikojen ihannoidun pohjalaisuuden.” Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 171. 109 “Se on suuri, väririkas kansanelämän kuvaus.” Ibid., 171. 98 hitherto lived only in [Madetoja’s] creative imagination, trying to be heard. And in his first stage work, the composer has released them so as to communicate a truly Ostrobothnian flavour.”110 Madetoja, who was born in Northern Ostrobothnia, was widely considered the ideal composer to realize Järviluoma’s play. Väinö Pesola remarked that, “as a child of the plains, [Madetoja] is able to imbue the opera with a very strong local spirit.”111 Katila, meanwhile, argued that: Leevi Madetoja is among the best of our [Finnish] composers for this assignment. Growing up in the north, he received in his childhood a permanent influence from these conditions, and in his soul, in particular, live the words of the folk tune whose reflections—the music of old chords, melodic twists, and heavy rhythms—have appeared in his output.112 Such observations were not, however, germane exclusively to Pohjalaisia; in fact, critics noted the Ostrobothnian flavour even of Madetoja’s earliest mature works. In his review of Madetoja’s Piano Trio, op. 1 (1909), Bis (the penname of Karl Fredrik Wasenius, the respected critic for the Swedish daily newspaper Hufvudstadsbladet) stated significantly 110 “Mutta pohjalaisen luonnon ja laulun soinnit ovat eläneet ainakin hänen luovan mielikuvituksensa rajamailla, pyrkien kuuluville. Ja ensimmäisessä näyttämöteoksessaan on säveltäjä antanut niille laajan tilan, niin että siitä on tullut oikea pohjalaisuuden.” Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 171. 111 “Itse lakeuksien maan poikana pystyy hän parhaiten syventymään näytelmän erittäin voimakkaaseen paikallishenkeen.” Ibid., 173. 112 “Leevi Madetojalla on ollut tähän tehtävään parhaat edellytykset säveltäjiemme joukossa. Pohjanmaalla - tosin näytelmän tapahtumapaikkaa pohjoisemmassa kasvaneena on hän lapsuudestaan saanut pysyviä vaikutteita sen oloista ja erityisen syvälle ovat hänen sieluunsa syöpyneet sen kansan sävel-elämän ilmaukset, joihin hän on eläytynyt ja joiden heijastuksia - vanhojen sävellajien sointuja, meloodisia käänteitä ja painokkaita rytmejä - hänen tuotannossaankin on näkynyt.” Ibid., 170. 99 that: “the situation is that Mr. Madetoja […] is Ostrobothnian,” noting “the Ostrobothnian character of his melodies and moods.”113 Critics tempered Pohjalaisia’s Ostrobothnian leanings through favourable comparisons with international models. Ranta, for example, considered Pohjalaisia ”in the best sense, a Finnish opera,” and stylistically he thought it was “in the best sense, a verismo opera.” In his opinion, the closest reference was Eugen d’Albert’s Tiefland (1903).114 Katila, on the other hand, focused on Wagner, whose works were widely known and admired in Finland. He noted that, although Pohjalaisia skillfully employed folk topics, often layering multiple motives simultaneously, “the compositional approach is not a Wagnerian leitmotif technique, because those topics are not a form of indication, as is the case in Wagner’s music dramas.”115 Könni cites Madetoja’s statement that “the knowledge of leitmotives is in no way necessary for an understanding of the work; the topics never appear again in different contexts, but always emerge in a fresh light with each new environment.”116 113 “Saken är den att hr Madetoja i likhet med hr Kuula är österbottning. Det var den österbottniska karaktären i hans melodier och stämningar, som föranledde mig att tro på inflytelse af Kuula.” Karl Fredrik Wasenius, Hufvudstadsbladet, 19 October 1909; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 54. 114 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 174. 115 “Sävellystekniikka ei kuitenkaan ole Wagnerilainen johtoaihetekniikka, koska mainitut aiheet eivät sille ole muotoa antavina, kuten Wagnerin musiikkidraamoissa on asian laita.” Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 170. 116 “Ne eivät koskaan esiinny semmoisenaan eri yhteyksissä, vaan ikäänkuin kasvavat uudelleen aina uudesta ympäristöstä uudessa valaistuksessa.” Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 171. 100 Pohjalaisia quickly achieved international success through performances in Kiel, Stockholm, Gothenburg, Berlin, and Copenhagen. Abroad, Heinrich Chevalley likened Pohjalaisia in content to such revolutionary freedom operas as Cherubini’s Les deux journées (1800), Beethoven’s Fidelio (1805), Giordano’s Andrea Chénier (1896), Puccini’s Tosca, and d’Albert’s Tiefland (1903) and Die Revolutionshochzeit (1919), stating that Madetoja’s originality was most evident in the vernacular scenes depicting Finland’s public life and national struggle.117 Similarly, the critic “G. J-n.” suggested that Pohjalaisia took as its starting point political and patriotic material similar to that of Rossini’s Guillaume Tell (1829) and Natanael Berg’s Engelbrekt (1929); however he added that Pohjalaisia stands out for its lyrical nature.118 Heinrich Herner concluded that Madetoja, while not an innovator, is a composer for whom a modern means of expression is dominant. He considered Madetoja a creative and independent artistic personality who managed to integrate folk music elements while preserving his own unique voice.119 One observable trend pertaining to Pohjalaisia’s international reception is that critics observed a strong sense of place, not the provincial Ostrobothnian locale noted by Finnish audiences but rather a broader setting suggestive of Finnish folk music and nature. Some 117 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 180-81. 118 In terms of international models, Karjalainen has pointed out that the transparent orchestral colours and the use of open tones that begin the second act are reflective of Mahler’s First Symphony and the orchestral interlude to the “Des Sommerwindes wilde Jagd” section of Arnold Schönberg’s Gurrelieder. Karjalainen, “Nationalism,” 195; also see Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 70, 189. 119 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 183. 101 were of the opinion that Finland was a kind of idyll whose music originated directly from the scenery.120 Hans Sonderburg, for example, considered Finland a country of moods and noted that, as in a landscape, Finnish song runs through each feature of Pohjalaisia in a contemplative and melancholy manner. Sonderburg seems not to have been entirely sold on this argument, however, for he suggests a counterproposal suggesting that different locations can impact a work’s reception: “When a work of art, an opera, goes beyond the borders of the land, it finds a new environment. National matter, by nature, becomes less dominant, and more universal human material becomes apparent.”121 Critical reception of the first international performances of Pohjalaisia also showed a consistently strong bias toward its patriotic literary content, especially in Germany, where a lively interest prevailed in Finland’s political situation.122 A seventeen-page German-language presentation of Pohjalaisia, likely prepared in advance of the Kiel première, was one of the first articles to connect Pohjalaisia to Finnish politics.123 It interprets Järviluoma’s play and Madetoja’s opera as a Finnish Declaration of Independence, depicting the 120 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 180. 121 “Kun taideteos, ooppera, joutuu kotimaan rajojen yli ulos vieraille maille, se löytää uuden ympäristön. Kansallinen aines, luonteenomainenkin, tulee sitä vähemmän määrääväksi, mitä enemmän yleisinhimillinen aines voi päästä tajuttavaksi.” Ibid., 182. 122 Ibid., 180. 123 The author is named as Evert Katila, music critic for the Finnish newspaper Helsingin Sanomat; it is indeed an almost verbatim translation of Katila’s article, albeit containing a new introduction. Ibid., 178. 102 inhabitants of Ostrobothnia as a people who defend their freedom, if necessary by force.124 Following the 1926 Kiel première, the subtitle of “national opera” was commonly appended to Pohjalaisia. Hans Schramm coined the term in prediction of the opera’s future success: “In this début, the forty-year-old Leevi Madetoja has made a gift to his people, which will become a national opera for the liberation of Finland from the Russian yoke and will make its way through European and not least German theatres.”125 At the same time, Schramm emphasized the opera’s international character by pointing out that national operas did not necessarily relate to nationalistic aspirations.126 In Finland, a patriotic interpretation of Pohjalaisia only surfaced after it was expressed abroad. During the summer of 1930, a performance at the famed Savonlinna Opera Festival saw a clear change in reception associated with a strengthening of the opera’s patriotic context. Evert Katila’s review did not make any attempt to interpret the opera at a universal level; rather, it focused on the drama’s historical background: These days, when such an irresistible longing for freedom has emerged at opera events, spreading over the whole country, it was a happy thought to lead through this purely national melody to those decades ago, when the same regions dreamed of freedom and believed it would soon arrive.127 124 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 178. 125 “Der vierzigjährige Leevi Madetoja hat in diesem Erstlings werke seinem Volkein Geschenkgemacht, das nach Befreiung Finnlands vom russischen Joch zur Nationaloper werden und seinen Weg über die europäischen und nicht zuletzt deutschen Bühnen machen wird.” Ibid., 183. 126 Hans Schramm, “Opern-Auffiihrung in Kiel: ‘Oesterbottner’; Finnische Volksoper von Leevi Madetoja,” Tagliche Rundschau, 9 Nov 1926; quoted in Karjalainen, “Nationalism,” 192. 127 “Näinä päivinä, jolloin oopperatapahtumien toimipaikoilla on ilmennyt niin vastustamattoman valtava vapauden kaipuu, leviten yli koko maan, oli onnellinen ajatus johdattaa tämän niin puhtaasti 103 Katila considered the opera’s staging—in the courtyard of Savonlinna’s castle—theatrically ideal, because it gave many of the opera’s scenes—such as the thugs’ arrival, shepherds’ cries, and folk dances—“a much more realistic and credible stamp than on the stage.”128 What is most significant about Katila’s assessment is the use of the concepts “true” and “credible” to describe aspects of the drama, since they were used by critics both at home and abroad in support of the opera’s national context.129 Conclusions to This Chapter Madetoja is often described as just the right person to compose an operatic realization of Järviluoma’s play, since he was born in the same district and was intimately familiar with its people, traditions, and music. This, though, is not entirely accurate; Madetoja was born in Northern Ostrobothnia, which is a separate province from Ostrobothnia with a distinct circle of traditions and spoken dialects. Moreover, while he collected folk songs, his collection trips were far from Ostrobothnia: in Ingria in 1907 and in his home district in 1909. “The situation,” as Karjalainen so wryly states, “might somehow be compared to one in which someone would say that a Welsh composer would be just the kansallisen sävelteoksen kautta mieliin ne vuosikymmenien takaiset ajat, jolloin samoilla seuduilla myös unelmoitiin vapaudesta ja uskottiin sen myös pian koittavan.” Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 187. 128 “[…] saivat nyt paljon todellisemman ja uskottavamman leiman kuin varsinaisella näyttämöllä.” Ibid., 187. 129 Ibid., 187-88. 104 right person to compose an opera based on Scottish folk music tradition, while at the same time asserting that this is why the composer is a typical national romantic.”130 Similar misconceptions abound. Pohjalaisia could not have had a direct connection to the advancement of Finland’s independence per se, since by the time of its première (1924) Finland had already achieved independence (1917). The fact that Pohjalaisia adopted connotations of patriotism through certain aspects of its presentation and reception can be explained by the broader public’s propensity to maintain its values and ideals even in the face of changing sociopolitical conditions. Thanks to its designation as Finland’s national opera, Pohjalaisia developed a symbolic value that could be easily associated with Finland’s pre-independence circumstances.131 Even though Madetoja on many occasions wrote positively about Finland’s national struggle, he was notoriously taciturn about his own compositional processes and inspirations. He is not recorded as having ever indicated a connection between either of his operas and his country’s struggle for independence. On the other hand, he is also not recorded as having ever protested the patriotic programs described by Katila and other critics, which could be regarded as a “tacit approval” of such declarations.132 The little 130 Karjalainen, “Nationalism,” 193. 131 Ibid., 19-20. 132 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 179. 105 insight we have into his mindset while composing Pohjalaisia comes from his correspondence with his mother: 10.12.1917. I have been planning an opera too. It remains to be seen whether anything comes of it. If I did manage to produce one that in anyway appealed to the public, I might make a good bit of money. 23.05.1920. I ought to get the opera finished within the year. […] If it’s successful, I might be on to a good thing. 16.01.1921. Just at the moment I am, in addition to some smaller works, composing an opera, which I will try to finish before the year is out. It could even be a good source of income, if only it appeals to public taste or attracts a lot of attention and makes a name for itself abroad. Naturally I am concerned only with the dictates of my own art, but sometimes a composition may have worldly advantages too. 20.12.1921. The opera - I’m trying to get it finished. A laborious task in that I do not know when I’ll get it performed or whether I’ll get paid much for it. I must finish it — I’ve got so far and put so much effort into it. Maybe one day it will be a financial and an artistic success. 28.10.1924. My opera was a complete success […] I got three crowns of laurels. […] Let’s hope it will be put on abroad.133 These statements are, Salmenhaara observes, “something of a cold shower for the aestheticians anticipating artistic theorising on the idealistic strivings of opera to find expression and the act of creation.”134 They reveal a pragmatic attitude toward the composition of opera and, more broadly, an approach motivated on the whole by artistic and financial considerations.135 National concerns, on the other hand, are not mentioned. 133 Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians,” 19-20. 134 Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians,” 20. 135 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 243. 106 Naturally, Madetoja was constrained by the sociocultural framework of his upbringing; it was, as we have seen, all-encompassing. Moreover, some of his output can be regarded as examples of early twentieth-century folklorism, for Madetoja occasionally pursued the practice of collecting folk material and interweaving it within his compositions; this was, after all, an expected component of his professional skills. Yet it was as natural for Madetoja to utilize national tunes as it was for him to borrow suitable stylistic elements from European repertoire. There is no reason to pigeonhole Madetoja’s music within the framework of irredentism or to perceive Madetoja as essentially a national romantic composer.136 Madetoja considered beauty as one of his key artistic values, stressing music’s non-conceptual, independent nature. As he wrote to his soon-to-be wife, Hilja Onerva Lehtinen, in 1912, “My happiness is beauty, and the most intense beauty I can find in my soul encompasses the vastness of space, the imagination of infinite deserts.”137 Music, for Madetoja, was a way of expressing the boundless, infinite sublime. In a Karelian newspaper article written in the spring of 1915, he expressed this philosophy in more detail: The art of music is by nature nonconceptual. It appeals to the listener through its beauty, not its conceptual basis. Its beauty is something mysterious, boundless, shared, that we all, in happy moments, feel at seeing this world’s chaos and the boundless spaces, so to speak unsocially, the visceral spirit that the banality of 136 Karjalainen, “Nationalism,” 196. 137 “Minun onneni on kauneus ja voimakkaimman kauneuden löydän sieluni liikkeissä rajattomassa avaruudessa, mielikuvituksen äärettömillä aavikoilla.” Leevi Madetoja, letter to L. Onerva, 24 February 1912; quoted in L. Onerva and Leevi Madetoja, Yölauluja: L. Onervan ja Leevi Madetojan kirjeitä 1910-1946, ed. Anna Makkonen and Marja-Leena Tuurna (Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura, 2006), 67. 107 everyday life has not yet fully had time to suppress. Understand that it is a starting point for, and a necessary precondition of, all musical creation and understanding.138 Nature also played an important role in Madetoja’s philosophy. In fact, in his writing he names it a source of profound inspiration. His glowing review of Melartin’s Fourth Symphony (1913) provides an example: Above all, this author admires the symphony’s Andante section, which can doubtless be considered among Melartin’s most beautiful and masterly achievements. Rarely have the clear, bright, and sensitive landscapes of summer’s silent piety been described with such sweet and sure brushstrokes. The heartland’s peaceful, mysterious sounds can be heard amidst the dawning of a new day; nature awakes to the flowering of bird-cherry trees and the stinking narcotic effect of mountain ashes; in the wilderness a dreaming maiden; from the woods comes a single cry of secret melancholy, of the heart’s sorrows and desires.139 About the role of nationalism in music, on the other hand, Madetoja was more ambivalent. Writing in 1915, he stated that “Citizenship is a great significance both in art as in all other endeavors of life. But it does not necessarily have to be limited. Beauty knows no racial boundaries, other than in forming its various nuances.”140 Later, in a 1935 article on Sibelius, 138 “Säveltaide on luonteeltaan epäkäsitteellistä. Se vetoaa kuulijan kauneudentajuun sellaisenaan, ilman käsitteellisiä tukikohtia. Sen kauneudessa on jotain salaperäistä, rajatonta, samaa, jota me jokainen onnellisina hetkinämme tunnemme ajatellessamme tätä maailman kaaosta ja sen äärettömiä avaruuksia niin sanoakseni epäyhteiskunnallisesti, sillä vaistomaisella hengenosallamme, jota käytännöllinen elämänkulku ei vielä kokonaan ole ehtinyt tukahduttaa. Siinä on käsittääkseni lähtökohta ja välttämätön edellytys kaiken musiikin luomiselle ja ymmärtämiselle.” Leevi Madetoja, “Musikaalisia mietelmiä I: säveltaiteilijat ja yleisö,” Karjala, 21 March 1915, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 162. 139 “Suurimman ihastuksen on tämän kirjoittajassa herättänyt sinfonian Andante-osa, joka epäilemättä kuuluu Melartinin tuotannon kauneimpiin ja mestarillisimpiin saavutuksiin. Harvoin on suvista luontoa, sen kuulakkaita, herkkiä maisemia, kesäisen hämyn hiljaista hartautta niin suloisin ja varmoin siveltimen vedoin kuvattu. Sydänmaan rauhan salaperäiset äänet kuuluvat sarastavan aamun keskeltä, luonto herää, kukkivat tuomet ja pihlajat lemuavat huumaavasti, salolla unelmoi neito, yksin huhuillen metsän puille salaista kaihomieltään, sydänsurujaan ja toiveitaan.” Leevi Madetoja, Helsinki Sanomat, 20 October 1916; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 160. 140 “Kansallisuudella on suuri merkityksensä niin taiteessa kuin kaikissa muissakin ihmishengen pyrkimyksissä. Mutta sen ei välttämättä tarvitse rajoittaa. Kauneus ei tunne roturajoja, muuten kuin sen eri 108 he lamented that the absolute value of beauty is frequently overshadowed by the foreign critics who focus too strongly on national material—echoing, perhaps, his experiences with Pohjalaisia’s international reception. After all, he argued, Wagner was a national composer, and yet his art is understood in every corner of the world. His final statement on the matter serves as perhaps his clearest expression of his own aesthetics: “For if an artist’s national work has enough vitality to withstand the passage of time, the main attraction is not its special national features, but its purely artistic beauty.”141 vivahduksien muodostajana.” Leevi Madetoja, “Jean Sibeliuksen taiteilijauran yleiset piirteet,” Helsingin Sanomat, 8 December 1915, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 82. 141 “Jos jonkun kansan säveltaide osoittaa omaavansa kylliksi elinvoimaa kestämään ajan kulutusta, ei pääansio tässä ole suinkaan kansallisten erikoisominaisuuksien, vaan sen puhtaan musikaalisen kauneuden, joka tämän kansan sävelteoksista pulppuaa.” Leevi Madetoja, “Kansallinen aines Sibeliuksen musiikissa,” Musiikkitieto, December 1935, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 101. 109 “The Stamp of Genius”: Leevi Madetoja’s Life and Times Ostrobothnia The historical Finnish province of Ostrobothnia—not to be confused with the much smaller modern region of Ostrobothnia—comprises some forty percent of Finland’s total area. Its stereotypical attribute is one of bleakness, not only in its geography, but also in the conservative religious faith that took hold of the region during the nineteenth century. The landscape is extremely flat; the most noteworthy features are numerous rivers and exposed, deeply furrowed bedrock that was carved by the advancing ice mass at the end of the glaciation. Northern Ostrobothnia, Madetoja’s home region, covers approximately twenty-eight percent of this historical province. Where Northern Ostrobothnia’s west coast meets the Gulf of Bothnia, in the province of Oulu, at the mouth of the river Oulujoki, lies Madetoja’s place of birth, the city of Oulu. Once an ancient trading site, Oulu has—outside Russia—long been the largest northern city in the world. In 1887, the year Madetoja was born, its population was approximately 10,260.1 1 “Oulu 1870-1900,” City of Oulu, accessed 5 July 2018, www.ouka.fi/oulu/oulu-tietoa/oulu-1870-1900. 110 Juvenilia: Madetoja’s Formative Years Leevi Madetoja, né Lars Levi Madetoja, was born on 17 February 1887 to Anders Antinpoika “Antti” Madetoja and Anna Elisabeth Hyttinen. He had one brother, Yrjö, who was born in 1885.2 The family observed a strict sect of Lutheranism called Laestadianism, which Madetoja chose not to adopt, although he retained through his life a genuine concern for religious matters. Madetoja’s father emigrated to the United States to earn money for the family and was informed of Leevi’s birth only in April 1887. Unfortunately, he died of tuberculosis by the Mississippi river, never having seen his son.3 Madetoja is surely the only significant composer whose primary instrument was the kantele, a traditional plucked string instrument of the dulcimer and zither family.4 While the composer’s first instrument was apparently the harmonica, it was pushed aside with the gift, at nine years old, of a ten-string kantele. A few years later, while in the hospital 2 Anders and Anna’s first child, Hjalmar Andreas, died in 1883 at the age of nine months. Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 12. 3 By far the most comprehensive data on Madetoja can be found in Salmenhaara, Madetoja. Much of the primary source material mentioned elsewhere—including letters and newspaper articles—can also be found in this extensive publication. However, the following publications provide additional information on Madetoja’s life and music: Kaipainen, “French Colouring”; Korhonen, Inventing, 50-51, 70; Korhonen, “Leevi Madetoja”; Korhonen, “Orchestral Works”; Maasalo, Suomalaisia; Rossi et al., Leevi Madetoja; Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians”; Salmenhaara, “Composer from Ostrobothnia”; and Tuukkanen, Leevi Madetoja. 4 The kantele has important ties to Finland’s nationalist movement. According to the Kalevala, Finland’s national epic, the first kantele was fashioned by the god Väinämöinen from the jawbone of a giant pike. The oldest kanteles commonly had five or six horsehair strings and were tuned in a major or minor pentachord. Beginning in the nineteenth century, kanteles were built in larger versions with up to forty strings. Modern kanteles have switch mechanisms to raise or lower pitches chromatically, making the instrument more suited for Western art music. 111 with scarlet fever, he received a thirty-string kantele that he practiced earnestly. Around the age of fourteen, Madetoja supplemented his kantele studies by singing bass in the school choir. He could read fluently at sight, a talent that was certainly useful for his later role as a choral composer. In his teenage years, Madetoja became captivated by early twentieth-century Finland’s revolutionary spirit. A diary entry from 1905 describes Madetoja’s optimism in the aftermath of Saint Petersburg’s Bloody Sunday: “Marvellous events are ahead of us. The revolution’s mighty waves roll in over the whole of Russia all the way to Finland. [. . .] The mighty strike movement in Russia and Finland is everywhere. We, the schoolboys, are also on strike.”5 His letters adopted closing salutations with political references, such as “Long live the Finnish constitution! Long live Finland,” or “Long live Finland and national freedom!”6 Even Madetoja’s earliest musical concert experiences became strongly characterized by patriotic ideals. Madetoja recounted that his first experience with national music was through patriotic songs, such as “Karjala” (Karelia) and “Herää Suomi” (Finland, 5 Lauri Merikallio, “Nuori Madetoja: lyseolaisvuodet Oulussa vv. 1898-1906; kolmas jakso,” Kaltio 8 (1960); quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 27. In addition to inciting widespread revolutionary fervour, these events benefited Finland in concrete ways. In 1905, the onset of the Revolution offered Finland a short respite from Russian oppression; in 1906, the creation of a new legislative body to replace the old Estates brought Finland from a four-estate diet to a unicameral parliament elected through universal suffrage. 6 “Eläkööt Suomen perustuslait! Eläköön Suomi!,” journal of Leevi Madetoja, 7 October 1904, quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 22; “Eläköön Suomi ja sen kansallinen vapaus!,” letter to Yrjö Madetoja, 13 December 1903, quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 18. 112 Awake!) by the Finnish composer Emil Genetz (1852-1930).7 Such sentiments made their way into Madetoja’s early output: one of the composer’s first works, a piece for kantele written on 30 December 1903 at the age of 16, bears the title “Hymni Suomelle” (Hymn to Finland). University Life, Folksong Collection, and Studies under Sibelius In 1906, Madetoja moved to Helsinki to pursue his studies in music, enrolling in two institutions concurrently: the Helsinki Music Institute (now the Sibelius Academy) and the University of Helsinki. At the Helsinki Music Institute, he augmented his musicianship skills through a weekly course load that included two hours of music theory, one hour of ear training, and one hour of piano. In his second year, he was accepted as a composition student under the young composer and music critic Erik Furuhjelm, who was only four years Madetoja’s senior; although he eagerly anticipated these lessons, his hectic workload left him little time to hone his craft. By the spring of 1908, Madetoja had completed his requirements at the Music Institute and could have graduated; however, as he was interested in continuing his composition and piano lessons, he maintained his enrolment at the Institute until the spring of 1910. At the University of Helsinki, Madetoja studied music history and theory. His objective was a major in music degree, which included admittance only through a special 7 Leevi Madetoja, “Suomen Laulun toiminnan merkitys,” Teoksessa Suomen Laulu 1900-1920, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 126. 113 application and held as a prerequisite the careful perusal of some three hundred pages of music theory, six hundred pages of music history, and four German-language textbooks.8 Although Madetoja considered the requirements excessive, he was able to complete them within the first year; in his second year he successfully fulfilled the cum laude requirements by appending to his workload approximately five thousand pages of German language books, mainly composer biographies.9 These studies came at a price. While Madetoja would later be granted a lifetime state composer’s pension in 1918, as an impecunious student he was eager to supplement his meager budget. His first opportunity for earnings came via the Finnish Literature Society, which invited him to apply for a modest 250 markkaa scholarship for the collection of indigenous folk song.10 Endeavours like these had acquired a central role in Finland’s nationalist efforts, thanks to the ongoing issue of language politics, the need to consolidate the young Finnish culture, and the efforts of such intellectuals as Dr. Ilmari Krohn, an ardent collector of folk music who was Madetoja’s history and theory professor at the University of Helsinki. Unfortunately, Madetoja’s first folk music collection trip, to Ingria with classmate Lauri Ikonen during the summer of 1907, was a disappointment; he met with suspicion from villagers and was able to transcribe only approximately thirty folk 8 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 32. 9 Ibid., 37. 10 A detailed account of Madetoja’s engagement with folk music can be found in Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja kansanmusiikin tutkijana,” 205–11. 114 tunes—many of which were crudely sung—only by offering a higher than usual premium. However, Madetoja’s second trip, to his home province of North Ostrobothnia in 1909, was highly successful. During this time, the prevailing impression of Ostrobothnian folk music was of bleak religious songs. Madetoja, however, made a concrete contribution to the Finnish national identity not only by collecting approximately one hundred and fifty melodies but also by proving that the region’s culture was more complex than generally thought.11 Nonetheless, Madetoja was not particularly interested in the nationalist pursuit of folksong arrangement. While he continued to include folk music in his output throughout his career, he limited outright arrangements of folk tunes to a handful of works. These are Pohjois-pohjalaisia kansanlauluja viululle tai laululle ja pianolle, op. 18 (Ostrobothnian Folk Songs for Violin or Voice and Piano, comp. 1913); Kolme kansanlaulua sooloäänelle ja sekakuorolle, op. 57 (Three Folk Songs for Voice and Mixed Choir, comp. 1924-27); and Vanhoja kansantansseja, op.64b (Old Folk Dances, comp. 1929) for clarinet and string quintet. On a broader level, however, Madetoja’s compositional output was decisively impacted by his engagement with folk music research and collection. For example, the “Balladi” from Madetoja’s Kaksi kappaletta viululle ja pianolle, op. 3, no. 1 (Two Pieces for Violin and Piano, 1909) contains characteristics that the composer himself associated with Ostrobothnian music. His 1910 article for the Northern Ostrobothnian Students’ 11 Madetoja’s collection of notes is retained in the Helsinki University Library collections. 115 Association highlights certain key features of the region’s folk music, including recurrent emphasis on the leading tone and occasional tonal ambiguity, both of which are in evidence in the Balladi.12 Significantly, the Finnish public could readily identify the Ostrobothnian character in Madetoja’s output. Bis (the penname of Karl Fredrik Wasenius, the respected critic for the Swedish daily newspaper Hufvudstadsbladet) wrote a review of Madetoja’s Piano Trio, op. 1 (1909) that is illuminating not only for its assertion of Ostrobothnian character within Madetoja’s music but also for its affirmation of Madetoja’s distinctive sound: I seek here to repair an injustice done to the composer this spring. I said then that some of [Madetoja’s] subjects are reminiscent of Toivo Kuula’s motives. The situation is that Mr. Madetoja, like Mr. Kuula, is Ostrobothnian. It is the Ostrobothnian character of his melodies and moods that led me to believe the Kuula effect. With joy I relinquish this earlier assumption after becoming convinced of Madetoja’s independence. […] The composer goes his own way. […] As a large and beautiful opus 1, Mr. Madetoja’s Trio is hereby a rarity, the beginning of which bodes well. I congratulate the composer on this piece of chamber music.13 A major turning point in Madetoja’s studies occurred in the fall of 1908, when Jean Sibelius accepted Madetoja as a student of composition. Sibelius was not a born teacher: 12 Leevi Madetoja, “Toimitukselle tulleita sävellyksiä,” Säveletär 2 (1910); quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 52. 13 “Jag ber att här få korrigera en af mig mot komponisten i våras begången orättvisa. Jag sade då att några af hans motiv erinrade om Toivo Kuulas. Saken är den att hr Madetoja i likhet med hr Kuula är österbottning. Det var den österbottniska karaktären i hans melodier och stämningar, som föranledde mig att tro på inflytelse af Kuula. Med glädje annullerar jag denna tidigare supposition för vunnen öfvertygelse om Madetojas själfständighet. […] Komponisten går sin egen väg. […] Ett så stort och vackert opus I, som hr Madetojas Trio, är sålunda en sällsynthet, en början som lofvar godt. Jag lyckönskar komponisten till detta kammarmusikverk, hvaraf jag hade nöjet få del på repetitionen senaste sondag.” Karl Fredrik Wasenius, Hufvudstadsbladet, 19 October 1909; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 54. 116 he lacked the urge to pass on his learning to others and thought of teaching merely as a hindrance to composition.14 By the turn of the century, he had largely given up teaching, accepting only a few select pupils, including Toivo Kuula and Bengt von Törne. Madetoja reported that when he approached Sibelius for lessons, he was greeted with the words, “I’m a poor teacher,”15 and he described his lessons with Sibelius—held at Sibelius’s home in Järvenpää, a town some thirty-seven kilometers north of Helsinki—as unorthodox: “It wasn’t teaching in the normal sense of the word. Rather short, searching comments. He didn’t waste much time on the fugue that I had taken along with me to show him but talked about more general aesthetic problems. ‘No dead, unnecessary notes. Every note must live.’”16 Over time, Madetoja’s abilities earned Sibelius’s respect; perhaps more importantly, Madetoja’s melancholic, inward-looking temperament and keen feeling for nature struck a chord with Sibelius that cemented a lifetime friendship. First-Period Compositions, Travel Abroad, and Gainful Employment Madetoja’s works can be approached from several directions. On one hand, Madetoja won international recognition as an orchestral composer and symphonist. This output includes Madetoja’s three symphonies, the symphonic poem Kullervo (1913), and the 14 Erik Tawaststjerna, Sibelius: Volume 1, 1865-1905, trans. and ed. Robert Layton (London: Faber, 1976), 124. 15 Ibid., 124. 16 Ibid., 125-26. 117 orchestral suites Tanssinäky (1911), Pieni sarja orkesterille (1913-16), and Okon Fuoko (1937). On the other, Madetoja achieved tremendous success as an opera composer. His first opera Pohjalaisia (1924) held a position as Finland’s national opera for close to sixty years; his second, Juha (1934), while considerably less successful, is widely considered one of his greatest achievements. A lyricist at heart, some of Madetoja’s finest work is in the realm of vocal music. This extends to small-scale works as well: Madetoja is equally well known in Finland as a composer of choral music, a genre that not only aided the country’s nationalist efforts but also helped pay the bills during difficult financial times. Several of the compositions Madetoja wrote while still a student attracted significant attention. The “Elegy” from Madetoja’s Sinfonian sarja, op. 4 (Symphonic Suite) was one of the most popular miniatures he ever wrote. It was premièred on 10 January 1910 and played at least four times that spring; the complete suite was premièred several months later on 26 September. Critics praised the work unanimously; interestingly, Heikki Klemetti described the work using nature metaphors: “The meditator encounters cool wetland spruce — however, his trail does not end without a trace, but continues toward higher leafy ground.”17 Madetoja also wrote music for two plays by the celebrated Finnish poet Eino Leino: Shakkipeli, op. 5 (Chess) and Alkibiades, op. 6 (Alcibiades). It was during the première of Alkibiades, on 27 April 1910, that Madetoja was introduced to Leino’s erstwhile lover, the poet Hilja Onerva Lehtinen who wrote under the penname L. Onerva. After a 17 “Koleaa vesiperäistä kuusikkoa kulkee mietiskelijä - Vaeltajan polku ei kuitenkaan pääty jalan jäljettömäksi, - - vaan nousee korkeammille lehtevämmille maille.” Quoted in Maasalo, Suomalaisia, 2:127. 118 lengthy courtship, Madetoja and Onerva married in 1918, and remained together until Madetoja’s death, although their marriage was marred by disputes and severe alcoholism.18 Madetoja, however, did not have the opportunity to spend much time with Onerva before leaving for further travels. Under Kuula’s urging, he undertook a period of study in Paris in 1910, arriving at the French capital on 11 October. His travels were made easier through a generous scholarship of 1,000 markkaa. While his plans to study with Vincent d’Indy never came to fruition, Paris’s musical scene was stimulating in other ways. During the first few months of his stay, he is known to have heard Berlioz’s Damnation of Faust; Charpentier’s Louise, Dukas’s Polyeucte overture, and Saint-Saëns’s songs and chamber music, with the composer himself at the piano.19 Madetoja’s increasing familiarity with French music had an immediate impact on his compositional output. His Konserttialkusoitto, op. 7a (Concert Overture), which Madetoja composed during this first trip to Paris, is written in a light, carefree style that suggests a French influence. Although Madetoja returned to Finland in April 1911, he was later to spend several periods in France and felt very much at home there. On 4 October 1911, Madetoja left Helsinki again, this time for Vienna, where he spent the autumn studying with Robert Fuchs, one of Sibelius’s former teachers. He seems to 18 Although Madetoja and Onerva thrice announced their marriage in 1913, Hannu Mäkelä confirms their year of marriage as 1918. See Hannu Mäkelä, Nalle ja Moppe: Eino Leinon ja L. Onervan elämä (Helsinki: Otava, 2003), 399, 413. 19 Leevi Madetoja, “Pariisi ja Ranskan uusi musiikki: Kirje Pariisista,” Säveletär, no. 20-21 (1910), reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 9-11. 119 have made these plans independently of Sibelius. Despite attending a performance of Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande, a work that greatly impressed him, Madetoja never developed the fondness for Vienna that he had for Paris. Nevertheless, he made good use of his time there, composing Öinen karkelokuva, op. 11 (Night Revels; revised in 1919 as Tanssinäky, Dance Vision). It is one of Madetoja’s most impressionistic compositions; it remains in Finland’s permanent repertoire and the score was later printed by the Danish publisher Wilhelm Hansen. Following his return to Helsinki on 26 August 1912, Madetoja accepted a position as assistant director of the Helsinki Orchestral Society, Scandinavia’s first permanent orchestra, which came with a monthly salary of 500 Finnish markkaa, a significant source of income. Unfortunately, the autumn 1912 concert season was a turbulent one, and Madetoja began his tenure with the Helsinki Orchestral Society in the middle of an orchestra war.20 As the orchestra’s usual source of financial support had been discontinued, director Robert Kajanus had applied for financial assistance from Saint Petersburg.21 This 20 Tawaststjerna, Sibelius, 2:134; see also Phillip Ross Bullock, “Sibelius and the Russian Traditions,” in Grimley, Jean Sibelius, 3-57. 21 Robert Kajanus (1856-1933) was a Finnish conductor and composer of Swedish descent who championed Finnish national music. Winner of the French Légion d’honneur, he served as director of music at the University of Helsinki for almost thirty years and founded the celebrated Nordic Music Festival. As a conductor, Kajanus established the Helsinki Orchestral Society (later the Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra, Finland’s national orchestra), the first complete symphony orchestra in Finland, which he would lead for fifty years. He was considered an authority on Sibelius’s music and had a decisive impact on the development of Sibelius’s career, commissioning one of Sibelius’ most popular and enduring works, En Saga, and conducting the first performances of Sibelius’s music outside Finland (including an appearance at the Exposition Universelle at the invitation of the French government). Kajanus was also one of the most celebrated Finnish composers prior to Sibelius, and his music drew heavily from Finnish folklore. 120 move was seen as politically dubious, particularly within the conservative Swedish-speaking elite, and the City of Helsinki had petitioned the talented musician Georg Schnéevoigt (1872-1947) to establish a new Helsinki Symphony Orchestra. With a population of 150,000, Helsinki could hardly maintain two orchestras, and concertgoers inevitably took sides: Schnéevoigt, whose new orchestra was comprised primarily of foreign musicians, was defended within Swedish-speaking circles, while Kajanus, whose domestic orchestra was comprised of about equal parts Finnish and foreign musicians, was defended by the Finnish-speaking population. Schnéevoigt was supported by the Swedish newspaper Hufvudstadsbladet, while Kajanus was supported by Uusi Suometar, whose critic Evert Katila reviewed Schnéevoigt’s debut performance by gleefully recounting the Symphony’s “platitudes,” “inaccuracies,” incorrect rhythms, and an “absolutely berserk” rendition of a Haydn symphony.22 Katila’s remarks remind us that in spite of Kajanus’s political gaffe, the conductor and his orchestra garnered fierce loyalty. Although ten members of the Helsinki Orchestral Society defected to the opposition, the majority—especially the Finnish-born musicians—announced their intention to stay, without pay if necessary. Even Sibelius, despite his movement within Swedish-speaking circles, grudgingly volunteered his services for the first of the domestic orchestra’s Celebrity Concerts at the Finnish National Theatre. The Finnish public’s unparalleled support for domestic artists and their products benefitted Madetoja in tangible ways. On 14 October 1913, Madetoja led the Helsinki 22 Evert Katila, Uusi Suometar, 24 September 1912; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 97. 121 Orchestral Society in a feature concert of his own compositions that included the cantata Merikoski, op. 10; Öinen karkelokuva; the “Valssi,” “Laulelma,” and “Scherzino” from the Pieni sarja orkesterille, op. 12 (Little Suite for Orchestra); an orchestral arrangement of his Pianosävellyksiä, op. 17 (Piano Pieces); and his symphonic poem Kullervo, op. 15. Kullervo—based on the ill-fated character of Finland’s national epic, the Kalevala—was the biggest success. Hufvudstadsbladet’s Bis wrote quite positively about the première, highlighting the work’s national story: In Kullervo Madetoja explores a medium of great power, creating a grandiose rendering that is nothing short of commendable. The work exhibits the key musical ingredients of the saga: Kullervo’s complaint, his bucolic song, the brave revenge of his horse riding trip, his warlike trumpet-blare, his blazing passion, and then his demise, where the rhythm of the work’s fragmentary musical motifs leads to the silence of death.23 It can hardly be coincidental that the public, informed of Madetoja’s loyalty to traditional Finnish culture, rallied to his support. Madetoja’s next public concert on 19 October was sold out, and hundreds of people were turned away at the door. In 1914, Madetoja travelled to Viipuri (Vyborg) in Finnish Karelia where he had been hired to conduct the Viipurin musiikinystäväin orkesteri (Orchestra of the Vyborg Friends of Music). Again, circumstances illustrate the appeal of national music. During the autumn, Madetoja conducted two symphony concerts. The first featured Schumann’s Symphony no. 23 “Kullervorunoelmassa Madetoja on saavuttanut laajemman muodon, suuremman voiman, suorastaan kiitettävän suurisuuntaisuuden hahmotuksessa. - - Teoksen taitteet ilmentävät hyvänä musiikkina tarun tärkeimmät ainekset, Kullervon valituksen, paimenlaulun, koston. urhean ratsastusmatkan, sotaisat torventoitotukset, liekehtivän intohimon ja sitten hänen loppunsa, jossa musiikki katkelmallisin rytmiaihein johtaa kuoleman hiljaisuuteen.” Karl Fredrik Wasenius, Hufvudstadsbladet, 15 October 1915; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 112. 122 1 in B-flat Major (Spring), Bach’s Violin Concerto in E Major, and Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet; however, the concert hall was less than half full despite positive reviews. The second concert presented Madetoja’s Kullervo and Sibelius’s First Symphony; it was sold out. The prevailing attitude was that the public had a duty to support domestic composers; failure to do so was “inconceivable public aloofness.”24 During a period of low concert attendance in Viipuri in 1916, a columnist for the newspaper Karjala called out the public for their insensitivity to Finnish composers; the hall was full during the next concert, a program on 14 April dedicated entirely to national composers. Madetoja conducted a concert two days later that included his Öinen karkelokuva, the “Kehtolaulu” (Cradle Song) and “Menuetto” from his Pieni sarja orkesterille, and his symphonic poem Sammon ryöstö, op. 24 (The Abduction of the Sampo). Listeners were turned away at the door. Salmenhaara suggests that the Viipuri public may have wished to make amends for their recent failure to act by showing that they were capable of valuing Finnish artists and their products.25 During his stay in Viipuri, Madetoja completed his Symphony No. 1 in F Major, op. 29, the sparsest and most restrained of the composer’s three extant symphonies. Madetoja conducted the Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra for its première on 10 February 1916. The third movement, a finale that replaced the third and fourth movements in the manner of Sibelius, was completed only just in time for this event; Bis mentioned that this movement 24 “Yleisön käsittämätöntä kylmäkiskoisuutta.” Karjala, 13 April 1916; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 153. 25 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 153. 123 left the impression of haste and had not been sufficiently developed. Nevertheless, reviews were positive. Several critics singled out the slow second movement, subtitled Lento misterioso; Katila notes that it “reflects the composer’s deep idea of the world,” calling it “an outright expression of pure creative spirit—it bears the stamp of genius.”26 Like other slow movements by Madetoja, it is characterized by a tranquil, lyrical atmosphere; Katila suggests that this is representative of a Finnish tone, and, moreover, that it brings to mind the slow movement of Sibelius’s Third Symphony, which likewise contains melodies ending on a descending minor third. Upon his return to Helsinki in the autumn of 1916, Madetoja undertook a search for gainful employment. Within a short period of time, he was teaching music theory and history at the Helsinki Music Institute (1916–39), freelancing for a variety of newspapers and journals, and writing music reviews for the newspaper Helsingin Sanomat (1916–32), which was at that time the mouthpiece for Nuomi Suomi. He also affiliated himself with a number of organizations that would occupy him for the remainder of his career. Most significantly, he helped launch the Finnish Musician’s Union (Suomen Muusikkojen Liitto), a forerunner of the Society of Finnish Composers (Suomen Säveltäjät); he also worked as secretary, and later chair, of the Music Research Council (Musiikkitoimikunta). 26 Evert Katila, Uusi Suometar, 11 February 1916; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 148. 124 “A Costly Sacrifice”: The War Period Madetoja started to compose his Second Symphony with the ink still drying on the manuscript of his first. While there is little detailed information on the birth of the Second Symphony, comments appearing in Madetoja’s first article for Helsingin Sanomat (13 September 1916) indicate his hopes that the Symphony would be completed in the spring of the following year. In the article, Madetoja documents an apparently chance meeting with the composer and conductor Robert Kajanus (see note 20) and an inquiry into the latter’s plans for the 1916-17 concert season. Kajanus had decided to design a concert program in two halves, the first consisting of older music—Tchaikovsky, Mozart, and Schubert—and the second of Mahler’s First Symphony alongside Finnish composers: Sibelius, Lauri Ikonen (1888-1966), Ernst Mielck (1877-1899), and Madetoja. The piece by Madetoja would be a “new E-flat Major Symphony”27 ostensibly prepared for a spring 1917 première. However, the première was not to happen at the expected date. Many problems seem to have demanded Madetoja’s attention during this period, including financial instability, civil war, and illness. Financial instability was rampant in wartime Finland: the plummeting Finnish economy was impacted by wartime economic disruptions and the country’s forced accommodation of some 100,000 Russian troops. The country endured 27 “Uuden es-duurisinfoniansa.” Leevi Madetoja, Helsingin Sanomat, 13 September 1916; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 158; see especially chapter 6, “Opettajana ja arvostelijana Helsingissä. Toinen sinfonia: 1916-1918,” pages 157-82, which contains a detailed review of Madetoja’s undertakings during the Finnish Civil War. 125 rising unemployment levels, food shortages, and severe inflation that lasted well into the 1920s. Madetoja’s own financial situation was grim. Correspondence between Madetoja’s brother Yrjö and his mother Anna shows that in 1913, Madetoja’s income as Philharmonic Orchestra vice-president was a modest monthly salary of 300 Finnish markkaa. Three years later, Madetoja’s combined monthly income from his work for the newspaper Helsingin Sanomat and his teaching position at the Helsinki Music Institute was also 300 markkaa; however, due to inflation the relative value of his salary was less than half its 1913 amount, and the value of Finnish currency continued to decline in the coming years.28 Because he relied heavily on commissions to supplement his income, Madetoja was often forced to choose financially viable projects over artistically significant ones. Small salon pieces and choral literature often yielded significant revenue, but symphonies—which took time to compose, and could not be easily sold to publishers—were unlikely to turn a profit. Madetoja’s work on the Second Symphony was a labour of love; as he wrote to his mother, “the financial profit of this great work will be naught.”29 Thus it is easy to understand Madetoja’s decision to favour other, more pressing demands over the Second Symphony. His duties for the Helsingin Sanomat were time consuming. He also juggled work on the symphonic poem Aslak Smaukka, the piano suite Pastoraalisarja, and pieces for male choir. “I have been planning an opera too,” he wrote his mother in December 1917, adding: “if I 28 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 157. 29 “Rahallinen tulos tästä suuresta työsta supistuu nollan.” Leevi Madetoja, letter to Anna Madetoja, 10 December 1917; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 170. 126 did manage to produce one that in any way appealed to the public, I might make a good bit of money.”30 Matters even more serious than financial difficulties hindered Madetoja’s compositional progress in the coming months. On 27 January 1918, the working-class Red Guards took control of Helsinki, initiating a Finnish Civil War between the Reds and the Whites.31 As democratic socialists, Red Finland allied with Bolshevist Russia, signing a short-lived peace agreement on 1 March 1918. White Finland meanwhile allied itself with the German empire, with the latter offering its assistance as a pretext for further aggression against Russia. With the cooperation of the white Civil Guards, German troops entered Finland in February, undertaking a major offensive against Russia on 18 February (“Operation Faustschlag,” also known as the Eleven-Day War) and attacking the Reds on 12 April in the Battle of Helsinki. In all, some 37,000 Finns—more than one percent of the country’s population—lost their lives during this period. While Madetoja was not among the war’s casualties, he was nevertheless impacted by its atrocities. On April 9, Madetoja’s brother Yrjö was executed 30 Leevi Madetoja, letter to Anna Madetoja, 10 December 1917; quoted in Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians,” 19. 31 Like many Finns, Madetoja held a complicated position with regard to civil politics. Madetoja stayed in Helsinki throughout much of the occupation by Red Guards; his brother was killed by the Reds and his friend Toivo Kuula by the Whites. His primary allegiance seems to have been to Nuori Suomi, a liberal-minded centre-right group that split into opposing factions prior to Finnish independence. While Madetoja had always been tight-lipped about his political leanings, Onerva—like fellow liberal writers Leino and Juhani Aho—felt compelled after the Civil War to renounce her liberal political position in favour of the more conservative values of the victorious Whites. Tuomas Tepora and Aapo Roselius, The Finnish Civil War 1918: History, Memory, Legacy (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 184. 127 by Red Guards alongside several other officials; his body was never found. Madetoja’s letter to his mother in early May speaks for itself: Dear Mother, in writing this letter I do not know if you are still among the living. Since January I have not received any information from there. However, I hope that you have been spared the worst out there. From Viipuri I received a telegram yesterday that stills the blood in my veins: Yrjö fell on Apr. 13. The information that his young wife sent was heartbreakingly brief. This unsuspected, shocking message fills us with unspeakable sorrow. Death, companion to that cruel war and persecution, did not spare any of us; it was our guest, and plucked one of us as its victim. Oh, when will be the time when the wrath of the world’s powers will disappear and the peace of the good spirit will return to alleviate suffering and the misery of Ischemic wounds!32 The composer Toivo Kuula, Madetoja’s close friend, suffered a similar fate, dying in a Viipuri hospital after suffering a gunshot wound. Madetoja provided a heart-wrenching obituary for the Helsingin Sanomat: Yesterday late evening, a shocking message of grief arrived here from Viipuri: Toivo Kuula is dead! This message fills us with the emotion of sorrow. This composer, in his prime, had behind him the lush production of a long, rich and remarkable life’s work, but an even more beautiful future reflected ahead of him; this artist by the grace of God—a passionate, spiritual poet—is gone. The past time of terror therefore required sacrifice, a costly sacrifice, the value of which is too great to be judged.33 32 “Rakas Äiti, tätä kirjettä kirjoittaessani en tiedä, oletko enää elävien kirjoissa. Sitten tammikuun en ole saanut sieltä mitään tietoa. Toivon kuitenkin, että olet siellä pahimmasta säästynyt. Viipurista (Antreasta) sain eilen sähkösanoman, joka seisahdutti veren suonissani: Yrjö kaatui huhtik. 13p., niin kuului kaameassa lyhyydessään tuo tieto, jonka hänen nuori vaimonsa sieltä lähetti. Tämä aavistamaton, järkyttävä sanoma täyttää meidät sanomattomalla murheella. Kuolema, tuo sodan ja vainon julma seuralainen, ei siis meitäkään säästänyt, se tuli vieraaksemme, tempasi uhrikseen yhden meistä. Oi, milloin tulee se aika, jolloin maailmasta vihan vallat katoavat ja rauhan hyvät hengettäret saavat palata lääkitsemaän kärsimyksien ja kurjuuden iskemiä haavoja!” Leevi Madetoja, letter to Anna Madetoja, 5 May 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 171-72. 33 “Eilen illalla myöhään saapui tänne Viipurista järkyttävä surunviesti: Toivo Kuula on kuollut! Tämä sanoma täyttää meidät masen tavalla murheentunteella. Säveltäjä, parhaimmissa nuoruusvuosissaan, rehevimmässä tuotantokaudessaan, rikas ja merkittävä elämäntyö takanaan, mutta vielä kauniimpana kangasteleva tulevaisuus edessään, taiteilija jumalan armosta, tulisielu, väkevähenkinen runoilija, on poissa. 128 The personal cost of the civil war was immense, and the post-war mood was bleak. In an autumn 1918 letter to his mother, Madetoja voiced what was doubtless a common sentiment: “the four-year war has achieved nothing other than to run the whole of humanity into distress and misery,”34 Nevertheless, Madetoja continued his creative efforts, mindful of the therapeutic value of continued artistic output in the current climate: “it feels comedic in the midst of the current mess to write symphonies and generally make art, but after all, it is the other side of a beautiful coat, that there are those who manage to break away from that terrible substance: misery, money, and the pressure of poverty.”35 Accordingly, Madetoja devoted considerable time and effort during the summer and autumn of 1918 to the completion of the Second Symphony and to sketches for his opera, Pohjalaisia. On 18 June, he wrote that he could “at least get the Symphony completed, in all probability”36; on 1 July he added that “the second part of the Symphony is in good shape.”37 However, this proved overly optimistic, for later that month he wrote that “the Kulunut kauhun aika on siis taiteeltammekin vaatinut uhrin, kalliin uhrin, jonka arvoa emme liian suureksi voi arvioida.” Leevi Madetoja, Helsingin Sanomat, 19 May 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 172-73. 34 “Nelivuotisella sodalla ei mitään voitettu muuta kuin ajettu koko ihmiskunta hätään ja kurjuuteen.” Leevi Madetoja, letter to Anna Madetoja, 6 October 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 173. 35 “Tuntuu koomilliselta kaiken tämän nykyisen sopan keskellä kirjoitella sinfonioja ja yleensä tehdä taidetta, mutta onhan se toiselta puolen kaunistakin, että on niitäkin, jotka jaksavat irtautua tuosta hirvittävästä aineen, kurjuuden, rahan ja köyhyyden painostuksesta.” Leevi Madetoja, Letter to L. Onerva, 25 July 1918; quoted in Onerva, Yölauluja, 266; also quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 175. 36 “Sinfoniani saan kaiken todennäköisyyden mukaan ainakin valmiiksi.” Leevi Madetoja, Letter to L. Onerva, 18 June 1918; quoted in Onerva, Yölauluja, 251; also quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 175. 37 “Sinfonian toinen osa on hyvällä tolalla.” Leevi Madetoja, Letter to L. Onerva, 1 July 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 175. 129 Symphony is making slow progress,”38 and in the autumn, Madetoja’s efforts were further hampered by his contraction of the Spanish Influenza. The only allusions to his efforts are a couple of brief letters to his mother. In late October, Madetoja remarked that his Symphony “will only just be ready”39; he later wrote that he was in a hurry as “the Symphony’s première is approaching.”40 In any case, having surmounted economic collapse, civil war, and life-threatening illness, Madetoja completed the Second Symphony just in time for its unveiling on 17 December 1918. In conversation with the Finnish composer Kallervo Tuukkanen, he attributed a large part of his success to “the power of alcohol.”41 In honour of Finland’s independence, Madetoja busied himself with the composition of a number of festive, patriotic works. On 4 December 1918, Madetoja’s Tuhanten rantain partahilla, op. 40, no. 2 (Morning Song, for strings and mixed choir) was premièred during a festival of Finnish song; it was repeated to great fanfare four days later at the University of Turku’s Finnish National Theatre. In February 1919, his Mies Mieheltä, op. 42, no. 5 (Man by Man, for male choir and brass ensemble), was premièred in Oulu to 38 “Sinfonia edistyy hitaasti.” Leevi Madetoja, Letter to L. Onerva, 29 July 1918; quoted in Onerva, Yölauluja, 269; also quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 175. 39 “Jos vain ehtiä valmiiksi.” Leevi Madetoja, Letter to Anna Madetoja, 29 October 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 178. 40 “Sinfonian esitys lähenee.” Leevi Madetoja, Letter to Anna Madetoja, 29 November 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 178. 41 “Alkoholin voimalla”; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 178; also quoted in Tuukkanen, Leevi Madetoja, 76. 130 a superb reception. More than a thousand people—well over capacity—were present at the community hall, and critical reception was uniformly positive. On 15 February 1920, Madetoja returned to the University of Turku to lead the première of an extensive cantata, Elämän päivät, op. 47 (The Days of Life, for soprano, mixed choir, and orchestra); Helsingin Sanomat described it as “a very significant composition.”42 Finally, on 28 February 1920 (Kalevala Day), Madetoja conducted the première of his Väinämöisen kylvö, op. 46 (Väinämöinen Sows the Wilderness), a symphonic poem for soprano or tenor and orchestra with text from the Kalevala. Kalevala Day was celebrated with greater than usual fervour that year owing to the eighty-five-year anniversary of the epic’s publication. The daily newspaper Helsingin Sanomat devoted an issue to the Kalevala, covering the epic’s roots, the relationship between the Kalevala and the Iliad, a representation of the Kalevala through vivid pictures, and a column by Eino Leino on the national epic. Madetoja’s Väinämöisen kylvö formed part of an anniversary celebration held at the National Theatre; in attendance were the Prime Minister, General Mannerheim, and President Ståhlberg. The performance was rewarded with sustained applause, but due to the nature of the event Madetoja did not receive any critical reviews.43 42 Helsingin Sanomat, 13 May 1920; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 194. 43 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 192. 131 Madetoja’s Rise and Fall: Late-Period Compositions The 1920s ushered in Madetoja’s most fertile period. In addition to his work at the Helsinki Music Institute, Madetoja gained a teaching position—and, in 1937, full professorship—at the University of Helsinki. Although the salary was negligible, the position was prestigious, having been previously been held by Fredrik Pacius, Richard Faltin, and Robert Kajanus. He also helped establish the Finnish Composers’ Copyright Society (Säveltäjäin Tekijänoikeustoimisto or TEOSTO), serving as board member from 1928-47 and chair from 1937-47. He furthermore continued his work with the associations Muusikkojen liitto and Musiikkitoimikunta, serving as chair of the former from 1933-36 and of the latter from 1936-47. His involvement with Musiikkitoimikunta (later Suomen Säveltäjät) would become an important part of his legacy; Madetoja’s will and testament dictated the formation of a Madetoja Foundation within the parent company, allowing his copyright revenue to be used for the commissioning of new music from Finnish composers and the recording and performing of new Finnish music.44 In 1924, Madetoja witnessed the première of his first opera, Pohjalaisia (The Ostrobothnians), the significance of which is sometimes overlooked. While there was an established national opera tradition in Europe at the turn of the century, Finland had no such tradition. As a symphonist, Madetoja could draw on the conventions introduced by Sibelius, but as an opera composer, he was practically self-taught. Pohjalaisia was a 44 Salmenhaara, “Musiikkipoliitikko,” 29. 132 pioneering work. It was quickly elevated to the status of Finland’s national opera, and it gained international success through performances in Kiel, Stockholm, Gothenburg, Berlin, and Copenhagen. Madetoja’s Third Symphony is his orchestra masterpiece. It was conceived in France in 1925, and its translucent orchestration and flowing counterpoint show the influence of French music. However, the Symphony also emphasizes the immediate repetition of musical material, a feature sometimes ascribed to the influence of the Finnish Kalevala that is nevertheless more common in the music of Madetoja than that of other Finnish composers.45 The opening is in two parts: the first, Andantino, presents a pastoral melody that recurs throughout the movement; the second, Allegretto, develops a lilting theme that appears in various guises, including in canon with itself. The second movement contrasts the Symphony’s French elegance with a melancholy Finnish Adagio. It introduces a theme reminiscent of folk song, and later features a broad, singing melody in cellos, then violins. The Symphony is both tonally and rhythmically ambiguous, with the most intricate rhythms appearing in the final two movements. The third movement, Allegro (non troppo) scherzo, is—in contrast to the first two movements—notable for its length. Its accompaniment is composed of a continuous ostinato figure, one of Madetoja’s more common techniques. The final movement features a melody that embeds swinging waltz rhythms within the prevailing common time. Although it feints at a majestic conclusion by 45 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 54. 133 way of a tutti, fortissimo climax, an unexpected diminuendo brings the work rapidly to a close. Madetoja composed what is perhaps the most unusual of his orchestral works, incidental music for Poul Knudsen’s pantomime ballet Okon Fuoko, op. 58 (1925-27), at roughly the same time his Third Symphony. In the first movement, “Okon Fuoko: Unitaikuri” (Okon Fuoko: Dream Sorcerer), he sets the tone for the work through the use of bitonal harmony and rich orchestral colours, the latter including the understated use of castanets and celesta. These nuances paint the main character as a secretive, distant figure without resorting to the superficial exoticism broached by the pantomime’s storyline. Neoclassical touches are evident in two movements with strong rhythmic emphasis: the “Miehen tanssi” (Man’s Dance), which is evocative of Prokofiev, and the exotic closing “Danse Grotesque.” Unfortunately, the original pantomime drama, constructed half upon dialogue and half upon mimed expression, was dramatically unsatisfactory and largely underwhelmed Finnish audiences at its première on 12 February 1930. Undeterred, Madetoja made plans to compile the music from Okon Fuoko into three orchestral suites. Only one of these was completed. It was published on 15 December 1937 and enjoyed considerable success abroad. Madetoja’s final great work is Juha (1934), an opera in six tableaux. The plot comes from one of the finest achievements of fìn-de-siècle Finnish literature, the 1911 novel by the famed Finnish author Juhani Aho. The Finnish star soprano, Aino Ackté, adapted the libretto herself, no doubt envisioning the role of female protagonist Marja as a brilliant 134 vehicle for her talents. Madetoja was not Ackté’s first choice for the realization of her libretto; the young Finnish modernist composer Aarre Merikanto (1893-1958) completed his opera on Ackté’s libretto in 1922, but the board of the Finnish Opera deemed it too demanding and too modernist for performance. Madetoja received the libretto after 1929. Despite Juha’s domestic setting, the opera avoids the use of Finnish folk tunes; however, it does quote a Ukrainian folk tune that Madetoja had heard on the radio, which in turn sounds quite similar to an old Finnish tune called the “Kalevala tune.”46 More symphonic, refined, and coherent than Pohjalaisia, Juha achieved great critical success following its première on 17 February 1935; Sibelius, who could not be present due to illness, wrote to Madetoja, “I heard ‘Juha’ on the radio. It made a huge impression on me. Crescendo until the end! And not a dead place!”47 Unfortunately, it never achieved the same popularity as Pohjalaisia. Although decreases in performances of Juha during the 1940s have been blamed on dramaturgical weaknesses, a more likely rationale lies in the changing audience demands of Finland’s heavy post-war period.48 Nevertheless, its poor reception ushered in a period of adversity for Madetoja that would result in his eventual collapse.49 On 26 March 1934, Madetoja was dealt the heavy blow of his mother’s passing. He was devastated by the news, contracting an illness of such severity that he was unable even 46 Karjalainen, “Nationalism,” 196. 47 Tuukkanen, Leevi Madetoja, 100. 48 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 309. 49 Korhonen, Inventing, 50-51, 70. 135 to attend the funeral in Oulu. From this point on, his creativity began to wane. Throughout the 1930s, he spent a long time working on a fourth symphony, but his only copy was stolen from a Paris railway station in 1938, and he did not have the strength to rewrite it. His alcoholism steadily increased, and he developed serious health issues. He became unable to manage his huge range of tasks, both professional and as a member of societies and organizations, and he resigned from the University of Helsinki in 1939. Madetoja’s morale was further dampened by the Winter and Continuation Wars, which began on 30 November 1939 with the Soviet invasion of Finland. In the spring of 1941, he was forced to enter Huvitus, a clinic for alcoholics. While Madetoja composed a number of works following his return home, he never fully recovered. Madetoja passed away on 6 October 1947. His funeral was held on 11 October at the Helsinki Old Church, with a venerable who’s who of Helsinki society in attendance. The Northern Ostrobothnian Students’ Association formed a guard of honor at the gangway; the organist Venni Kuosma played an Adagio by Bach; the Finnish opera singer Oiva Soini performed Madetoja’s Ilta, op. 60, no. 3 (Evening); Martti Similä conducted the Helsinki Symphony Orchestra in a performance of Madetoja’s Hautalaulu, op. 23, no. 4 (Song of the Grave); and the celebrated choir Suomen Laulu sung Madetoja’s anthems Ei mitään multa puutu, op. 30a, no. 2 (O Nothing Do I Want For) and Tuolla ylhääll’ asunnoissa, op. 30b, no. 3 (Up There in the Mansions). Meanwhile, wreaths were laid by President of the Republic’s adjutant Colonel Grönvall, the Ministry of Education, the University of Helsinki, the City of Oulu, the Northern Ostrobothnia Students ‘Association, the Sibelius Academy, 136 the Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra, Vocal Music Artists’ Association, Teosto, and numerous other organizations, associations and individuals. An honor guard led Madetoja’s coffin to the beautiful Hietaniemi cemetery, where, to the strains of the Finnish men’s choir Laulumiehet, Madetoja was buried on Artists’ Hill. 137 “Both Rare and Precious”: Leevi Madetoja’s Second Symphony Introduction I have chosen to investigate Madetoja’s Second Symphony, and not his more universally lauded Third Symphony, in part because the composer wrote the work during a pivotal phase of Finland’s cultural and political history: while composing the piece, Madetoja witnessed both the Finnish Declaration of Independence, on 6 December 1917, and the Civil War the following year. With respect to the date when the Symphony was written, it could be considered Madetoja’s nationalistic reaction to the surrounding historical events. Contemporary Finnish musicologists recognize this link. Kimmo Korhonen asserts that “the focal point of the Symphony is the third movement driven at times to violent outbursts and featuring aggressive military march elements that speak of the tragic Finnish Civil War of 1918.”1 Juoni Kaipainen agrees, stating that the Finnish Civil War and the death of Madetoja’s brother—who was among those killed in the fighting—have a direct impact on the Second Symphony’s sorrowful quality.2 Erkki Salmenhaara adds that the Second Symphony “seems to reflect Madetoja’s tragic personal experiences and contains some of the same melodic motifs as the piano suite The Garden of Death 1 Korhonen, “Orchestral Works,” par. 8. 2 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 51. 138 (Kuoleman puutarha) composed in memory of his brother killed in the Finnish Civil War of 1918.”3 After the success of Madetoja’s First Symphony, the Finnish public eagerly anticipated the Second, and its premiere—on 17 December 1918, with Robert Kajanus conducting the Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra—was a major triumph for Madetoja and a landmark event. Equally dramatic, weighty, and romantic, it was extremely well received, and its success firmly established Madetoja’s status in Finnish music. Kimmo Korhonen writes that the Second Symphony “is the most grandiose and extensive of the three, and a considerable advance over the First Symphony in terms of content and orchestral conception”4; he observes elsewhere that the Second Symphony’s expressive content is likewise broader than the First, ranging “from delicate lyricism to militant drama.”5 Jean Sibelius, who attended the première, was also impressed. He made special mention of the work’s “elegant, pastoral tone,” noting that “it gives one much to think about.”6 Not all critics, however, agree on the merits of Madetoja’s Second Symphony. For example, in his 1985 article Juoni Kaipainen does not hold back in his criticism of the work. About the first movement, he observes that “an extraordinarily long exposition of the main 3 Salmenhaara, “Composer from Ostrobothnia,” par. 9. 4 Korhonen, Inventing, 51. 5 Korhonen, “Leevi Madetoja,” par. 5. 6 Erik Tawaststjerna, Sibelius: Volume 3; 1914-1957, trans. and ed. Robert Layton (London: Faber, 1997), 140. 139 subject provides advance notice that we should not expect too much by way of drama.”7 He concedes that “the Second Symphony is quite original in one or two respects,”8 but for Kaipainen, the word “original” apparently has negative connotations: The proportioning of the separate movements within the work does not conform to the standard practice: the first and second movements are played without a break, and given the relative lack of action in the music the whole so formed puts a strain on all but the most long-suffering of listeners. The third movement is a disjointed combination of scherzo and finale, and the fourth a completely insubstantial slow-tempoed epilogue, rather more a coda linked to the previous movement than a separate unit of its own.9 Kaipainen’s main critique of the Symphony can be distilled to one overarching point, which I will assess—and dispute—throughout the course of this chapter: that the work lacks variation, due to the fact that its thematic materials are overly similar. In terms of its thematic material Madetoja’s Second Symphony falls far short of offering anything very interesting. The stage is held by an accented main subject, energetically circling around the tonal centre, and the majority of the work’s other themes are mere variations on this. Madetoja has, however, left his variation-work incomplete: the different variants bear too great a resemblance to the original starting-point, and as a result the Symphony takes on an annoyingly mono-thematic character.10 In support of his case, Kaipainen calls upon comments made by Kai Maasalo, who writes in 1964 that this “pastoral-elegiac-pathetic” Symphony is stamped “with a certain monotonous 7 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 51. 8 Ibid., 51. 9 Ibid. 10 Ibid. 140 quality.”11 While Maasalo is referring to the first two movements, Kaipainen states that the same could just as easily have been said of the remaining movements; however, he adds, rather magnanimously, that “this does not, of course, actually prevent the Symphony from containing some impressive moments.”12 Whether positive or negative, these prior assessments of Madetoja’s Second Symphony provide only a general overview of the piece, and no analyses of his symphonies have been published, either in Finnish or in any other language. What is needed at this stage is a more detailed consideration of Madetoja’s compositional technique, including the role of innovative procedures characteristic of Central and Northern European symphonic composition at the beginning of the twentieth century.13 To this end, the following reading of the first movement will focus on three main topics. The first is the use of organic connections among the Second Symphony’s themes by virtue of a strong communal relationship between themes as variants of one another, both within and among movements. The second is the manipulation of form, and particularly of sonata form, which follows an early twentieth-century adaptation of older models. The third is the approach to tonal relationships, which reveals an original harmonic conception rooted in an additive 11 Maasalo, “Suomalaisia,” n.p.; quoted in Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 51. 12 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 51. 13 Sibelius, like Mahler and Strauss, is often referred to as a “modern classicist.” In this chapter, I argue for a similar stylistic approach within Madetoja’s symphonic output owing to his use of analagous “sonata-deformation” procedures described in detail below. See James Hepokoski, Sibelius: Symphony No. 5 (New York, Cambridge University Press, 1993), 4-9; and Arnold Whittall, “The Later Symphonies,” in The Cambridge Companion to Sibelius, ed. Daniel M. Grimley (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 49‒65. 141 approach. A discussion of these topics reveals that the work’s advanced tonal ambiguities and its strong classification of motives into close variants contribute to the blurring of traditional formal boundaries; therefore, a reading through the lens of fin-de-siècle techniques such as layering and additive processes suits Madetoja’s Second Symphony better than one through traditional forms and harmonic patterns. The First Movement The first topic to be addressed is the first movement’s themes and motives, which bear such a close resemblance to each other as to make their classification difficult. The task in this section is to trace the unfolding of the various melodic components while illustrating their strong similarities and classifying their component parts. In an attempt to highlight the unusual degree of integration between motivic material, this opening analysis will, as far as possible, initially avoid references to harmonic function or large-scale musical syntax. Before proceeding with the analysis, however, a few basic features of the first movement should be noted. Measure 260 features a “double return” of the main theme and the original key, suggestive of a sonata-form recapitulation, and it is prefaced by a return of the introductory accompaniment figure in measure 258. While this moment is followed by a restatement of the movement’s thematic material, albeit with some omissions, it is not preceded by a separate development section. Further, although the material after measure 258 mostly remains in the tonic key, the material prior to this point moves through several 142 non-tonic keys, ultimately reaching the mediant (m. 241, spelled as F-sharp major) before modulating back to the tonic. Together, these features suggest the “type 1” sonata (i.e., exposition and recapitulation) as the overall form of the movement, although, as we shall see, the movement diverges from the familiar, Classical-period conventions of this form in several conspicuous ways.14 Although James Hepokoski is dismissive of interpretations that “[process] the movement primarily on the basis of what we have come to expect from textbook sonata patterns,”15 such an approach is justified here for reasons voiced by Tim Howell with respect to Sibelius. First, Sibelius was aware of, and deliberately superseded, these textbook sonata patterns; thus, even in their repudiation they function as an important design element. Second, many listeners’ expectations are based on the same patterns—in fact, Sibelius’s denial of sonata-form expectations arguably plays an important role in his work’s 14 I offer my thanks to Professor Alan Dodson for his reading of this movement in light of Hepokoski and Darcy’s theory of sonata form, one of several possible approaches that I have not included here but which I will continue to explore in future analyses of this movement. Professor Dodson suggests that the structure of the exposition is informed by the mixolydian cadences in measures 95 (in IV) and 241 (in bIII), and, furthermore, that the textural break at measure 167 functions as a medial caesura in preparation for the contrasting thematic material that follows. Accordingly, he sees the structure of the exposition as consisting of a primary theme in measures 1-97, a transition in measures 97-167 (with elision at 97), a secondary-theme zone in measures 168-243, and a retransition in measures 243-57 (with elision at 243). Noting the tension between G-flat major (mm. 18 and 69) and its enharmonic equivalent F# major (m. 241), it is possible to interpret a long-range tonal plan through the movement from I to bIII through a series of ascending fourths. P moves from E-flat major (m. 1) to A-flat major (m. 89); then S moves from D-flat major (m. 172) to F-sharp major (m. 241). See also James A. Hepokoski and Warren Darcy, Elements of Sonata Theory: Norms, Types, and Deformations in the Late Eighteenth-Century Sonata (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). 15 Hepokoski, Sibelius, 61. 143 reception.16 As the following analysis will show, the same arguments can reasonably be made of Madetoja. Containing a time signature of six-four and a key signature of three flats, the first movement opens with an accompaniment pattern (henceforth referred to as accomp. 1; see ex. 4.1) that reappears throughout the movement (for a detailed table of the movement’s formal structure, please see the Appendix). Accomp. 1 contains three distinct layers: an extended pedal in tuba and horns on the pitches E-flat and G, respectively; a pizzicato 16 Tim Howell, “Review: Sibelius Studies and Notions of Expertise,” in Music Analysis 14, nos. 2-3 (1995): 322. Example 4.1: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 1-2. 144 contrabass line that alternates E-flat with G in half notes on each measure’s first and fourth beats; and a flute ostinato in eighth notes on each measure’s second and fifth beats, suggesting a syncopated lilting motion. The principal theme is introduced in the second measure (ex. 4.2). This sixteen-measure asymmetrical theme consists of two phrases of unequal length: the first phrase (mm. 2.10-9.8) is roughly seven measures long; the second phrase (mm. 9.10-18.12) is two measures longer. Each phrase can be further subdivided into the following subphrases as shown in example 2: “subphrase 1a” (mm. 2.10-5.12 and again in mm. 9.10-12.12), “subphrase 1b” (mm. 6.1-9.8), and “subphrase 1c” (mm. 17.1-18.12). Example 4.2: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, principal theme, measures 2-18. 145 Subphrase 1a presents some of the Symphony’s most important building blocks. It moves downward from G5 to G4 by way of two descending perfect fourths a major second apart, and the fourths are bisected by a double-neighbor motive with an interpolated passing note (henceforth referred to as the changing-note figure) that begins in measure 4.4. The changing-note figure is developed in an intervallic capacity through the work. For example, the first four notes of subphrase 1b can be viewed as a modification of the changing-note figure, lacking its interpolated passing note, in which the two final notes are augmented registrally to encompass the interval of a perfect fourth. The changing-note figure is also frequently developed in an additive manner. In subphrase 1c (mm. 17-18), it adds a further note to its ascending trajectory, foreshadowing the birth of motive A, which will be discussed shortly. The changing-note figure can be further subdivided into prime and retrograde inversion statements of “motive X.” A subset of the changing-note figure, motive X evolves in three clearly defined ways independent of the changing-note figure. First, it frequently recurs as a four-note rhythmic motive, as the two iterations beginning in mm. 8.4 and 8.10 illustrate. Second, it sometimes appears as a simple contour composed of two ascending pitches, the registral span of which subsequently contains a single descending pitch. This can be seen in measures 16.10-18.12, where the additive expansion of the changing-note figure nevertheless maintains the integrity of the component statements of motive X. Third, it occasionally omits the passing note to highlight its intervallic components, an ascending minor third followed by a descending minor second. This modality presents an 146 alternate interpretation of subphrase 1b, whereby its opening notes are composed of this kernel motive in retrograde inversion, a descending minor second followed by an ascending minor third (mm. 6.1-7.1). Such examples illustrate the way in which the Symphony develops multiple possibilities for its constituent motives simultaneously. The interval of a perfect 4th is yet another fundamental building block for the symphony’s motivic material. This interval occurs twice in subphrase 1a and three times in Example 4.3: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, variations on subphrase 1a. 147 subphrase 1b; in addition, subphrases 1a1 and 1a1’ (mm. 13-14 and 15-16) transpose subphrase 1a a perfect fourth higher with minor tonal adjustments. In this way the entire first theme grows from a few key ideas presented in the Symphony’s opening phrase: a changing-note figure, its constituent motives, and the interval of a perfect fourth. The influence of subphrase 1a extends further than the first theme; in fact, it recurs in a variety of guises throughout the movement (ex. 4.3). For example, subphrases 1a2 and 1a3 (mm. 19 and 20), which present the changing-note motive in augmentation, appear in canon immediately following the principal theme and again following the return of this theme in measures 278 and 279. Subphrase 1a4 is a more extensive variation, and its cadential harmonies have a coda-like function: both of its iterations (mm. 89 and 235) close their respective thematic areas and prepare for a period of transition and release before the ensuing sections. However, subphrase 1a is important in yet other ways as well; as we shall see, its intervals and motives contain the seeds of ideas that are employed throughout the Symphony and are crucial to the understanding of the work as a whole. The section following the principal theme introduces several new motives, the most important of which is motive A (mm. 27.10-31.12, ex. 4.4). Born of the changing-note figure first introduced in measure 3, and in turn mediated by the additive developments of subphrase 1c, motive A adds an échappée as shown in example 4.4, extending the ascending portion of the figure so that its total span reaches a diminished fourth. This idea of motivic 148 expansion, as the ensuing discussion will attest, becomes increasingly important as the movement progresses. When Kaipainen states that “the stage is held by an accented main subject, energetically circling around the tonal centre,”17 he is surely referring to motive A. However, his assertion that this motive is the movement’s “main subject” is disputable, since, as we have seen, it is a derivative of the principal theme and not its source. Nevertheless, motive A is of no small significance. It is first announced in the woodwinds over a dark, minor harmony and a C-flat pedal; its tutti repetition an octave higher (mm. 32.4-34.12) foreshadows the motive’s importance. In the twenty measures following its introduction, it is featured eight times, four of which occur in sequential passages that contribute to the 17 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 51. Example 4.4: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, comparison of subphrase 1a with motive A. 149 raising of tension and lead to a decisive fortissimo statement of the main theme on a subdominant (A-flat) pedal (mm. 53.7-57.12). Motive A appears throughout the Symphony, with many recognizable variants, of which the most noteworthy are shown in example 4.5. Motive A also undergoes more drastic permutations, serving—as we shall see—not only as building block for new themes, but also as an intermediary for previous motives. Example 4.5: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, variations on motive A. 150 Motive C—also referred to as the oscillating theme, for reasons that will shortly be addressed—is introduced in measure 69: here, first violins outline a repetitive motive that begins with a B-flat5 held for an entire measure; in the following measure, this pitch is surrounded by an undulating minor third, A5 to C6 (ex. 4.6). This is heard in counterpoint with motive B, a repetitive ostinato figure sounding in the clarinets. Introduced in measures 62 through 68 in preparation for this section, motive B is loosely related to motive X by virtue of its contour, two ascending intervals followed by a descending minor second. Measures 71 and 72 are an identical repeat of measures 69 and 70; measures 73 through 76 repeat the melodic content of measures 69 through 72 a major third higher, suggesting a sequential pattern but for a ubiquitous B-flat pedal that continues through to measure 77.2. Example 4.6: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, second thematic idea, oscillating theme, measures 69-76. 151 In measure 77.5 these patterns are replaced by a new motive in the bassoon and bass strings (motive D; ex. 4.7) that incorporates melodic fifths into a descending chromatic line that moves from B-flat (m. 77.5) to G (m. 80.1). This motive is not presented alone, however: measure 78.5 initiates a leisurely statement of motive A in cornets that continues above motive D as a second layer. An ostinato accompaniment pattern, rhythmically related to accomp. 1, forms a third layer; this leads smoothly in measures 80.7 through 82.12 and 86.7 through 88.12 with a variant of motive A (ex. 4.8) that is linked through elision with ensuing iterations, each a minor third higher, to form a sweeping melodic figuration that rises an octave primarily via the notes of an octatonic scale (henceforth referred to as motive A’s ascending octatonic variant). Together these superimposed materials contribute to an increasing tension, which is also supported by crescendo dynamics and textural thickening. Measures 98.1 through 107.6 introduce accompaniment pattern 4, an undulating ostinato figure in parallel thirds voiced by divisi clarinets. Accomp. 4 is intricately linked with previous motives; example 4.9 illustrates its genesis in subphrase 1a and its adoption Example 4.7: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, motive D, measures 77-80. 152 of the principle of motivic expansion. In measure 107, this pattern transitions seamlessly to accomp. 3. Accomp. 3, first seen in measure 42, likewise stems from subphrase 1a. Example 4.10 shows the accompaniment pattern’s derivation from a retrograde statement of the changing-note figure and the expansion of its final interval. It should be noted here that Example 4.8: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, ascending octatonic variant of motive A, measures 80-83. 153 this particular variant of the changing-note figure is crucial to the development of upcoming thematic material. In fact, as will soon become apparent, accomp. 3 and accomp. 4, in conjunction with subphrase 1a, effectively foreshadow the second important thematic idea (henceforth referred to as the conjunct melody) in advance of its arrival, while simultaneously introducing and supporting the unfolding theme. These patterns accomplish this by acting as accompaniments to the third important thematic arrival (mm. 105.3-120.2; ex. 4.11), a sixteen-measure theme consisting of two symmetrical eight-measure phrases (mm. 105.3-112.6 and mm. 113.3-120.2), each of which contains two contrasting Example 4.9: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, accompaniment patterns 4 and 3, measures 103-08. 154 subphrases. The first subphrase (mm. 105.3-109.2; repeated in mm. 113.2-117.2) features a conjunct, lyrical melody that opens and closes on the same pitch, C6. Like other previous themes, the conjunct melody is also strongly related to other materials: it borrows its contour directly from accomp. 4, elongating the first and last notes (both C6) to lend the melody a more languid, expressive quality. Accomp. 4 continues underneath this subphrase, articulating a kind of heterophony between melody and accompaniment. Example 4.10: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, continuous development of accomp. 3. 155 The second subphrase (mm. 109.3-112.6 and mm. 117.3-120.2) is highly suggestive of subphrase 1a. It opens and closes with twin retrograde iterations of motive X, which share Example 4.11: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, third thematic idea, “conjunct melody,” measures 104-120. 156 not only the original motive’s melodic contour, but also its triplet rhythm. These statements of motive X function as elaborations of subphrase 1a’s original perfect fourth motive; nested between them is the changing-note figure, a further reminder of the movement’s opening subphrase. While the first subphrase is melodically identical in both iterations, the second iteration of the second subphrase contains a noteworthy variation. Here, each statement of motive X (mm. 117.2-117.5 and mm. 118.6-119.1) expands, exploiting a wider intervallic range and bringing the idea of motivic dilation into play once more. The meandering contour and subtle rhythmic modifications of this melody are organic. As with the first subphrase, discussed above, accomp. 3 supports this melody, and its relationship with motive X again suggests a loose heterophonic texture. Measure 120.5 initiates a new section. This section, which lasts until measure 163.12, expands upon the possibilities inherent in the ascending minor third pattern featured in Example 4.12: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, continuous development of motive E. 157 the final three notes of the conjunct melody (ex. 4.12). The section begins with four reiterations of the conjunct melody (mm. 120.5-136.2) followed by a statement of motive A (136.5-140.10). The similarity between the conjunct melody and motive A is so readily apparent here that one wonders if it is strictly necessary to differentiate between them. Of course, one important difference between the two subphrases is found in the range of their final notes: in its closing contour, the conjunct melody describes a minor third, while motive A describes perfect fourth. It is interesting to observe how, after lingering here on its characteristic perfect fourth (m. 138.9), motive A expands one note higher in its scalar ascent to describe a diminished fifth (m. 139.1). This idea of expansion—from minor third to perfect fourth and eventually diminished fifth—plays out in a more obvious way a few measures later when, in measure 145, motive E outlines a scale passage on which the following twenty-two measures are based (as well as its recapitulation in mm. 334-66). The similarities of rhythm and intervallic contour of the final five notes of each motive underscore an obvious link between them. The next important thematic arrival (henceforth referred to as the dance theme, mm. 176.1-191.10; ex. 4.13) differs from previous material in that it has a more symmetrical rhythmic and metric structure, and its dotted rhythm in six-eight time suggests a dance topic connection. It is composed of two consecutive but distinct phrases. The first phrase (mm. 176.1-183.12) introduces a rustic peasant gigue in six-eight; presented in clarinets, it begins and ends on the mediant F4/F5, after which cornets offer an imitative countermelody. The second phrase (mm. 184.1-191.10) relinquishes the gigue rhythm in 158 favour of an espressivo string melody that ascends in a conjunct diatonic fashion from F4/F5 to leading note C5/C6 before returning to the original pitch. Both phrases have elements in common with phrase 1a; as example 13 illustrates, the “dance theme” incorporates such elements as prominent perfect fourth intervals, frequent statements of motive X, and sophisticated expansion of the changing-note figure. It is worth noting that much of the material returns in various guises in the movement’s remaining measures, but as this will be discussed in more detail below, it need not be addressed here. The important point is that the principle of thematic variation, a characteristic of many “progressive” compositions from the late nineteenth and early Example 4.13: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, fourth thematic idea, “dance theme,” measures 176-191. 159 twentieth centuries, plays quite a prominent role within the exposition of the first movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony.18 This similarity of material makes it very difficult to ascertain a formal structure: a detailed discussion of main versus subordinate themes requires a discussion of contrast, for a subordinate theme must contrast the main theme in the same way that the subordinate key contrasts the home key.19 However, as the movement’s material is so motivically connected, its various sections fail to provide the necessary conflict required of sonata form. At the same time, these organic connections have significant unifying value; they also hint at a possible resemblance to Debussy’s techniques, as we shall see in the next chapter. Replacing thematic contrast in this movement is a cyclical process of tight-knit versus loose thematic material that defines the work’s formal structure. An idiosyncratic formal pattern emerges: each new key area begins with a short introductory section followed by a tight-knit theme that eventually gives way to a looser structure and further development, often through sequential processes. With this process in mind, it becomes possible to tease a formal design from the myriad thematic elements presented above. The first movement’s structure is based around four main themes, each of which has been noted above: the principal theme (theme 1, mm. 2.10-18.12); the oscillating theme (theme 2, mm. 69.1-76.12); the conjunct theme (theme 3, 18 See Tim Howell, “‘Sibelius the Progressive,’” in Sibelius Studies, ed. Timothy Jackson and Veijo Murtomäki (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 35-57. The thematic transformations in this movement are admittedly less extreme than in many Romantic-era orchestral works, such as Liszt’s symphonic poems, and this may be why Kaipainen complained that Madetoja “left his variation-work incomplete.” Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 51. 19 Caplin, Classical Form, 97. 160 mm. 105.3-120.2); and the dance theme (theme 4, mm. 176.1-191.10). These themes are supported by a key structure that cycles unconventionally through the circle of fifths as shown in figure 4.1. The first theme moves quickly from the home key of E-flat major to G- flat major; mediant relationships, as we will see, play an important role throughout the movement. A short detour leads to B-flat major, but the second theme returns to G-flat major. From there the tonality ascends a major second to A-flat major for the third theme. The fourth theme is in D-flat major; the music ascends again by a major second to the home key for the recapitulation. Thus, the movement cycles through five adjacent keys in the circle of fifths, but it does so in a non-standard order, combining modulations by second, third, and fifth. This first pass through Madetoja’s Second Symphony has concerned itself primarily with an overview of the first movement’s thematic material. In so doing, it has illustrated Figure 4.1: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, large scale tonal movement. 161 the extensive thematic unity offered through the development of a small number of motives, all of which are introduced in the work’s first measures. However, so far little has been said about musical syntax per se. The next section will feature a second pass through the movement with a closer look at the thematic materials’ syntactic roles while highlighting some of the movement’s more salient structural principles. One such principle is the staggered arrival of new material concurrent with the liquidation of old material: in this movement, thematic material is rarely demarcated through a single, clear division; rather, it engages in a process of liquidation and arrival at common boundaries (marked “trans. area” in the Appendix). This process manifests itself most clearly, as we will see, in that each new theme is preceded by an introductory area and followed by a developmental space, in a clear departure from traditional sonata-form principles. The principal theme is a sixteen-measure asymmetrical period. The antecedent phrase contains a basic idea (subphrase 1a) and a contrasting idea (subphrase 1b); it ends with a half cadence on the tonic. The longer consequent phrase—what Caplin terms a “modulating consequent, cadential strength”20—likewise contains a basic and contrasting idea. While the basic idea is similar to its first iteration, the contrasting idea is quite different: it begins with two iterations of subphrase 1a1 in the submediant minor; it ends with subphrase 1c and concludes the first theme in a new harmony—G-flat major, the 20 William Earl Caplin, Classical Form: A Theory of Formal Functions for the Instrumental Music of Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 53. 162 flatted mediant—on the downbeat of measure 18, bringing a clear dissent from the traditional tonic stability of the first theme area. Several signposts herald the arrival of the second, “oscillating” theme. First, measures 54 through 61 feature a rapid diminuendo, from fortissimo model to piano copy, suggestive of the energy loss that accompanies a medial caesura in anticipation of a lower-intensity secondary theme.21 Second, measure 62 presents an imperfect authentic cadence on the dominant, B-flat major. Third, measures 62 through 68 are characterized by heightened tonal stability in the new key: measure 62 introduces a gentle ostinato pattern played by solo clarinet (motive B) and harmonic motion grinds to a halt with seven measures of pure dominant harmony; measure 64 presents a reflective cornet rendition of motive 1, a plaintive reminder of the transition’s earlier intensity (see Appendix). Although the second theme itself turns back to G-flat major, a lengthy B-flat pedal maintains the integrity of the subsidiary tonal area. The repetitive construction of the second theme suggests a repeated basic idea, the rudimentary presentation phrase of a sixteen-measure sentence. However, after eight measures, the music features a sudden change in texture (m. 77) and renewed harmonic modulation. As it is therefore too short and too repetitive to have syntactical classification, it receives the designation motive C in the Appendix. Nevertheless, by virtue of its tight-knit construction and the contrast it presents from the surrounding texture, it can be considered a theme. 21 Hepokoski and Darcy, Elements, 40. 163 Example 4.14: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 89-90. 164 Elements of the third thematic area begin as early as measure 89 (ex. 4.14). A thirty-one measure A-flat pedal starts at measure 89.1; motive 1a4 (a holdover from the previous thematic area) begins at measure 89.5; the transitional area’s insistent eighth-note pulse terminates at measure 90.1; and accomp. 1 resumes at measure 90.3. Following this, the accompaniment undertakes a gradual process of liquidation: on the downbeat of measure 97, motive 1a4 ends and the accompaniment begins a process of stepwise ascent covering the interval of a perfect fifth; on the downbeat of measure 99, a new accompaniment pattern (accomp. 4; see ex. 4.9 above) begins, and the next five measures see a process of alternation between the two patterns before the second takes over (itself morphing several times within the third thematic area). The arrival of the third theme in measure 105 (ex. 4.15) designates the decisive start of the third thematic area; its arrival is likewise staggered. The bassoon’s sustained A-flat pedal (in six-four time) arrives at measure 104.7, the double bass’s pizzicato on the downbeat of the following measure, and the theme itself (in two-two time, marking the end of the sixteen-measure transitional area) at measure 105.3. Example 4.15: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 104-106. 165 The lyrical third theme is a tight-knit, sixteen-measure symmetrical period. Its time signature is in 2/2 while the rest of the orchestra continues in 6/4; thus the eighth notes in measures 106 and 110 are slower than the surrounding texture, lending the melody a relaxed, languid quality. Unconventional harmonic decisions lend the theme a distinctive character. Although the third theme is firmly in the subdominant, this key avoids receiving authentic cadential confirmation.22 Rather, the tonality is established and the theme introduced through an unorthodox mixolydian cadence (bVII9‒Iadd6) on the downbeat of measure 95, lending the harmony a modal quality that ranks among the more modern-sounding aspects of the movement. Correspondingly, the theme closes with a common-tone half-diminished seventh to tonic progression (m. 118.7) over a tonic pedal. The fourth, “dance” theme is a very tight-knit theme in period form. Its entrance in measure 176 features timpani and double basses beginning a lengthy D-flat pedal on measure 175.7; a syncopated cornet ostinato adds an element of rhythmic ambiguity. As with the third theme, it is introduced through an area of liquidation and staggered arrival. While the theme itself begins in measure 176, the introduction/transition begins as early as measure 151 with a robust move to the dominant, A-flat major, and a four-measure A-flat pedal. Measures 156, 158, and 160 bring strongly accented E-flat major ninth chords, suggesting a dominant preparation and the imminent approach of an A-flat major cadence. However, a lengthy diminuendo follows the fortissimo tutti of measure 160, and measure 22 Caplin considers this cadential requirement a necessary requisite of sonata form, noting that “exceptions to this principle are rare.” Caplin, Classical Form, 97. 166 168 introduces a new texture and melody in A-flat major. Here, pianissimo half-diminished-seventh chords—neighbour to a series of A-flat dominant seventh/major ninth chords—slide in parallel motion over an alternating E-flat/A-flat/D-flat bassline; these lead to a perfect cadence in D-flat major in measure 172. The key of the fourth theme—D-flat major, the subdominant of the subdominant of the home key—is secured through the movement’s first perfect authentic cadence (m. 172). Following the exposition of the fourth theme and the looser formal region that follows, measure 258 initiates a lengthy recapitulation. This section—which we will examine in more detail shortly—recapitulates the first, second, and fourth themes, as well as much of the looser thematic material; curiously, however, there is no recapitulation of the third theme. This exploration of the Second Symphony’s first movement exposes Madetoja’s efforts to engage in dialogue with classical formal structures. While the movement contains a number of elements compatible with sonata form, it contains many others that are not, rendering this formal descriptor inadequate. Rather, it could be classified as a quadripartite extension of sonata form, still recognizing the relevance of sonata form structure to the movement: it contains four thematic areas, each of which contains a relatively new theme preceded by an introduction and ensuing developmental space; these thematic areas—which take the place of the traditional exposition and development—are followed by a recapitulation of the first, second, and fourth areas. However, the structure is difficult to ascertain with absolute certainly as the movement contains a high level of syntactic 167 ambiguity; in fact, this could be considered a modus operandi for the work as a whole. Whereas contemporary large-scale Germanic music typically contains a strong harmonic teleology with climactic emphasis—the dynamic sound of which is created through linear movement, tonal harmonic functionality, and progression toward new tonal areas—the Second Symphony subscribes to a different formal methodology, an additive one. As we have seen, Madetoja subtly varies repeated musical phrases, ameliorating thematic contrast through the reiteration of motivic patterns. At the same time, he combines seemingly autonomous phrases—such as subphrase 1a—into larger units, assimilating individual discontinuity within a larger thematic framework. These working processes are suggestive of an additive approach to content creation, in which music’s constituent parts follow one another according to a non-developmental linear narrative. They maintain, as Robert Morgan writes about Debussy’s additive procedures, “a sort of floating balance among subtly interconnected musical entities, giving rise to wavelike motions characterized by extremely fine gradations of color, pacing, and intensity.”23 Additive processes manifest themselves in the first movement in two important ways: first, through the liberal use of sequential passagework—so that the music simply moves from one section to the next in a non-teleological and non-developmental fashion—and second, through the layering and juxtaposition of simultaneous but independent strata. This additive approach has a profound effect not only on the work’s structure, but also its 23 Robert Morgan, Twentieth-Century Music: A History of Musical Style in Modern Europe and America (New York: Norton, 1991), 48. 168 harmony. Madetoja’s additive approach, as we will see in the next, final pass through the first movement, encourages a high degree of localized harmonic ambiguity, for the superimposition of multiple layers frequently results in the superimposition of multiple tonal possibilities as well. The latter idea is in evidence in the opening measures of the work, where layering engenders an ambiguous tonal underpinning. As discussed above, the opening accompanimental pattern (accomp. 1, mm. 1-5; ex. 4.16), contains a multilayered allusion to two different tonal centres, E-flat major and G minor. The flute ostinato—which alternately suggests these two centres—capitalizes on this ambiguity through the simultaneous use of Example 4.16: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 1-2. 169 pitches that are concordant to one centre and discordant to the other: for example, while both E-flat major (mm. 1.3-1.6) and G minor (mm. 1.9-1.12) share the pitches G and B-flat, the D in measures 1.3 through 1.6 is a consonance in G minor and a dissonance in E-flat major; conversely, the E-flat in measures 1.4 and 1.5 is a consonance in E-flat major and a dissonance (an added sixth) in G minor. Over this stratified accompanimental pattern, the principal theme emerges as a separate, independent layer (ex. 4.17). Its distinct rhythmic composition helps differentiate it from the accompaniment: whereas the accompaniment is set in six-four, suggesting a waltz-like pattern (a quarter-note rest followed by four eighth notes), subphrase 1a’s metre suggests twelve-eight; the introduction of the melody in measure 2.9 and the changing-note figure in measure 3.4 highlight the rhythmic incongruity of the theme through metric placement that is incompatible with the movement’s underlying rhythmic pulse. Its Example 4.17: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, principal theme. 170 melodic contour likewise distinguishes it, even while adding an additional tonal ambiguity. Although subphrase 1a is situated in triadic G-minor, the third scale degree (B-flat) is noticeably absent; this lends the subphrase a distinctly modal, rustic character. In measure 6.10, subphrase 1b moves to A-natural instead of A-flat, and in measure 9.1, it emphasizes F-natural while completely avoiding the leading note, F-sharp. This suggests the mode of G Aeolian, sounding less like G minor than like the submediant (vi) of B-flat major. The blurring of a clear tonality continues throughout the entire phrase, leading to a varied repeat of the opening E-flat major/G minor sonority (m. 9.10) that is amplified by instrumental thickening of the texture. In combination with bass descent to B-flat in measure 9.7, subphrase 1b suggests V/ E-flat (melodic F5 against bass B-flat); however, other processes—notably the flute ostinato—suggest V7/V (F, A, C, and E-flat). Thus, while Madetoja’s Second Symphony commonly bears the appendage “in E-flat Major,” there is little—apart from the opening chord—that firmly grounds the opening of the piece in this key. The harmonies that open the first movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony may suggest a variation of Robert Bailey’s concept of the double-tonic complex,24 except that Madetoja’s E-flat major/G minor tonality employs an implied tonic E-flat major with its minor mediant (iii), G minor, as opposed to Wagner’s implied tonic A minor with its major mediant (III), C major. From the accompaniment’s clearly delineated oscillation and the 24 Robert Bailey, “An Analytical Study of the Sketches and Drafts,” in Richard Wagner: Prelude and Transfiguration from Tristan und Isolde, ed. Robert Bailey (New York: Norton, 1985), 121. 171 work’s careful layering, it is apparent that these two keys function not as a decorated triad, but rather as the twin polarities of the double-tonic complex. This is not the only instance: other noteworthy double-tonic moments occur at measure 28 (B major/E-flat minor), measure 54 (A-flat major/C minor), measure 58 (E-flat major/G minor), measure 62 (B-flat major/D minor), measure 83 (D-flat major/F minor), measure 121 (A-flat major/C minor), measure 172 (D-flat major/F minor), measure 235 (D major/F-sharp minor), and many other places, including corresponding recapitulatory sections. Note that all of the above keys pair a major key with its minor mediant. However, this pairing does not seem to have consistent, large-scale organizational consequences of the kind that Bailey observes in the Tristan prelude. Table 4.1: Authentic cadences in Madetoja’s Symphony No. 2, first movement. One consequence of the movement’s pervasive tonal ambiguity is that harmony does not, in and of itself, serve as a reliable indicator of structure. Authentic cadences, for example, are rare in this movement. As table 1 shows, the first movement contains only four authentic cadences, and they sometimes obscure the work’s harmonic goals. The first authentic cadence in tonic E-flat major does not arrive until measure 307, on the reprise of Measure Cadence Type Key Syntactic Event 62 Imperfect authentic B-flat major Theme 2 172 Perfect authentic D-flat major Theme 4 307 Imperfect authentic E-flat major Recapitulation of theme 2 371 Perfect authentic E-flat major Recapitulation of theme 4 172 the second thematic area. Moreover, there is not a single authentic cadence in one of the work’s most important secondary tonal areas, A-flat major, even though the harmony stays firmly rooted here for forty-seven measures beginning in measure 89. Example 4.18: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 15-19. 173 Instead, texture is one of the main parameters of structural definition (and in this respect, Madetoja again resembles Debussy, as we shall see in the next chapter). The boundary between the end of the first theme and the beginning of the transitional section is one example of this phenomenon. The consequent phrase employs a chromatic mediant modulation from E-flat major/G minor to G-flat major in measure 18; however, this is secured through relatively weak (V4/2 to I6) cadential harmonies (ex.4. 18); even this progression is weakened through a passing chord that refers back to the original key of E-flat major. Moreover, the new tonic is undermined by an immediate common-tone modulation to B-flat minor. The entire process is extremely linear: the individual voices slide in a conjunct fashion from one harmony to the next, and cadential bass motion is kept to a minimum; overall, harmonic movement does little to differentiate the section boundaries. A textural analysis, per contra, tells a different story. Measure 17 features increased tension through chromaticism, contrary motion between upper and lower voices, and hemiola rhythms; the following measure features a pulsating eighth-note crescendo, with oscillation between the pitches D-flat and E-double-flat in flutes, oboes, and horns (as this pattern returns later in the work, it will be referred to it as the “oscillating cadential pattern” for ease of reference). While the transition beginning at measure 19 employs the first theme’s motivic material, it evokes a very different atmosphere. The attack density is a third of the previous measure’s; strings appropriate the opening accompanimental pattern; and subphrase 1a sounds in canon, swapping the gallant eighth-notes of its changing-note pattern for rigid dotted-quarter notes. Textural change not only brings 174 closure to the first theme, but also helps define section boundaries throughout the movement: each of the movement’s four themes is marked by noticeable accompanimental changes, and noteworthy textural changes also occur throughout developmental sections, helping to clarify thematic processes and modulatory passages. The transitional section (mm. 19-61) that follows the first theme is characterized by a looser form and by the liquidation of the principal theme’s characteristic motivic material in preparation for the arrival of the subordinate theme. As discussed above, it features less tuneful melodic material than the first theme; it also features greater harmonic modulation, rhythmic continuity, and dynamic intensity. It also expands upon a process that is common in this movement: transition between various thematic and sequential processes that employs a non-developmental sliding toward, and arrival at, the new process, rather than marked textural or tonal distinction. The transitional section opens with twin restatements of the basic idea (subphrase 1a, mm. 19.4-23.12) followed by a restatement of the contrasting idea, subphrase 1b (mm. 24.1-27.8). The introduction of motive A in measure 28 sees modulation to C-flat major/E-flat minor, which is an adjacent key on the circle of fifths, like many of the movement’s modulations. However, despite motive A’s significance, its arrival is elegant and understated, with the music’s various processes transitioning in a sophisticated, stepwise manner (ex. 4.19). Here, the harmony eschews cadential patterns in favour of conjunct bass 175 motion, proceeding from B-flat minor (m. 26) through a passing dominant seventh (V7/D-flat, m. 27) to an expansive C-flat major seventh (m. 28). The melody, like the bassline, Example 4.19: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 26-28. 176 slides easily from one thematic process to the next: the final notes of the antecedent phrase feature two ascending tetrachords, the second reaching higher than the first; this establishes a melodic trajectory that smoothly ascends a major second to the work’s first statement of motive A (the fact that the melody has already ascended in a similar manner in measure 9 makes the process sound even more natural). The layering is similar to that encountered in the first theme: accomp. 1 plays in six-four while the melody soars above in twelve-eight; there is, once again, a noticeable lack of vertical coincidence between the two layers. The layers highlight the rich harmonies, with the first iconic notes of motive A sounding a major seventh above the C-flat bassline. Note that the layers’ various arrivals are staggered: the melodic arrival is in measure 27.10, whereas the harmonic arrival is in measure 28.1; as we have seen, this is a frequent occurrence in the work’s section boundaries, with various layers completing old processes and beginning new ones at slightly different times. Another important aspect of Madetoja’s additive technique is sequential passagework, which enables movement between sections in a non-developmental linear manner. Most of the time, however, the sequences are only hinted at in one voice, whereas the other voices constantly evolve outside the set pattern. For instance, a sequential pattern is set up in measures 28.4 through 31 with the second part of the principal theme’s modified repeat. The main melodic aspect takes place via a statement of motive A1 in flutes and 177 oboes,25 which is contrapuntally supported by an accompanimental layer in the strings—related to the movement’s opening rhythmic pattern—and a C-flat pedal; all of this suggests a C-flat major/E-flat minor tonality. However, a horn passage in measures 29.7 through 34 affects the identity of the potential sequential pattern, crossing between the end of the model and the beginning of the sequential copy, which starts four measures later, at measure 32, with motive A transposed a major seventh higher to begin on D6. The bass line of the sequential pattern also changes, unfolding a new stepwise motive in measure 31 and developing its own irregular quasi-sequences through to measure 45. 25 This movement’s motive A is discussed on pages 16 through 18, and illustrated in examples 4 and 5, above. Example 4.20: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 35-39. 178 Meanwhile, new sequences of the melodic A motive start at measures 35, 37, and 39 in the violins—on F, A and C-sharp/F-sharp respectively—and again at measure 41 (ex. 4.20). We may note that the bass accompaniment again suggests a continuous texture by extending past this series of sequences and into the following section; yet the apparent continuity of this pattern changes once again in the midst of this continuity through the intervention of yet another pattern (accomp. 3) superimposed upon the ongoing sequences of motive A and taking over gradually, first in the strings and bassoon in measures 42 through 44, and then in the woodwinds at measures 45 through 47. While measures 39 to 47 offer a period of harmonic stability in F-sharp minor (the enharmonic tonic minor of G-flat major, to which the first theme modulated in measure 18, and to which the music will return in measure 69), its constant quasi-sequential transformations undermine this stability, providing a sense of development aided in particular by increasing dynamics and textural thickening. Sequential activity is at the forefront again beginning in measure 48 with two more iterations of motive A; the model begins with C-sharp (the dominant of F-sharp minor), then drops a semitone to describe fifth motion (C3 to F2) in the bass. The copy is a minor third higher, leading to A-flat major in measure 52. The teleological goal appears to arrive in measure 54 with a statement of motive 1a—a thematic return to the Symphony’s opening motive—and harmonic arrival in A-flat major/C minor. However, this arrival is deceptive; A-flat major is not yet a point of harmonic arrival, but rather one of many events within a catena of sequential movement. This statement of motive 1a turns out to be a sequential model (mm. 54-57) for a piano, 179 dolce copy (mm. 58-61) in the home keys of E-flat major/G minor. A brief glimpse of the secondary dominant (F, m. 61) is followed in measure 62 by the Symphony’s first important cadence: an authentic cadence on the dominant, B-flat major, and a reprise of the previous accompanimental pedal, this time on B-flat instead of the tonic E-flat. Example 4.21: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 62-63. 180 The cadence to B-flat major marks the introduction to the second theme area, which presents an interesting mix of tonalities. First, as we would expect, B-flat major seems paired with its minor mediant, D minor; this is made evident by a horn solo (subphrase 1a, mm. 64.7-68.12) that is firmly centered in D minor, just as the movement’s inaugural iteration of subphrase 1a (mm. 2.10-5.12) was firmly centered in G minor. However, the clarinet accompaniment that is introduced in measure 62 (ex. 4.21) presents a shifting pattern and ambiguous pitch selection that make it more difficult to determine the tonality. Horizontally the motive outlines an isorhythm with a color based on the first three notes of this subphrase (D5, A4, and G4) and a three-quarter-note talea. In measures 64.7 and 65.1, the emphasis is on the pitches A4 and D5, suggesting the D-minor tonality; however, in measures 62.1 and 62.7, the emphasis is on the pitches D5 and G4 respectively; this, paired with the G5/G6 of the flutes and the B-flat pedal, strongly implies G minor as the subsidiary tonality. Measures 62-68 function formally as an introduction to the next section, strikingly arriving at the second theme in measure 69 through a semitone voice-leading slip from the implied G minor to G-flat major. The clarinet ostinato moves from D5 in measure 68.11 to D-flat5 in measure 69.1; similarly, the horn solo (subphrase 1a) moves from F3 in measure 68.10 to G-flat3 in measure 69.1 (ex. 4.22). These instruments are featured over a B-flat pedal in timpani, cellos, and contrabass that sounds without pause from measure 62,1 through 77.2, enhancing the impression of continuity through the modulation. With the arrival of the second theme in m. 69, B-flat becomes the third of G-flat major, which is mixed with 181 B-flat minor, the minor mediant. Thus the second thematic area presents an interesting modal mix of B-flat major and its subsidiary harmonies G and D minor (mm. 62-68) paired with a modal shift to G-flat major and its subsidiary harmony B-flat minor (mm. 69-76). Over top of this layered texture, first violins and violas sound the oscillating minor-thirds melody, while second violins sound a sinuous, conjunct countermelody. Example 4.22: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 68-69. 182 In measure 77, texture is once again the primary designator of formal boundaries. Here, the sustained harmonies of the previous section recede, bringing tangible contrast. At the same time, the attack density of the accompaniment pattern (accomp. 1) doubles, highlighting both the new section’s sparse texture and the tension that develops between opposing layers. One of these layers introduces motive D (see ex. 7 above) in bassoon and bass strings; its descending chromatic line almost immediately breaks from the dominant, moving from B-flat major in measure 77 to G major-minor seventh harmony in measure 80. The other layer in the horns sounds motive A4 in duple (2/2) time, which highlights the layering effect through its non-coincidental vertical entrance with motive D. The final note of motive A4 is sustained for three full measures, over which an intense, ascending string passage sounds (the “ascending octatonic variant” of motive A; see ex. 8 above). The entire section, from measure 77 to measure 82, is a sequential model; a six-measure copy sounds a minor third higher in the following measure. The sequential copy concludes with an iteration of the oscillating cadential pattern (mm. 89.1-90.2, shown above in example 18) that brings the music to a close in A-flat major/C minor at measure 89. It is interesting that this cadential pattern is used with two different functions: first, to open the development section that follows the first theme, and second, to close the development section of the second theme. Measure 95 brings clear movement to subdominant A-flat major, appearing to signal a new section. Yet new thematic materials do not support the tonal arrival; rather, the processes starting here are limited to passive sustained pedals and lingering motivic 183 fragments. As it turns out, once the ground is prepared this way, a new musical idea centered on subdominant A-flat major does arrive, but only at the beginning of measure 105 (ex. 4.23). This is the third theme, which outlines two larger phrases (mm. 105-112 and mm. 113-120). Like the first theme, it contains elements of harmonic and melodic ambiguity; for example, the antecedent phrase’s contrasting idea (mm. 109-112) hints at other keys, bringing a modal quality: both the melodic contour and the harmony of measures 109 through 110.6 suggest F minor, and in measures 110.7 through 112.6 the melody employs the dominant and tonic of C minor, to which the harmony will turn in measure 120. However, this phrase does not end with a traditional cadence, but rather returns to tonic A-flat major by way of a subdominant major seventh chord (IV7, m. 109.1), a minor supertonic triad (ii, m. 110.1), and a French sixth (x6, m. 110.5), all of which are presented over an A-flat pedal. Example 4.23: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, third thematic idea, measures 105-120. 184 The third thematic area is illustrative not only of harmonic and melodic ambiguity, but also of Madetoja’s occasional penchant for elusive section boundaries. In the first movement, each thematic area begins with a symmetrical, tonally stable statement of the new theme; periods of greater tonal instability, motivic expansion, and more diverse thematic material follow. Previous discussion illustrated how the first theme—a tight-knit, periodic theme—claims a different formal space from the ensuing transitional section. The third theme follows a similar agenda, voicing a tight-knit theme before giving way to a transitional passage in measure 120.5, where the materials develop, explore new materials, reach new tonal areas, and gradually increase in tension before eventually concluding in measure 167. However, there is an important difference between the first and third transitional areas. Whereas there is a clear boundary between the first theme (measures 2.10 through 18) and its transitional section (measures 19 through 61), the distinction between the third theme and its transitional section remains vague. Restating an antecedent phrase is a common strategy for launching a transitional section (Hepokoski classifies this process as “the dissolving restatement”26): it implies the start of a hybrid consequent phrase; however, when the music no longer corresponds to the principal theme, the listener understands in retrospect that the return of the antecedent phrase marks the beginning of the transition. Because the third theme’s antecedent and consequent phrase are so similar, it is easy to interpret them as the twin 26 Hepokoski and Darcy, Elements, 101. 185 basic ideas of a sentence-form presentation phrase (albeit large basic ideas, at eight measures each). This interpretation is reinforced with the onset of the third transitional section, which opens with two identical subphrases, both based on the first four measures of the third theme (mm. 105-108): the first runs from measures 120.5 through 124.2 and the second from measures 124.4 through 128.2; their shorter four-measure length and repetitive construction suggests the fragmentation typically associated with the continuation phrase of sentence-form structure. However, this large-scale sentence lacks a cadential idea; rather, measures 128.5 through 136.2 offer two further repetitions of this subphrase, this time with the melodic material transposed a perfect fourth higher. By measure 136.5, with the introduction of motive A over major-minor seventh harmony, it becomes abundantly clear that the motivic material of the previous sixteen measures was merely prolongation and not a continuation of the second theme. Thus the initial period form of measures 105.3 through 120.2 is retroactively reinterpreted as the third theme in its entirety, and the material following measure 120 as the third developmental section. Perhaps the most salient marker of the beginning of this new developmental section is a pronounced shift toward C minor beginning in measure 120. With motive A’s arrival in measure 136.5, the key shifts to encompass the keys on either side of the circle of fifths from A-flat: E-flat major (three flats) over a D-flat pedal (five flats). Here the harmony becomes increasingly vague and transitional; the most recognizable features are a continuation of the D-flat pedal until measure 150.6, and, beginning in measure 156, the dominant ninth of A-flat (E-flat9), the bassline of which alternates E-flat with A-natural, a tritone apart. It is 186 interesting to note that this section does not use sequences at all. Instead, its developmental material is based almost entirely on the expansion and variation of motive E. This suggests that Madetoja may have conceived of the developmental sections as functioning in different ways, with different working processes. Measure 168 brings tonal arrival in D-flat and new textures, but it turns out to have, as in the previous cases of the second and third themes, just an introductory function to Example 4.24: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, 168-176. 187 the real fourth theme which arrives at measure 176. As mentioned before, this theme brings in a different topic—a simple, dance-like character—yet presents a curious tonal blend. The cadence in measure 172 is to D-flat major, and the fourth theme is unified by a D-flat bass pedal that lasts from measures 175.7 through 184.4. Flutes, however, imply the relative minor, B-flat: in measures 168.1 through 171.10, they emphasize the tonic and dominant of this key (ex. 4.24), and this continues throughout the fourth theme’s antecedent phrase in measures 176.1 through 182.12. On the other hand, there is a strong F-centered tonality, conforming to the key relationship (major key with minor mediant) that Madetoja has established for this movement. Note the F-minor cadential pattern in the cornets in measures 171-72, the F-minor-based melodies in the clarinets beginning in measure 176 and in strings in measure 184, and the strong F-minor tonality in measure 192. The fourth post-thematic developmental section (m. 192) opens in B-flat minor; this section features several sequential and quasi-sequential passages as it leads to the movement’s recapitulation. First, measures 192 through 198 introduce a quasi-sequential passage with a model (mm. 192-95) that is based on the dotted-quarter-note motive that begins the fourth theme. The copy (mm. 196-198) is an abbreviated version of the model; it ascends a minor second to F-sharp minor, from which the music modulates in a smooth and unexpected modulation to D major by placing the third of F-sharp minor—A, also the dominant of D—in the bass. Second, measures 200 through 212 present an extended D pedal. Here, trumpets voice subphrase 1a (mm. 200.7-204.9); strings follow with two sinuous repetitions of motive A. Although the melody in the second repetition (mm. 207.7-188 209.12) sounds a major second higher, the D pedal preludes a sequential passage; Madetoja sometimes employs this particular technique to increase tension (viz. theme two, where mm. 73-76 are a reiteration of mm. 69-72 a major third higher). Third, measures 213 through 218 feature motive A; the model begins on A3 (m. 213.) and the copy a diminished fourth higher on D-flat4 (m. 216). Finally, measures 223 through 234 showcase motives D and A; the model begins on A-flat3 (mm. 223.5) and the copy a minor second higher on B3 (mm. 229.5). This sequence offers a clear parallel to measures 77 through 88; it includes the ascending octatonic variant of motive A (discussed above) that leads to the oscillating cadential pattern also found in measures 18 and 89. However, it is a major second lower higher than its original statement; the cadential pattern that follows suggests D major (m. 235), and this changes quickly to F-sharp minor on the downbeat of the following measure. Thus what is in evidence in this fourth developmental section is an expedited version of the first and second thematic areas: subphrase 1a; intense, sometimes sequential, repetition of motive A; sequential repetition of motive D; and the oscillating cadential pattern. The only thing conspicuously absent here is, of course, the second theme. Unlike the first developmental section, however, motive D sounds in sequence again beginning in measure 245.9, here against accompaniment pattern 1; the sequential harmony brings the music to a B-flat pedal, the dominant of E-flat major, to which the music will resume in the recapitulation. It is interesting to note that the processes used most frequently in the first and second theme areas—the use of sequential models and copies—are also used here, perhaps as representative of the absent second theme. 189 As expected, the recapitulation has much in common with the exposition; thus only a few important differences will be noted here. It begins on the downbeat of measure 258 with the reintroduction of accomp. 1; the first theme is reintroduced in measure 260. Unlike the exposition, the final two bars of the first theme are repeated (mm. 276-77); this allows the key to move a minor third higher, from G-flat major to A major/C-sharp minor, bringing greater intensity. A transitional passage begins in measure 278. Although it is similar to the one beginning in measure 19, it contains two significant modifications. First, whereas measures 19.1 through 27.8 feature a statement of subphrase 1a in canon followed by subphrase 1b, measures 278.1 through 283.9 omit the statement of subphrase 2b. Second, the iterations of motive A that follow are significantly shorter: measure 284—now in B minor—runs roughly parallel with measure 39, omitting more than eleven measures and one sequential passage from the recapitulation. The remainder of the recapitulation of the first thematic area is very similar to its expository equivalent: the sequential passage in measure 293 through 298.6 is parallel to the one in measure 48 through 53.6, bringing the music to D-flat major/F minor; the sequential passage that immediately follows in measure 298.7—parallel to the one in measure 53.7—presents a model in D-flat major/F minor and a copy (m. 303-306) in A-flat major/C minor; finally, measure 307 features an imperfect authentic cadence to E-flat major, beginning the introductory portion of the recapitulation of the second theme. The recapitulation of the second theme itself (mm. 314-21) progresses in a manner similar to the exposition, except that—naturally—the keys have changed; its introduction 190 is now in the home keys of E-flat major/G minor, and the second theme is in C-flat major and its minor mediant. However, the developmental section that follows incorporates several significant changes. First, motive D—which was introduced in measures 77-88 following the exposition of the second theme—is absent here; further recapitulation of this motive is not strictly necessary here, as motive D was featured immediately prior to the recapitulation proper in measures 223 through 234.8 and again in measures 245.9 through 255.2. In place of motive D, subphrase 1a5 returns (the first note of which is sounded in measure 322.7); this is a possible parallel to the iteration of subphrase 1a4 that begins immediately following motive D in the exposition (mm. 89.7-97.1). However, whereas subphrase 1a4 leads into the third theme (mm. 95 through 135), the parallel recapitulatory section omits the third theme altogether. Rather, measures 327 through 332 feature a sequence based on motive 1a6; measures 334 through 375 see a full recapitulation of the extensive motive E. Omitting the third theme, measures 367 through 374 present the introduction to the fourth theme. The fourth theme is recapitulated in the home key in measure 375; however, the consequent phrase is different, showing a marked digression from the exposition. Whereas strings take the melody measure 184, winds take the melody in measure 383 while strings introduce a new oscillating accompaniment pattern (a variation, perhaps, of accomp. 2) that begins in measure 381 and continues with some variation to the end of the movement. This leads to the coda and a series of iterations of subphrase 1a. 191 The movement concludes with a brief coda beginning in measure 391. Its melodic material is based on the gradual liquidation of subphrase 1a—so much so that the coda at times seems like another recapitulation of the first theme. By measure 410.4, only the changing-note figure remains; two last iterations of motive A (mm. 405.5 and 412.3) share the final measures. The harmony here is constructed through layering of no less than three different tonal processes. Violins and violas maintain a tremolo on E-flat and F; the same pattern plays more-or-less continuously from measure 407. This is a variation, perhaps, of the accompaniment pattern introduced in measure 381. Meanwhile, the bass line descends by fifths (D-flat, G-flat, and C-flat), reflecting the movement through the circle of fifths that characterizes the exposition; harmony joins with parallel major-minor seventh chords in a layer formed by clarinets, bassoons, violoncellos, and double basses: D-flat major-minor seventh beginning in measure 407, G-flat major-minor seventh in measure 411, and C-flat major-minor seventh in measure 412. Finally, the last iterations of motive A and the changing-note figure—measures 412.3 to 414.12 and 414.4 through 414.11 respectively—focus primarily on the pitches F, G-flat, and A-flat, suggesting F phrygian. This detailed look at the Second Symphony’s first movement may bring evidence against statements by scholars such as Hannu Ilari Lampila’s about Madetoja’s treatment of harmony and rhythm: “his orchestration was particularly skillful, approaching the clarity and balance of chamber music. In harmony and rhythm his means were more limited.”27 27 Hannu Ilari Lampila, “Leevi Madetoja,” Grove Music Online, accessed 5 July 2018, www.oxfordmusiconline.com. 192 On the contrary, the movement’s harmonic machinations manipulate and undermine traditional formal structures; the movement’s rhythmic ambiguity not only subtly differentiates melody from accompaniment, but also suggests a kind of post-Debussy shimmering quality—an analogy we shall explore in the following chapter—characteristic of some modernist trends during this period. From this investigation, it is instead possible to substantiate Korhonen’s observation about the sophistication of Madetoja’s output: Madetoja’s “works contain a fascinating ambiguity of harmony and rhythm under a smooth surface.”28 Harmony and rhythm are not the only ambiguous aspects of this movement. As we have seen, it also contains significant formal ambiguity: on one hand, it contains strong but ultimately specious intimations of sonata form; on the other, it develops in an additive manner, aided by the liberal use of sequential patterns and extraordinarily smooth transitions between its various processes. Moreover, it contains remarkable organic connections between thematic materials, so that every new theme is extrapolated from previous events while prefiguring ensuing material. 28 Korhonen, Inventing, 50. 193 Subsequent Movements The second movement, Andante, demonstrates a contemplative and lyrical manner that is highly characteristic of Madetoja’s music29; as we shall see, it incorporates tangible pastoral elements, such as the use of landscape depictions and the prominent use of folksong. It is composed of three contrasting thematic areas: the folksong-inspired section A runs from measures 1 through 41.5; the lyrical, romantic section B from measures 41.6 through 83, and the more ominous section C from measures 84 through 107. A recapitulatory section runs from measures 108 through 187, and a coda-like statement of the first theme from measures 188 to the end of the movement. Thus, the overall form can be summarized as consisting of an expository section (ABC), a recapitulatory section (A’B’C’) and a coda (A’’). The Andante proceeds without a pause from the first movement, beginning in F minor with an off-stage oboe “in distanza” sounding the tonic “brevis,” “meno brevis,” and finally “lunga,” all to the accompaniment of a unison string drone; this eventually gives way to a pastoral shepherd’s call of cascading fourths (ex. 4.25). Throughout this opening section, the oboe presents no less than four small themes, which are interrupted with responses from cornet (measures 5.7 and 17.7, also offstage “in distanza”), bassoon (measures 10.2 and 40.8), clarinet (measures 12.2 and 22.1), and strings (measures 27.2 and 29 “Pysähtyneessä lyyrisessä mietiskelyssään osa on Madetojalle luonteenomainen.” Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 181. 194 36.7). The pitch collections are primarily modal, avoiding the dominant; the first oboe call employs minor pentatonic, and the second oboe call (measures 13.1 through 23.4) expands the collection to F Aeolian. The string interruption—particularly the section from measures 29.1 to 33.10—is noteworthy for three reasons. First, it marks a key signature change from A-flat major to D-flat major. Second, it marks a time signature change from duple to triple meter, with the half note of simple time equivalent to the dotted half note of compound duple time; this suggests a faster tempo even though the underlying pulse has not changed. Third, it introduces conjunct, sinuous part-writing that is highly reminiscent of Sibelius; compare this passage with, for example, the opening of Sibelius’s Tuonelan Joutsen (The Swan of Tuonela): both passages employ conjunct, stepwise melodic movement; both passages feature the upper strings and omit cello and bass; and both passages accompany a double-reed instrument (Sibelius uses an English horn instead of Madetoja’s oboe). The link with folk music is clear. In a Hufvudstadsbladet review of the Second Symphony published shortly after its premiere, Bis (Karl Fredrik Wasenius) noted that the “fine, poetic, noble” shepherd song was reminiscent of the pastoral movement of Berlioz’s Example 4.25: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, second movement, oboe solo, measures 1-5. 195 Symphonie Fantastique30; other scholars have since made similar observations.31 Madetoja is recorded as having verified the pastoral sentiment while pointing to a different origin, the indigenous shepherd music of Finland’s west coast. As he stated, “The pastoral quality of the second part of the Symphony originated from the regions of Oulunsalo [in Northern Ostrobothnia]. I remember hearing a shepherd girl sing there, which inspired a pastorale’s far-flung scenes.”32 Despite Madetoja’s ability to pinpoint the origins of this movement with some precision, some scholars have pointed to the more universal role of Ostrobothnian music in Madetoja’s work. As Maasalo states, “Madetoja’s melody originates from the mainly melancholic, unsentimental background of Ostrobothnian folk song. This follows Madetoja through his work and gives it its distinctive flavor.”33 Other clear references to Ostrobothnian music are found throughout Madetoja’s output, notably in the in the closing movement of the Second Symphony, which will be discussed in the following pages. Significantly, by including Ostrobothnian folksong in his output, Madetoja made a concrete contribution to its public perception, disproving the common sentiment that it 30 “Denna [herdelåten] framstår så fint poetisk, orkesterbehandlingen är så ädel, att man ovillkorligen kommer att tänka på Berlion som en jälsfrände.” Karl Fredrik Wasenius, Hufvudstadsbladet, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179. 31 See, for example, Erik Tawaststjerna, Helsingin Sanomat, 10 March 1974; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 29. 32 “Sinfonian toisen osan pastoraalitunnelmat ovat peräisin juuri Oulunsalon seuduilta. Muistanpa siellä kuulleeni erään paimentytön huhuilun, josta kirvoittuivat pastoraalin kaukaa kuuluvat paimensoittelot.” Martti Turunen, “Tuokio Leevi Madetojan parissa,” Musiikkitieto, no. 9-10 (1944): n.p.; quoted in Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 69-70. 33 Maasalo, “Suomalaisia,” 1:124; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 30. 196 was bleak and uninteresting, born of strict sectarian religion and a simple way of life, and showing it to be more complex and nuanced than was widely believed.34 Tempo I returns in measure 41, and with it, in measure 41.5, solo oboe offers a short melodic theme based on the bassoon interruption of measures 10 and 11. This heralds the beginning of section B; what sets this section apart from the first is the introduction in measure 43 of solo clarinets, which initiate a lengthy, constantly shifting “ritmo deciso” ostinato pattern. Over top of this pattern strings play a soaring, lyrical melody (ex. 4.26) that begins with a restatement of the oboe theme. As it unfolds, its similarities with the first movement’s first theme (shown above in example 4.2) become increasingly obvious: compare the contour of measures 44.1 through 45.7 with the first movement’s subphrase 1a, measures 48.3 through 50.4 with its 1b, and measures 49.3 through 50.4 with its subphrase 1a1—the last example an exact transposition a major second lower.35 The melody 34 Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians,” 19. 35 For examples of inter-movement connections in the music of Sibelius, see Hepokoski, Sibelius, 30. Example 4.26: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, second movement, measures 44-51, theme in first violins. 197 becomes increasingly intense, leading to a dynamic (forte) and registral (A6) climax in measure 65. This is followed by a dramatic accompaniment change in measure 67 to a delicate flute triplet pattern. Although this section is texturally driven, a new espressivo melody does appear in strings in measure 77.7. The music grows more insistent in measure 84 with a turn to accented quarter notes and short, periodic phrasing. A new melodic fragment signals the beginning of section C. This follows with a rising cornet figure—perhaps what Kaipainen was referring to when he wrote: “The pastoral atmosphere conjured up by the distant shepherd’s horn changes periodically for something romantic and forest-like in the shape of a French horn.”36 The mood grows more ominous still in measure 98 with a shift to B minor and marcato brass—these “distant threatening omens”37 interrupt the movement’s idyllic pastorale. Measure 98 presents one of the movement’s two dynamic climaxes; the other is in measure 176 at the corresponding recapitulatory moment. Trumpets, now in G major, clearly voice motive A in measure 102. In measure 108, pizzicato strings—first heard in measure 7—and a return to Tempo I herald the beginning of the recapitulatory section; aside from the abridged format (80 measures versus 108), the most notable difference from the expository section is a role reversal beginning in measure 143, where the earlier woodwind ostinato has been relegated 36 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 51. 37 “Etäisiä, uhkaavia enteitä.” Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 181. 198 to the strings while the winds take the melody. The accompaniment grows more furious in measure 157.6 with the introduction of triplet sixteenths. Measure 188 sees the return of the oboe solo, which this time signals the coda; the close is once again in a different key, G minor. The third movement received an overwhelmingly positive reaction following the Second Symphony’s premiere. Evert Katila called it “a skeptical, ironic, fantastic musical vortex”38 and Erik Furuhjelm described the “fantastic scherzo” as the Symphony’s orchestral climax, a Finnish counterpart to Wagner’s mythological themes.39 There is, however, nothing playful and jovial about this scherzo. It is among the most dramatic works in Madetoja’s oeuvre; Makinen and Nummi state that “[Madetoja] himself said that the chaos of the First World War and his concern for the fate of his own country left their mark on this work,”40 and this movement attests to the plausibility of such a statement. The third movement opens in D-flat major—and an unusual time signature hybrid of three-four and nine-eight—to the sounds of dispute: a dissonant, fortissimo chord and piercing, high-pitched woodwind trills played by full orchestra are followed by an energetic brass statement of the first movement’s motive A. Strings introduce a rising pattern in sixteenths that leads to a repeat of the opening measures. This is followed in measures 9 38 “Epäilyjen ja ironian täyttämän fantastisen sävelpyörteen.” Evert Katila, Uusi Suometar, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179. 39 Erik Furuhjelm, Dagens Press, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 180. 40 Timo Mäkinen and Seppo Nummi, Musica Fennica, trans. Kingsley Hart (Helsinki: Otava, 1965), 51; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 30. 199 through 12 by a dissonant, disjunct motive that cascades from high piccolos to low clarinets and strings (ex. 4.27). Measure 14 features a variation on another overused melodic fragment, subphrase 1a1, and this is answered in measure 18.5 by a close approximation to subphrase 1a3. Measures 25.2 and 27.4 present motive A in diminution. Example 4.27: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, third movement, measures 10-13. 200 Although Kaipainen states that the opening of the third movement is “predictable,” and that “this concoction [the third movement] does not really gel into a single whole,”41 the movement has its strong points. Measure 34 presents a new tempo—più mosso—and a 41 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 52. Example 4.28: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, third movement, measures 34-39, “waltz-like jingle.” 201 new theme that figures prominently throughout the movement (ex. 4.28). Kaipainen calls it a “strange banal waltz-like jingle,” but while it might be strange, and it certainly is waltz-like, the assessment of banal is unfair, for the layering of its accompaniment and the overall treatment of its thematic development is in fact quite complex. Measure 123 introduces a “laboured, rather static march.”42 The work builds to a close with Molto largamente tremolo strings which play a triple-forte C minor chord against a subject derived from the second movement’s cornet calls. Like the first two movements, the third movement proceeds to the fourth without a pause. The final movement, marked Andantino, is a short epilogue—a mere 70 measures in length. In discussing the meaning of this movement, Madetoja remarked “I have fought the battle, and retire to one side”43; according to Mäkinen and Nummi, the movement is indebted to North Ostrobothnian religious music,44 something that should not be surprising considering that Madetoja often heard the religious music of North Ostrobothnia even as a child in Oulu and readily admitted its influence on his own melodies.45 42 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 52. 43 “Olen taisteluni taistellut ja vetäydyn syrjään.” Leevi Madetoja, letter to Anna Madetoja, 19 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 180; also quoted in Tuukkanen, Leevi Madetoja, 141. 44 Mäkinen and Nummi, Musica Fennica, 51; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 30. 45 Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetoja’s Ostrobothnians,” 19. 202 The fourth movement proceeds without pause from the third. The main theme (strings, m. 3), marked by an ascending contour and opening syncopation, unfolds in a stately fashion in E Aeolian, showing strong avoidance of the second scale degree. As the movement progresses, its efforts to summarize the work’s material become increasingly apparent. Measure 21 brings a melodic figure that seems to grow naturally from the preceding material. However, in its falling contour, flatted seventh, avoidance of the supertonic, and, most significantly, rise of a minor sixth, it shows strong resemblance to the oboe theme first voiced in measure 41 of the second movement. Similarly, measure 59 presents a melodic fragment in solo bassoon that references other movements’ closing fragments. Its rising and falling contour and flatted fourth scale degree, featured prominantly in soli bassoons, recalls measures 412-14 of the first movement (in con sordino horns), measures 196-201 of the second movement (in soli clarinets), and measures 312-16 of the third movement (in solo oboe). In its liquidation of material, the movement shows an affinity with other sonata-deformation processes described earlier in this chapter. In contrast to more traditional teleologically-oriented Romantic works, which often reserve the only complete statement of a theme for the climax at the end of a section, movement, or multi- movement work, the final movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony is extremely anticlimactic, and its restatement of the work’s material seems more an echo than an apotheosis.46 Following a 46 See Hepokoski and Darcy, Elements, 92; Hepokoski, Sibelius, 26. 203 final fortissimo in measure 48, the Symphony gradually fades to pianissimo as the dotted-eighth accompaniment (introduced in measure 51) and the movement’s themes undergo a liquidation process and the tonic is destabilized. The key hovers between E minor, A minor and C major practically without chromatic alteration, giving the movement a strong modal feel; and, after a long period, the Symphony closes on a pianissimo unison E. Critical Response After the Second Symphony’s premiere on 17 December 1918, with Robert Kajanus conducting the Helsinki Philharmonic Orchestra, Madetoja wrote to his mother to inform her of the work’s great success: “It’s satisfying to receive some recognition for your labours when you have put in the time and effort that the work necessitates.”47 Indeed, newspaper reviews that were published following the Symphony’s premiere bear witness to an excellent reception. The work made an especially good impression on the composer and critic Evert Katila, who was at that time writing for the Fennomen newspaper Uusi Suometar. Katila wrote that that the Symphony: completely met all expectations; the music was expressed in its highest form and was perfect after the first energetic performance. He [Madetoja] has now issued a maturity test to composers of symphonic music—he has done more than that, creating a musical composition whose integrity, in readiness for coherent 47 “Onhan se hauska että saa tunnustusta kun on tehnyt suuren ja paljon aikaa ja voimia kysyvän teoksen.” Leevi Madetoja, letter Anna Madetoja, 19 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 182. 204 development, leaves no room for one’s wishes, where the wonderful addition of beauty unites the deeply contemplative spirit.48 In a review eighteen days later, in the newspaper Helsingin Sanomat, Katila states that Madetoja’s broad aesthetic unity and “nonetheless wonderful vitality” embodied the symphonic tradition, but that, on the other hand, “a dark tragic symphony based on an intense emotional journey corresponds very well with the modern spirit.” He asserts that Madetoja’s Second Symphony is “the most significant of our artistic achievements after Sibelius’s monumental series.”49 In Madetoja’s new work we see a full-fledged symphony composer who plans a large structure with single-minded clarity. [. . .] This intelligent, wise aspect of his work brings a serious balance. [. . .] This lends the Symphony a special aesthetic value. Yet it is not the most striking feature. As such, I would consider it a strong symphonic approach, which dominates the entire work, giving the listener a sense of security and allowing him to indulge in the beauty of a safe world power.50 Katila singles out the second and third movements of the Symphony, stating that: The expansive Pastorale [. . .] is a Finnish composition of huge numbers and it is very interesting in the artistically successful way in which the composer contrasts 48 “Täydellisesti täyttänyt ne odotukset, joita häneen soitin-musiikin korkeimman muodon käyttäjänä ensimmäisen reippaan otteensa jälkeen on kiinnitetty. Sinfonikkona on hän nyt antanut kypsyysnäytteensä—tehnyt enemmänkin kuin sen, luomalla sävelteoksen, joka eheydessä, valmiudessa johdonmukaisessa kehityksessä ei jätä toivomuksille sijaa, jossa ihaniin lisiin kauneuksiin yhtyy syvästi mietiskelevä henki.” Evert Katila, Uusi Suometar, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179. 49 “Kaikesta huolimatta ihmeellistä elinvoimaa.” [. . .] “Sinfonian tummalla traagilliselta pohjalta kohoava tunne-piiri vastaa erinomaisesti nykyajan henkeä.” [. . .] “Huomattavin saavutus, mihin säveltaiteemme Sibeliuksen monumentaalisen sarjan jälkeen [on päässyt].” Evert Katila, Helsingin Sanomat, 5 January 1919; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179. 50 “Madetoja esiintyy uudessa teoksessaan täysiverisenä sinfoniasäveltäjänä, joka päämäärästään tietoisena selvänäköisesti suunnittelee suuren rakenteensa ääriviivat. [. . .] Tämä älyllinen, viisas piirre tuo hänen teoksiinsa vakavan tasapainon. [. . .] Tästä johtuu sinfonian erikoinen esteettinen arvo. Kuitenkaan ei se ole sen huomiota herättävin ominaisuus. Tällaisena pitäisin sitä lujaa sinfonista otetta, joka hallitsee koko teoksen, antaen kuulijalle varmuuden tunteen, mikä sallii hänen turvallisena antautua sen kauneusmaailman valtaan.” Evert Katila, Helsingin Sanomat, 5 January 1919; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179. 205 the Muse’s touching song with the strike of a glaring earthly Mephistopheles; with a skeptical, ironic, fantastic musical vortex (part three) which is increasingly defiant; and finally with elegiac, brighter verse. This Symphony, the whole idea of running [. . .] is original, musical, hitherto unknown, and it illustrates a steady hand and tireless inspiration. Leevi Madetoja’s Second Symphony is a great work, a magnum opus of Finnish composition.51 Other writers contributed equally positive reviews. Martin Wegelius writes that “It is the very first complete composition that has not been composed, but rather self-created, so harmonious is the atmosphere from beginning to end.”52 Bis pays obeisance to “the full quality of the artist,” stating that “The composer’s greatness is that he steps into the background and lets the work and its contents, its basic ideas, speak for themselves about the high art of language; there is no defiance, no dead moments to drag us down to earth.”53 He singles out different parts of the work, noting the use of the orchestra and the eye-catching polyrhythmic material, and he links the fine, poetic, noble shepherd song with 51 “Laaja Pastorale [. . .] on suomalaisen säveltaiteen valtavimpia lukuja ja erittäin mielenkiintoinen on se taiteellisesti onnistunut tapa, millä säveltäjä tämän runottarensa liikuttavan laulun vastakohdaksi lyö räikeän mefistofelesmaisen, epäilyjen ja ironian täyttämän fantastisen sävelpyörteen (kolmannen osan) joka uhmaavan nousun jälkeen tyyntyy loppuosan eleegisiin, kirkastuneihin säkeihin. Tämä sinfonian koko ajatuskulku on omintakeinen, musiikissa ennen tuntematon ja se on varmalla kädellä ja väsymättömällä innoituksella pantu täytäntöön. Leevi Madetojan toinen sinfonia on suuri työ, suomalaisen säveltäjäkoulun mainetta kohottavia pääteoksia.” Evert Katila, Uusi Suometar, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179. 52 “Aivan ensimmäisiin sävelteoksiin, mitä meillä on tehty, se ei suorastaan ole enää tehty, vaan ikäänkuin itsestään syntynyt, niin eheän tunnelman leimaama se alusta loppuun saakka on.” Martin Wegelius, Helsingin Sanomat, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179. 53 “Det är det stora med komponisten att han själv träder tillbaka och låter verke, med sitt innehåll, sin grundide tala konstens höga språk; ingen bravad ingen död punkt rycker oss ned.” Karl Fredrik Wasenius (Bis), Hufvudstadsbladet, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179-80. 206 Berlioz, noting that this section could be a little shorter still. 54 For a description of the third, “Furioso” movement, Bis prefers “nature’s unrestrained rampage”55; however, he kindly accepts that the composer’s interpretation was possible. Bis also observes that the orchestra paid respect to Madetoja by standing for him when he went to receive applause. Finally, Erik Furuhjelm, writing for Helsinki’s Dagens Press, notes that the second movement and its elegiac natural painting is based directly on a beautiful landscape. He writes that Madetoja is a “minor poet,”56 for few major chords appear in this movement, which portrays a melancholic mood. Furuhjelm also notes that Madetoja takes care of the necessary variation, and that the music is lively and proactive. The first half of the Symphony holds a feeling of loneliness and growing tragedy. The third movement, a fantastic scherzo, contains the Symphony’s orchestral climax, and the author considers it a Finnish counterpart to Wagner’s music dramas on mythological themes. The question is not musical, but rather of connections, because stylistically Madetoja shows kinship with post-romantic composers like Puccini. Furuhjelm concludes with the hypothesis that in this work Madetoja has shown but one facet of his technique, and will soon turn to a new course that explores the shimmering and optimism of major keys—which, in fact, Madetoja does in his Third Symphony. 54 “Denna sats framstår så fint poetisk, orkesterbehandlingen är sa ädel, all man ovillkorligen kommer att tänka pä Berlioz som en själsfrände.” Ibid. 55 “Lössläppta naturmakternas framfart.” Ibid. 56 “Mollin runiolija.” Erik Furuhjelm, Dagens Press, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 180. 207 Conclusions to This Chapter The first movement, as this chapter illustrates, demonstrates a highly unusual form and displays a dialogue—melodic, harmonic, and structural—with standard first-movement sonata form. Most of the time new thematic material is dismissed in favor of the organic development of existing material; moreover, both harmonic and melodic material is highly ambiguous, making it extremely difficult to determine the movement’s tonal and thematic structure. The movement’s unusual construction suggests a possible, albeit distant, parallel: the first movement of Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony (1878) explores octatonic harmonies by moving the primary theme from tonic F minor to G-sharp minor, presenting the secondary theme in B major, and opening the recapitulation in D minor. Such sonata form deviations correspond with Hepokoski’s observations on turn-of-the-century composers who sought to create a personalized but marketable musical style by evoking—but not wholly subscribing to—traditional musical gestures: The 1889-1914 modernists sought to shape the earlier stages of their careers as individualistic seekers after the musically “new,” the bold, the controversial, and the idiosyncratic in structure and colour. But simultaneously, as sharp competitors in a limited marketplace, they were also eager to attract and then perpetuate the constituent parts of the delivery system. With few exceptions (the earlier Debussy may be one) their goal was to effect a relatively comfortable marriage between art and high-technology business. Within the de facto institution one strove to flourish as provocatively or enticingly as possible—to create an identifiable, personalized style that, while unmistakably emanating the aura, traditions, and high seriousness of “art,” also produced readily marketable commodities marked with an appropriately challenging, up-to-the-minute spice, boldness, or “philosophical 208 tone.” In short, one was encouraged to push the system to its socio-aesthetic limits, but not beyond them, as would be the case with the younger radicals.57 One convention these composers sought to reinvent was that of standard formal structures. While engaging in dialogue with the sonata’s formal expectations, their (re-) creations cannot be considered as sonatas in any strict sense. By the turn of the century, a number of “deformation-procedure families”58 were in common use, including various strophic/sonata hybrids, of which the first movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony is an important example. As discussed earlier in this chapter, this movement contains formal processes that, to a limited extent, correspond with sonata form. However, the essence of these processes is not the contrast of tonal or thematic units but rather the development of motivic material that occurs as the movement progresses. In fact, the transformation of the movement’s thematic material, the majority of which is derived from a handful of core motives, is so rhetorically rich that it eclipses the movement’s harmonic and structural events. Such compositional unity has long been associated with the concept of musical organicism. The poet A. W. Schlegel writes that “even in the fine arts—as in the province of nature, the supreme artist—all genuine forms are organic, that is, determined by the content of the artwork.”59 Implicit in this association is the idea that a work’s entire material 57 Hepokoski, Sibelius, 3. 58 Ibid., 5. 59 “Auch in der schönen Kunst wie im Gebiete der Natur, der höchsten Künstlerin, sind all ächten Formen organisch, d.h. durch den Gehalt des Kunstwerkes bestimmt.” A. W. Schlegel, Über dramatische 209 can be derived from a single motive. Veijo Murtomäki argues that static forms like the sonata can be considered organic when they use cyclic techniques—such as thematic metamorphosis—to connect constituent parts.60 If it is possible to accept such processes as organic, then—according to Max Paddison—music that draws on them can function as an analogy for nature.61 This is, perhaps, false logic. The organic musical processes that inform the first movement cannot be considered program music; they do not arise from any external signifiers. Rather, the movement is built around musical principles that follow their own inner logic. On the other hand, Madetoja does include several musical signifiers suggestive of landscape and folk idioms. For example, the first movement’s fourth theme is a rustic gigue; its liberal use of pedal drones is a widely recognized folk topic. Moreover, the theme is set apart from the surrounding material in several ways: the introduction suspends musical time through a nondevelopmental clarinet ostinato; and the theme itself, in contrast with the surrounding material, is repetitive and minimally varied. The second and fourth movements even contain quotations of folk and/or traditional Finnish material confirmed by Madetoja himself. Kunst und Literatur (Bonn, K. Schroeder, 1923): 2:111-12; quoted in Veijo Murtomäki, Symphonic Unity: The Development of Formal Thinking in the Symphonies of Sibelius (Helsinki: University of Helsinki, 1993), 23. 60 Murtomäki, Symphonic Unity, 22ff. 61 Paddison, “Art and the Ideology of Nature,” 183. 210 Such signifiers as relative calm, slow processes, and open changing perspectives operating at small levels, in combination with the organicism of the Symphony’s thematic material, encourage a reading of the Second Symphony as highly evocative of the Nordic natural world; in so doing, they help promote a sense of national identity. As discussed in Chapters One and Two, claims for the legitimacy of political systems have long been justified by a group’s rootedness in nature, and through associated ideas of folk, tradition, and community. These ideas can be traced back to the beginnings of German nationalism in the early years of the nineteenth century, especially Herder.62 Late nineteenth-century Finnish artists took the idea of a homogenous Finnish culture for granted and themselves reinforced the myth of Finland as a homogenous national entity, often by making reference to its citizens’ link with nature. It is possible that similar concepts guided Madetoja’s compositional choices within the Second Symphony. This chapter opened with a review of the nationalistic overtones projected on Madetoja’s Second Symphony by later critics. Korhonen describes the third movement as “featuring aggressive military march elements that speak of the tragic Finnish Civil War of 1918”63; Kaipainen states that impact of the Civil War and Yrjö Madetoja’s death on the Symphony is “quite clear”64; Salmenhaara adds that the Second Symphony “seems to reflect 62 Paddison, “Art and the Ideology of Nature,” 183. 63 Korhonen, “Orchestral Works,” par. 8. 64 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 52. 211 Madetoja’s tragic personal experiences.”65 In support of these statements is an assertion—ostensibly made by Madetoja himself—that the destruction of the Civil War and a concern for Finland’s fate are reflected in the Symphony.66 While Madetoja’s contemporaries, in reviews of the Second Symphony’s premiere, do not by and large address nationalist overtones, they do highlight the music’s cultural significance. For example, in the newspaper Hufvudstadsbladet, Bis receives Madetoja’s Symphony as an emissary of Finland’s natural world: The sound of the Mixolydian scale, which gives the work its prevalent mood, seems quite natural; it in no way labels the music as Finnish in spirit. The Finnish mood here has a deeper source, and a nobler connectedness with nature. Madetoja’s tonal depiction produces a sound so vivid and so beautiful that we are entranced by the music, and with redoubled love feel drawn to our great Finnish nature through the power of music.67 This quote is noteworthy for the manner in which Bis dismisses Madetoja’s use of modal harmony—which, as we saw previously, Dahlhaus had identified with nature—as being in any way representative of Finland’s natural world. However, Bis—and many of Madetoja’s other colleagues—more prominently emphasize the importance of Madetoja’s achievement in a universal sense, suggesting that the greatest boon to the Finnish 65 Salmenhaara, “Composer from Ostrobothnia,” par. 9. 66 Mäkinen and Nummi, Musica Fennica, 30. 67 “Den mixolydiska tonart, som på sitt klangsätt ger verket den förhärskande stämningen, ter sig alldeles naturlig, på ïntet sätt etiketterande musiken som finsk. Den finska stämningen har här djupare källor, ädlare samhörighet med naturen. Madetojas skildring i toner framstär så levande och så skön, att vi hänförda av musiken med fördubblad kärlek känna oss dragna til denna finska natur genom hands music.” Karl Fredrik Wasenius, Hufvudstadsbladet, 18 December 1918. 212 nationalist cause can be found in making works of Finnish art accessible in a universal manner. The critic Furuhjelm draws attention to the Symphony’s link with Finnish folklore, likening the Second Symphony to the work of mainstream European composers and stating that “we could call it a kind of Finnish counterpart to Wagner’s mythological themes.”68 The critic Katila hails the work as a “significant [. . .] artistic achievement” with a “strong symphonic approach,” calling it “a magnum opus of Finnish composition.”69 Katila doubtless understood that the development of Finnish culture was directly related to the legitimization and advancement of Finland’s international status. Madetoja ostensibly held the same view. In his writings on Sibelius, he observes that Sibelius has internalized elements of Finnish folksong and folklore, combining them with his own successful symphonic approach to make them accessible in a more universal manner. The most important thing to remember is what was referred to in passing above: namely, that Sibelius integrally links national material with his own unique, innermost artistic essence, producing a musical whole that is greater than the sum of its parts. A promoter from Yale University, when presenting Sibelius with an honorary doctorate in 1914, expressed this idea beautifully: “What Wagner did for the ancient German legends, Doctor Sibelius has in his own magnificent way done for the Finnish myths. [. . .] He has translated the Kalevala into the universal language of music.”70 68 “Vi kunde kalla den ett slags finskt motstycke till Wagners mytologiska fantastik.” Erik Furuhjelm, Dagens Press, 18 December 1918; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 180. 69 “Huomattavin saavutus [. . .] lujaa sinfonista otetta [. . .] suomalaisen säveltäjäkoulun mainetta kohottavia pääteoksia.” Evert Katila, Helsingin Sanomat, 5 January 1919; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 179. 70 “Mutta näistä asioista puhuttaessa on tärkeintä muistaa se, mihin jo yllä ohimennen viitattiinkin, nimittäin, että Sibeliuksen musiikin kansallinen aines liittyy elimellisesti yhteen hänen oman yksilöllisen, 213 Madetoja suggests that Sibelius’s contribution to Finnish nationalism is twofold: Sibelius not only promoted the Finnish culture abroad, but also influenced the outcome of political events on home soil. At the turn of the century, Europe’s interest was focused upon the small country of Finland and its culture. The question was asked: what do you have to offer in the music industry? Finland stepped up to the plate: we have Sibelius! In this way the master rose as if the whole nation was on his shoulders to represent Finnish music in the universal consciousness. But on the other hand, Finnish nationality and our nation’s natural and historical events were dependent, to a great extent, on this composer’s individuality.71 Madetoja evidently recognized music’s power to rouse national sentiment. He frequently contributed his artistic efforts to the nationalist cause, and wrote eloquently about the way in which music shaped Finland’s political scene. However, in the Second Symphony, Madetoja seems to have aimed for a more international style, recognizing that Finland’s cultural success lay in this direction. Nationalist sentiments exist, to be sure: invocations of nature, landscape, and the folk idiom in the second movement, for example, or the portrayal of the civil war in the third. However, in the Symphony’s immediate sisimmän taiteellisen olemuksensa kanssa. Nämä kaksi tekijää ovat kasvaneet aivan eroittamattomasti yhteen. Kauniilla tavalla tulkitsi tämän ajatuksen amerikkalaisen Yalen yliopiston promoottori, vihkiessään v. 1914 mestarimme korkeakoulunsa kunniatohtoriksi: “Mitä Wagner on tehnyt muinais-saksalaisista taruista, sen on tohtori Sibelius omalla suurisuun-taisella tavallaan tehnyt suomalaisista myyteistä. [. . .] Hän on kääntänyt Kalevalan musiikin kansainväliselle kielelle.” Madetoja, “Kansallinen,” 100. 71 “Europan mielenkiinto kohdistui vuosisadan vaihteessa vilkkaana pieneen Suomen maahan ja sen kulttuuriin. Kysyttiin: mitä teillä on musiikin alalla tarjottavana? Suomi löi valtin pöytään: meillä on Sibelius! Näin pääsee mestari kohoamaan ikäänkuin koko kansan hartioilta, hän tulee edustamaan suomalaista säveltaidetta yleismaailmallisessa tietoisuudessa. Mutta toisaalta taas verrattain yleisesti tänä kyseessäolevana aikana säveltäjän yksilöllinen erikoislaatuisuus asetettiin liian suuressa määrin suomalaisesta kansallisuudesta, maamme luonnosta ja historiallisista vaiheistakin riippuvaksi.” Madetoja, “Kansallinen,” 100. 214 reception, critics seem to have focused—quite rightly—on the work’s larger cultural significance as an important new work from a small country fighting for both independence and international recognition.215 Major Influences: Sibelius and the French Nothing at all,” said Christophe. “No music. No development. No sequence. No cohesion. Very nice harmony. Quite good orchestral effects, quite good. But it’s nothing—nothing at all. . .” 1 Introduction The previous chapter identified several important musical elements used by Madetoja within the Second Symphony. Some of these elements—including the use of enigmatic formal structures, static harmonies or processes, and a concern for nature and landscape—can also be found in the music of Sibelius, suggesting that the two composers shared a common concern for certain musical processes or materials. Other elements—such as the use of modal harmonies, the superimposition of manifold strata, shimmering accompanimental patterns, and thematic variation—suggest an indebtedness to the music of Debussy. Accordingly, this chapter opens by positioning Madetoja’s Second Symphony in relation to Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony in E-flat major, op. 82 (1915-1919) and Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune (1894). Additionally, it points out other French influences on Madetoja, especially the French neoclassicism of such composers as Vincent d’Indy, Paul Dukas, Maurice Ravel, and Igor Stravinsky as illustrated in Madetoja’s orchestral works Kullervo (1913), Third Symphony (1925-26), and Okon Fuoko (1925-27). It is hoped that this 1 Romain Roland, Jean-Christophe in Paris: The Market-Place, Antoinette, The House, trans. Gilbert Cannan (1911; Project Gutenberg, 2005), www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8149. 216 final chapter will contribute to broadening the understanding of Madetoja’s place with regard to other composers of his time while indicating avenues of future research on his work. Sibelius Sibelius’s impact upon Finland’s small culture was both an inspiration and a deterrent. On one hand, he proved that it was possible for the work of Finnish composers to attract international attention. On the other hand, he encouraged an artistic climate in which no less than two generations of composers were fated to direct comparisons with him. As a result, many Finnish composers chose to focus on genres outside Sibelius’s oeuvre. For example, Armas Launis, Leevi Madetoja, and Aarre Merikanto were drawn to opera, while Selim Palmgren composed five piano concertos. Similarly, composers following Sibelius placed an unusually strong emphasis on small-scale compositions at the expense of more substantial works. Sibelius’s greatest achievements lay in the symphony, a genre that remained conspicuously untouched for many years following the composer’s Seventh Symphony (1924). It was not until Einar Englund (1916-1999) debuted the first of his seven symphonies in the 1940s (The War Symphony, 1946) that Finland saw a symphonic tradition truly independent from Sibelius. Between Sibelius and Englund, only two Finnish composers delved into the symphony: Madetoja and Erkki Melartin (1875-217 1937).2 Despite the centrality of the symphony to the latter’s output, Madetoja was the one to bear the appellation of “the most important Finnish symphonist since Sibelius.”3 As the previous chapters demonstrate, Madetoja is one of the few Finnish composers who was able to step out of Sibelius’s shadow to compose a truly unique cycle of symphonies. Nevertheless, as Sibelius’s close friend and student, he occasionally employed Sibelian melodic and rhythmic devices. Critics and musicologists have noted this inclination. For example, in a Hufvudstadsbladet review of the premiere of Madetoja’s First Symphony, Karl Fredrik Wasenius observed that that Sibelius’s music serves as a model for Madetoja’s, “not as a slavish imitation on the part of Mr. Madetoja, but rather in pointing out the general direction.”4 Both composers share a willingness to engage with the new sounds and structures of early modernism by experimenting with ambiguous harmonies and formal structures. Moreover, owing to a mutual cultural, artistic, and political background, they share a concern for the portrayal of the Finnish landscape by invoking genres and musical materials 2 For more information on the life and music of Erkki Melartin, see the extensive body of work by Tuire Ranta-Meyer, especially Nähdä hyvää kaikissa: Erkki Melartin opettajana ja musiikkielämän kehittäjänä (Helsinki: Suomen Musiikkikirjastoyhdistys, 2008) and “Nulla dies sine linea: avauksia Erkki Melartinin vaikutteisiin, verkostoihin ja vastaanottoon henkilö- ja reseptiohistoriallisena tutkimuksena” (PhD diss., Jyväskylän yliopisto, 2008). 3 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 49. 4 Karl Fredrik Wasenius, Hufvudstadsbladet, 11 February 1916; quoted in Andrew Barnett, Sibelius (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007), 259; also quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja), 148. 218 suggestive of the natural world. In order to more fully explore the musical intersections between the two, I propose a comparison of two roughly contemporaneous works: Madetoja’s Second Symphony (1918) and Sibelius’s Symphony No. 5 in E flat Major, which Example 5.1: Sibelius, Symphony No. 5, first movement, measures 1-4. 219 was premiered in its original version on 8 December 1915 and in its final version on 24 November 1919.5 The first movement of Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony suggests a somewhat enigmatic reading by way of the divergent tonal implications of its opening gesture. It begins with a pastoral horn call on the dominant, B flat; the first horn ascends an octave via two perfect fourths, outlines an E-flat major triad in its descent, and ends on the supertonic (ex. 5.1, mm. 1-2). This contour clearly describes second inversion (6/4) E-flat major (tonic) harmony. Meanwhile, timpani sounds a B-flat (dominant) pedal in measures 1 through 2.9 and an E-flat (tonic) pedal beginning in measure 2.10, and this perfect fourth ascent—a move which might, under other circumstances, suggest harmonic resolution—coincides neatly with the melody’s arrival on the supertonic. Thus, the introductory phrase first superimposes tonic function over a dominant pedal, then superimposes subdominant function over a tonic pedal. This unusual inaugural gesture introduces an important working principle—tension between coloristic upper-neighbor and tonic harmony—that will manifest throughout the Symphony.6 In measure 2.3, these harmonies—represented by supertonic and tonic scale 5 Throughout this paper I refer to the 1919 version of Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony. The first version was premiered in 1915; while the score itself does not survive, a reproduction was made from a complete set of parts discovered among the composer’s effects. A second version was completed in 1916 and premiered on 8 December 1916. A definitive, published version was completed in 1919; it uses the same thematic building blocks but differs from the original in many important respects. For more information on the early genesis of this symphony, see Tawaststjerna, Sibelius, 3:15. 6 Hepokoski, Sibelius, 63. 220 degrees respectively—appear in succession, framed between dominant bookends; in measure 2.10, they sound simultaneously, the former in horns, the latter in timpani. Here, the bassoons begin a scalar descent from the supertonic (F4) to the lower mediant (G3) harmonized by upper thirds: emphasis on the pitches F, A-flat, C, and E-flat implies predominant harmony (ii7). The flutes and oboes, meanwhile, state the work’s core motive, a rising second followed by a rising fifth. In measure 4, the bassoons arrive on the mediant, and flutes and clarinets echo the three-note cry over a root-position tonic (I7) chord. This use of ambiguous harmonies and tonal oscillation finds a parallel in Madetoja. As discussed in the preceding chapter, the accompaniment that opens the first movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony contains a complex, multilayered allusion to two different tonalities, E-flat major and G minor, over top of which the first theme soars ambiguously Example 5.2: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 1-4. 221 in G Aeolian (ex. 5.2). The pedals—tonic and mediant7 to Sibelius’s tonic and dominant—are present here, as is the superimposition of tonal centres. However, in contrast to Sibelius, the harmonic oscillation of Madetoja’s reiterative accompaniment—a repeated ostinato pattern with a steady eighth-note rhythm—is clearly subordinate to the first theme. Moreover, whereas Sibelius’s opening harmonies incorporate tonal movement, suggesting teleological drive, Madetoja’s layers become static through repetition, suggesting their fluctuating harmonic possibilities simultaneously. Returning to Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony, the ensuing measures echo the core motive in various ways, enforcing traditional pastoral representations of space (ex. 5.3). In measure 5, the oboes revisit the core motive, albeit transposed a major ninth higher to the supertonic; the clarinets follow with a resolution of the same motive in the tonic, a tone lower. In measure 7, the oboes append an ornamented, sixteenth-note turn figure; in measure 8, the clarinets augment this turn figure by one note. In measure 9, divisi oboes 7 See Chapter Four for a discussion of Robert Bailey’s double-tonic complex and its relevance to the first movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony. Example 5.3: Sibelius, Symphony No. 5, first movement, measures 5-9. 222 and flutes join together to announce a more prominent version of the turn figure; as the register climbs, flutes sound the turn figure independently of the core motive. This process illustrates Sibelius’s tendency toward additive motivic development. Like Madetoja, Sibelius develops thematic material through the gradual expansion of small melodic fragments; however, whereas Madetoja exploits contour and interval as building blocks in the construction of interrelated themes, Sibelius encourages a cyclical reading through short, repetitive phrases and gentle oscillation.8 The larger structure of Sibelius’s Fifth is notoriously ambiguous, presenting as much of a challenge to formal analysis as Madetoja’s Second. To cite just one example,9 Robert Layton, Cecil Gray, and Robert Simpson agree that the opening movement evokes sonata form and that the section described above (mm. 1-35) suggests an exposition. However, they disagree in the strongest terms about the ensuing section (mm. 35-68). Layton—analyzing the work in sectional terms—refers to measures 35-68 as the counter-exposition, citing in support “most writers”10; Gray—analyzing the work in thematic terms—refers to it as the 8 One of the first scholars to propose this idea was David Cherniavsky. See “The Use of Germ Motives by Sibelius,” Music & Letters 23, no. 1 (1942): 1-9. 9 This example courtesy of Bethany Lowe, “The Blind Men and the Elephant? Formal Analogy as Metaphor in British Sibelius Studies, 1935–1965,” in Huutunen, Kilpeläinen, and Murtomäki, Sibelius Forum II, 317-18. 10 Robert Layton, Sibelius (London: Dent, 1965), 49. 223 development, which proceeds “in [an] orthodox manner”11; and Simpson—analyzing the work in tonal terms—refers to it as “a complete recapitulation.”12 The Symphony’s main point of formal contention comes at or just after the modulation to B major (m. 106), where a soaring trumpet motive introduces an accelerando that leads to 3/4 time and the indication Allegro moderato (ma poco a poco stretto) (m. 114). This meter change leads some scholars to consider this a division between two separate but related movements. Simpson suggests a compressed sonata followed by a Scherzo movement,13 and Simon Parmet describes a slow introduction followed by an Allegro.14 On the other hand, the continuity between sections encourages other scholars to identify recapitulatory processes in the second half, binding the single movement into an extended sonata-like structure: Gerald Abraham, like Hepokoski and Layton, considers the entire passage as a unified entity, while acknowledging the scherzo as a secondary feature.15 Although both Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony and Madetoja’s Second Symphony emphasize highly enigmatic formal structures, it is possible to form some preliminary 11 Cecil Gray, Sibelius: The Symphonies (London: Oxford University Press, 1935), 48. 12 Robert Simpson, Sibelius and Nielsen: A Centenary Essay (London: British Broadcasting Corporation, 1965), 24-27. 13 Simpson, Sibelius, 25-27. 14 Simon Parmet, The Symphonies of Sibelius: A Study in Musical Appreciation, trans. Kingsley A. Hart (London: Cassell, 1959), 71-73. 15 Gerald Abraham, “The Symphonies,” in Sibelius: A Symposium, ed. Gerald Abraham (London: Lindsay Drummond, 1947), 28–30; Hepokoski, Sibelius, 60-70; and Layton, Sibelius, 48–51. 224 conclusions about the composers’ working methodologies, and in so doing, draw tentative parallels between the two works. The first conclusion is that both symphonies reference older formal structures in a retrospective manner, and then override listeners’ expectations for these structures. Hepokoski refers to the resulting structures as “sonata deformations,”16 offering a sub-category entitled “strophic-sonata hybrid” that aptly describes the first movement of each work. The strophic-sonata hybrid refers to music that is articulated into various strophes but nevertheless references what Veijo Murtomäki terms the “referential genre” of sonata form.17 As noted above, music scholars generally classify the opening of Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony in sonata form, even if they cannot agree on specifics. Similarly, the first movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony evokes sonata form by referring to many of the standard elements of that form—including a principal theme in the tonic and a modulation to a new theme in the dominant—but then features elements that complicate a traditional sonata-form structure. The second conclusion is that the various movements of each Symphony are interrelated in a variety of ways. Sibelius expresses this interrelationship of material by fusing movements, as in his Third and Fifth Symphonies, and by suggesting a multimovement form within a single movement, as in his Fifth and Seventh Symphonies. He also explores organic connections across multiple movements by reiterating motives or 16 Hepokoski, Sibelius, 18. 17 Veijo Murtomäki, Symphonic Unity, 152. 225 blocks of material. Madetoja explores this interrelationship of material in similar ways. For example, he links the first two movements and the last two movements of his Second Symphony, proceeding without pause from one movement to the next. Although he doesn’t reach the extreme of Sibelius’s one-movement symphony, his motives are more rigorously interrelated than Sibelius’s. This suggests a powerfully organic approach to thematic material that traverses the Symphony’s movements, showing their derivation from a small number of core motives. It is possible, as Hepokoski suggests, that this exploration of alternative structures was a manifestation of, or response to, early modernism. Sibelius, Madetoja, and other f ìn-de-siècle composers had a genuine urge to push boundaries and explore new musical materials. On the other hand, they were often loath to push beyond these boundaries, lest they alienate their audience. Confronted with modernist developments of the early twentieth century, they heightened their focus on formal exploration in exchange for their preservation of largely triadic harmonies.18 Sibelius’s period of self-reassessment during the years 1909-14, and his subsequent withdrawal from modernism, is well documented;19 moreover, his struggle over the structure of his Fifth Symphony, which happened immediately following this period of reflection, was greater than with any other 18 Hepokoski, Sibelius, 20. 19 Ibid., 10-18. 226 symphony.20 While Madetoja does not appear to have undertaken a comparable period of deliberation, the formal structures of his movements are—as we have seen—complex, showing a twentieth-century adaptation of older structural models. Debussy Early twentieth-century Finnish music had two basic affinities: Sibelius and German culture. French music, on the other hand, was viewed with suspicion on the assumption that its rich orchestral colours indicated superficiality and a lack of content. This viewpoint was reinforced not only by Heikki Klemetti—who as editor for the journal Säveletär waged a fierce battle against French elements—but also by Sibelius; it is still encountered occasionally in Finnish musical discussions.21 Accordingly, in his youth, Madetoja both encountered and upheld these views of French music. In 1910, for example, he wrote a letter to his friend Toivo Kuula expressing doubts about his upcoming sojourn to Paris: You seem to have a great admiration for new French music. I wonder how I will fare. I still have a preconceived idea that the French are nothing more than dabblers in colour, they don’t speak, they speechify. In other words the ideas contained in their music are overshadowed by the splendid and pictorial use of colour.22 20 Hepokoski, Sibelius, 2. 21 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 47. 22 Letter from Leevi Madetoja to Toivo Kuula, 2 April 1910; trans. Erkki Salmenhaara, “Toivo Kuula: Finland’s Tragic Romantic,” Music Finland: Composer Profiles, accessed 11 March 2013, www.musicfinland.fi; also quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 62. 227 Evidently Madetoja’s first visit to Paris, which included a semester at the Schola Cantorum, shattered these stereotypes, for Madetoja returned from Paris in 1911 an ardent supporter of new French music. As we shall see, he incorporated a number of tonal and harmonic influences into his compositions. He also wrote several complimentary articles on the subject; in fact, his articles for the Finnish publications Säveletär and Uusi Suometar, written following his return to Finland, present the first comprehensive Finnish-language overview of French music.23 The case for Debussy’s influence on Madetoja is strong. Madetoja was greatly impressed by Pelléas et Mélisande, which he saw for the first time in Vienna in 1911.24 He wrote eloquently on Debussy’s importance and evinced a keen familiarity with many of his compositions, including La Mer, Nocturnes, the String Quartet, and a number of piano 23 Madetoja’s first article on French music, “Kirje Pariisista” [Letter from Paris], was written in 1910. In 1913, he wrote an important five-part article investigating César Franck and his school, French opera, Camille Saint-Saëns, Gabriel Fauré, and Claude Debussy entitled “Nykyajan ranskalainen säveltaide” [Contemporary French Music]. See “Kirje Pariisista,” Säveletär, no. 20-21 (1910), reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 9-11; “Kirje Pariisista,” Säveletär, no. 3 (1911), reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 137-39; and “Nykyajan ranskalainen säveltaide,” Uusi Suometar, 23 July, 24 July, 6 August, 8 August, and 22 August 1913, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 12-33. 24 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 47; Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 86. 228 pieces. He even referenced Debussy’s plans to compose a one-act, two-scene opera based on a short story by Edgar Allen Poe (this is, of course, Debussy’s unfinished opera, La chute de la maison Usher).25 Moreover, there exists some speculation that Madetoja’s music is indebted to Debussy’s early output. For example, Erik Tawaststjerna compares Madetoja’s Second Symphony with Debussy’s String Quartet in G Minor, arguing that “[Madetoja’s] tonal origins happen to be found in Debussy’s early works,” and that “Madetoja adopted his own sensitivity and Ostrobothnian introverted disposition to Romantic early Impressionism.”26 Tawaststjerna even suggests that the basic idea from the first movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony bears a certain resemblance to the Quartet’s principal theme through similarities in rhythm, key, and modal colour (ex. 5.4; the opening of Debussy’s quartet is presented in augmentation for the sake of comparison). 25 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 107-08. 26 Erik Tawaststjerna, Review of Madetoja’s Second Symphony, Helsingin Sanomat, 10 March 1974; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 28. Example 5.4: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, principal theme fragment (above); Debussy, String Quartet No. 1, Op. 10, first movement, principal theme fragment in rhythmic augmentation (below). 229 Musicologists frequently describe Madetoja’s works—especially Konserttialkusoitto, op. 7 (Concert Overture, 1911), Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto, op. 53 (Comedy Overture, 1923), and the Third Symphony (1925-26)— in terms of their “elegance” or “finesse” in an attempt to qualify their indebtedness to French music. For example, Kimmo Korhonen argues that Madetoja’s music is “very French in its elegance and polish,”27 while Kai Maasalo states that “the Gallic finesse of tone and sound is one of the most essential characteristics of Madetoja’s music, and in this respect hardly any other Finn can surpass him.”28 Ultimately, however, these descriptors provide only minimal insight into Madetoja’s oeuvre. As correspondences between Madetoja and Debussy have not been supported analytically, this chapter attempts a more detailed account of the impact of contemporary French idioms, including Debussy’s, on Madetoja’s output. As we shall see, the opening measures of Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune encapsulate several working principles that reveal strong parallels with the music of Madetoja: additive construction, rich accompanimental figures, and ambiguous harmonies, melodies, and section boundaries. Madetoja, who may have heard the work as early as 16 March 1908 in a Helsinki concert conducted by Robert Kajanus,29 would later single out this 27 Korhonen, Inventing, 50. 28 Maasalo, Suomalaisia, 1:123; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 27. 29 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 40-41. 230 work as being amongst “the most beautiful things that have been composed in recent years.”30 The Prélude is situated within a key signature of four sharps, suggesting E major or C-sharp minor. Its principal flute theme opens the work by sounding a sustained C-sharp5, descending an augmented fourth chromatically, lingering on G4, and returning to the opening pitch (ex. 5.5a). This gesture is repeated note-for-note in the following measure before changing character: in measure 3, the melody offers a more disjunct eighth-note motive that ascends to G-sharp5, suggesting C-sharp minor; falling by way of an arpeggiated E major triad; and, after lingering on B, descending a semitone to A-sharp4, the raised fourth (Lydian) scale degree (or the vii/V harmony) of E major. Despite the modal implications and lush chromaticism, however, it is the elusive, freely floating rhythm—which Austin submits 30 “[. . .] kauneinta, mitä viime vuosien säveltaide on luonut.” Madetoja, “Nykyajan ranskalainen säveltaide,” 31. Example 5.5: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, measures 1-4, flute solo (ex. a, above); Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, second movement, measures 1-5 (ex. b, below). 231 as perhaps “Debussy’s greatest, most forward-looking achievement”—31that sets the opening apart. In the first measure, a sustained dotted-eighth gives way to sixteenths, then triplet sixteenths; the notation is precise, but in performance the steady pulse of the work’s 9/8 meter is completely obscured. Madetoja employs a similar rhythmic approach in the second movement of his Second Symphony, which opens with an a piacere oboe solo (ex. 5.5b). Although Finnish folk melodies are the likely source of the minor pentatonic and Aeolian modalities, Kaipainen states that “one could also look to the French influence to explain Madetoja’s fondness for freely floating rhythms.”32 Debussy conceives of his orchestra in stratified layers. As Peter Delone suggests, Debussy, in spite of a professed disdain for traditional contrapuntal devices, incorporates into his works “subtle forms of melodic or motivic combinations, counterlines, and counter textures that involve the play of lines in what may be described as a kind of unobtrusive, idiomatic counterpoint.”33 This is apparent from the first notes of the Prélude in the form of simultaneously stated, contrasting motivic gestures. Oboes and clarinets enter in measure 31 William W. Austin, “Toward an Analytical Appreciation,” in Claude Debussy: Prelude to “The Afternoon of a Faun,” ed. William W. Austin (New York: Norton, 1970), 91. 32 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 49. 33 Peter DeLone, “Claude Debussy, Contrapuntiste malgré lui,” College Music Symposium 17, no. 2 (1977), 48. 232 4.4, while French horns commence a short dialogue in measure 4.5; a muted, pianissimo accompaniment of strings and harp glissandi begins shortly thereafter (ex. 5.6). Even denser textures occur later. As Matthew Brown observes, Debussy tends to reserve his greatest displays of polyphonic writing for significant formal junctures, and in the Prélude, the densest textures occur during the climax beginning in measure 94.34 34 Matthew Brown, “Tonality and Form in Debussy’s Prélude à l’apres-midi d’un faune,” Music Theory Spectrum 15, no. 2 (1993): 137. Example 5.6: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, measures 3-5. 233 Madetoja was well acquainted with this technique of stratified orchestral writing. In 1910, he received a letter from his friend and colleague Toivo Kuula who observed that “the [French] orchestra isn’t a single instrument, but rather many, each with a different colour and personality.” The concomitant layers result in “a new strange counterpoint” featuring “twists and motives that are not found in the literature we are accustomed to hearing.”35 Madetoja would later note that “the structure of Debussy’s music is characterized by small sections, most often two or four measures, and he overlaps one with another; upon abandoning the first image, he takes up the next and proceeds with it in the same manner.”36 Like Debussy, Madetoja maintains distinct divisions between layers. As discussed in the previous chapter, in the opening of the first movement of the Second Symphony, he sets the principal theme apart from the accompaniment both rhythmically and tonally. Just as the compound 12/8 meter in the principal theme suggests an underlying incompatibility with the accompaniment’s 6/4 meter (ex. 5.2, above), the absent mediant (B flat) in the theme’s triadic G minor contour lends it an incongruously modal, rustic character. 35 “Orkesteri ei ole yksi instrumentti vaan, että niitä on monta ja kullakin eri värinsä ja individualiteettinsa. […] Uusia kummallisia kontrapunkti-käänteitä ja -motiiveja, joita ei siinä kirjallisuudessa löydy, jota me olemme tottuneet kuulemaan.” Toivo Kuula, letter to Leevi Madetoja, 18 March 1910; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 60-61. 36 Leevi Madetoja, “Sotavuosina kuolleita kuuluisia säveltäjiä II: Claude Debussy,” Helsingin Sanomat, 31 August 1918, reprinted in Madetoja: Kirjoituksia musiikista, 38. 234 Supporting a reprise of the opening flute solo, measure 11 of Debussy’s Prélude presents a pianissimo string tremolo performed “sur la touche” (sul tasto) (ex. 5.7). It is possible to draw a parallel between the section’s shimmering background texture and analogous passages in Madetoja’s Second Symphony, notably the iridescent flute accompaniment that opens the first movement (ex. 5.2, above) or the constantly shifting “ritmo deciso” ostinato pattern of the second movement. Madetoja, according to Kaipainen: rather often constructs a kaleidoscopic accompanying figure, in a constant state of slight movement, with hazy harmony, wavering between two keys, and on the top of this shifting platform he allows individual members of the woodwinds to deliver in leisurely fashion their songs, compiled from several short motifs.37 37 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 48. Example 5.7: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, measures 10-15. 235 In this regard, other works by Debussy present even stronger parallels. For example, Kaipainen suggests that the central movements of La Mer and Nocturnes are clear precursors to Madetoja’s “typical ticking background motifs” (ex. 5.8).38 Such accompaniments function as a textural device, providing a backdrop of tonal and rhythmic stability against which motivic or melodic material can be further developed. This essentially contrapuntal technique was frequently used not only by Debussy and Madetoja but also by Stravinsky.39 38 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 48. 39 DeLone, “Claude Debussy,” 53. Example 5.8: Debussy, Nocturnes, “Fêtes,” measures 1-2. 236 Example 5.9: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, measures 73-79. 237 One of the most cogent examples of Debussy’s penchant for superimposed layers and complex, ambiguous harmonies occurs in the transitional area that precedes the reprise of the Section A in measure 79 (ex. 5.9). Here, the turn motives featured in measures 67 through 78 gradually fade in volume, moving from fortissimo (m. 70) to triple piano (m. 78). Meanwhile, the cadential bass motion to D-flat in measure 74 is almost entirely obscured by a second-inversion B-flat minor chord in the horns that suggests B-flat Aeolian. The clarinets assume the melody in the following measure. The inclusion of C flats in the melodic line and the syncopation of F5 suggests F Locrian; this is played in counterpoint with a melody in the strings in D-flat major but an accompaniment in the horns sounding an F half-diminished seventh chord. Measure 77 sees a gradual alignment of modes, with D-flat Ionian in the horns but D-flat Mixolydian in the oboe. Clarinets attempt to bridge the differences, acting as an intermediary through a minor third oscillation that touches not only on the C-flat of the oboe’s Mixolydian—foreshadowing the move to E major—but also the A-flat of the horns, showing dominant emphasis and a hint of Ab Mixolydian. The solo violin, meanwhile, adds additional tension by way of its emphasis on Bb; in measure 79, it rises a semitone to the dominant of the new key, suggesting more traditional tonal resolution. The other instruments are less definitive: lower horns fall a semitone to the tonic, while the oboe, unusually, ascends an augmented second. Thus, while the new section beginning in measure 79 arrives through changes in key (E major) and timbre (harp and divisi strings), the lack of tonal concordance precludes convincing harmonic demarcation and suggests deliberate obfuscation of the harmonic structure. 238 The above examples find correspondence in the first movement of Madetoja’s Second Symphony, which features stepwise contrary motion in the transition from E-flat major to G-flat major at the close of the first theme (mm. 17-18; ex. 5.10). Madetoja employs a strong command of voice leading to ensure a smooth transition to the new tonal area of G-flat major in measure 18. His melodic gestures are distinct but concurrently stated: counterpoint occurs by way of ascending horns set in contrary motion to descending bassoons and contrabass; the voices are differentiated through registral and timbral contrast. This novel tonal and textural approach is new to Finnish music, and Kaipainen suggests French origins, adding that Madetoja occasionally “runs chords superimposed on each other in the style of Debussy.”40 Most analyses of the Prélude agree on the main formal boundaries. Section A ends in measure 30, and measures 30-37 feature whole-tone variation of the flute theme; ensuing passagework functions both as transition and further development. Section B begins in 40 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 48. Example 5.10: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, measures 16-18, reduction. 239 measure 55; and a reprise of A in measure 79 is followed by a brief coda in measures 106-10.41 The Prélude nonetheless contains a high degree of structural ambiguity, not least since its Example 5.11: Debussy, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune, melodic variation of principal theme. 240 thematic material is characterized by a sophisticated network of motivic relationships. For example, the principal theme undergoes an extensive process of variation after its second iteration in measures 11-14. In measure 14, an oboe elides with the flute, eventually taking on the character of the flute solo so that by measure 17 it is possible to discern similarities in intervallic contour between the two melodies. The return of the flute solo in measure 21 doubles the length of the opening pitch before giving way to florid variation, a model that repeats in measures 23 and 26. Likewise, the oboe theme, introduced in measure 37, corresponds—like the motives introduced in measures 38 and 52—not only to the flute solo’s descending/ascending pattern but also to a pentatonic gesture introduced in measure 28; it is featured prominently in augmentation beginning in measure 55 (ex. 5.11).42 Accordingly, motives that initially appear inconsequential may end up playing an important role elsewhere. One of the most significant ways it acquires this formal ambiguity is through the continuation of a motive from a previous section within a new section, thereby superimposing it upon new material. By way of example, consider two of the Prélude’s supporting motives, the “syncopated motive” and the “flowing motive.”43 The former, which can be traced back to the horn parts in measures 5 and 13, is introduced in measure 39 and combined with the opening flute theme in measure 47. The latter is 41 Brown, “Tonality and Form,” 131. 42 Example 5.11 is indebted to Austin, “Toward an Analytical Appreciation,” 76-78, which features a detailed analysis of the melodic variations inherent in the Prélude. See also Brown, “Tonality and Form,” 127-43. 43 These motives are identified in Austin, “Toward an Analytical Appreciation,” 71ff. 241 introduced in measure 28 and incorporated into the oboe theme in measure 37. In Section B, both motives are subsumed by the second theme, and a short codetta in measures 74-78 (ex. 5.9, above) combines the syncopated motive (horns, m. 74) with the second theme (strings, m. 75) and the flowing motive (clarinets, m. 75 and oboes, m. 77). Similarly, the climax of the Prélude (m. 94-99) integrates the syncopated motive, the flowing motive, and Example 5.12: Madetoja, Symphony No. 2, first movement, continuous development of subphrase 1a. 242 the flute theme. This development of similar thematic material traverses formal boundaries, eroding the autonomy of the work’s sections.44 Madetoja’s thematic material undergoes a similar process of thematic variation, as examples from the first movement of the Second Symphony illustrate. In measure 69, the “oscillating” theme presents material against two older patterns: clarinets voice a descending fourth/ascending fifth motive (“motive B”); meanwhile, strings and timpani play a variation on the opening accompaniment pattern (“acc. 1”). In measure 105, both the “conjunct” theme and its accompaniment (“acc. 1”), echo one of the Symphony’s core motives, “subphrase 1a”; in measure 176, the “dance” theme reflects the perfect fourth intervals, changing-note figure, and motivic character of the opening theme (ex. 5.12 illustrates this motivic development). Such monothematicism, in conjunction with constant variation, is a key facet of Madetoja’s working procedure, although the use of this technique, Salmenhaara notes, is subtler in the Third Symphony.45 44 Brown, “Tonality and Form,” 137. 45 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 231. 243 Other French Influences Madetoja had a close affiliation with the Schola Cantorum and the music of d’Indy. This affiliation is an important one, since d’Indy championed a distinct trajectory within French music. Like his teacher César Franck, d’Indy was a contrapuntalist at heart. In addition to a solid grounding in counterpoint, his composition courses at the Schola included substantial instruction in sonata form and symphonic structures, both of which “were held to embody eternal humanistic and ethical values, a bulwark against the formal flux and harmonic sensationalism of Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande.”46 D’Indy’s historical bias was derided by Émile Vuillermoz, who, in a 1909 Mercure de France article, rejected the outdated formal and contrapuntal procedures of “horizontalists” like d’Indy in favor of the innovative harmonies and orchestration of “verticalists” like Debussy and Ravel.47 These sentiments—voiced not only by Vuillermoz but also by Louis Laloy, Jean Marnold, and Camille Mauclair—set the music of d’Indy and the Schola Cantorum in stark opposition to that of Debussy and the Paris conservatoire.48 Musicologists tend to group Madetoja with d’Indy, thanks largely to his studies at the Schola Cantorum in 1911. Kimmo Korhonen, for example, writes: “It is the polished finish of 46 Robert Orledge and Andrew Thompson. “Indy, (Paul Marie Théodore) Vincent d’,” Grove Music Online, accessed 5 July 2018, www.oxfordmusiconline.com. 47 Émile Vuillermoz, “La Schola et le Conservatoire,” Mercure de France 81 (1909): 234–43. 48 For more on this topic, see Jann Passler, “Deconstructing d’Indy, or the Problem of a Composer’s Reputation,” 19th-Century Music 30, no. 3 (Spring 2007), 230-56. 244 Madetoja’s music that shows the French influence, since he was more interested in the Classical approach of Vincent d’Indy and the Schola Cantorum than in the Impressionism of Debussy et al. Madetoja even aspired to study with d’Indy, but this never happened.”49 Yet, this characterization is hardly categorical. Madetoja does not seem to have been particularly enthusiastic about d’Indy’s music, nor about the prospect of studying with him, despite a recommendation from Sibelius that all but guaranteed a place in d’Indy’s classroom. In a 1910 letter to Heikki Klemetti, Madetoja suggests that his studies at the Schola were, rather, a means to an end: “By the way, an instructor would do nothing for me; I know how to work on my own, and work willingly, but a stipend may not be available without some form of certification.”50 Madetoja evidently hoped that his studies would expedite his request for one of Finland’s generous artist pensions.51 What can be clearly substantiated is that Madetoja’s sojourn to Paris inspired a flurry of works in French idioms, including Konserttialkusoitto, op. 7a (Concert Overture, 1911), Tanssinäky (Dance Vision; 1911, rev. 1919), Sävellyksiä viululle ja pianolle, op. 14 (Works for Violin and Piano, 1912), and Kullervo (1913). Each of these pieces pursues a different stylistic 49 Korhonen, Inventing, 50. 50 “Muuten en minä ohjaajalla mitään tee, osaan kyllä tehdä työtä yksinäni ja kernaiten niin tekisin, mutta stipendiä ei saa ulos jos ei ole jonkinlaisia todistuksia.” Letter from Madetoja to Heikki Klemetti, 20 November 1910, quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 78. 51 Since the beginning of the nineteenth century, Finland has offered generous stipends for artists and musicians. Today the Arts Council of Finland oversees this funding under the supervision of the Ministry of Education and Culture. Funding for artists in 2012 was 34.5 million Euros, or upwards of 45 million Canadian dollars. See “Finland: Support to Artists and Other Creative Workers,” Compendium: Cultural Policies and Trends in Europe, accessed 5 July 2018, www.culturalpolicies.net/web/finland.php?aid=812. 245 approach. In Kullervo, Madetoja describes the spirit of German Romanticism through technical means that are close to those Wagnerian influences embraced by César Franck. In Sävellyksiä viululle ja pianolle, on the other hand, Madetoja explores the pure classicism of Gabriel Fauré’s music.52 In the following pages, I will examine those pieces most strongly influenced by French styles, propose two contemporaneous lines of style in Madetoja’s French-inspired output, and suggest probable compositional influences and musical debts, while pointing the way toward future avenues of study. Dated 14 March 1911, Madetoja’s Konserttialkusoitto (“Concert Overture”), op. 7, is the first major work Madetoja completed during his stay in Paris. Although its fugal opening theme might first come across as overly academic, its “light, easy-going idiom”53 nonetheless lends the work an endearingly personal touch (ex. 5.13).54 As a stylistic parallel, Madetoja is sometimes compared with d’Indy’s student Alberic Magnard (1865-1914). Madetoja first heard of Magnard—who was completely unknown in early-twentieth-century Finland—via an effusive letter from Kuula, who had spent the autumn of 1909 in Paris: 52 Tyrväinen, “Kansallisten piirteiden,” 263-65. 53 Korhonen, “Orchestral Works,” par. 3. 54 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 113. 246 Grasp now in your hands Debussy’s First Quartet and look at its contents; please, someone else, take a small vocal work by Chausson and discover what kind of pattern this man makes, or browse the sparkling orchestral technique and strange beautiful melodies of Magnard’s B Minor Symphony. Take a look! Nowhere else can you find anything so polished and mature. But why is this not already known? — It is not known, as in Finland we pursue Germanness. Only here [in Paris] will you realize that the orchestra is not a single instrument, but rather many, each with a different colour and character; only here can you learn how to employ and follow this colour.55 While Madetoja may or may not have complied with Kuula’s suggestion to browse Magnard’s works, the Konserttialkusoitto does have certain stylistic parallels with Magnard’s Fourth 55 “Otappa nyt käsiisi Debussy’n I Kvartetti ja katso sen sisältöä, ota joku muu, ota pieni laulu Chausson’ilta ja katsele minkälaisia kuviota se mies tekee, tahi selaile Magnard’in B moll sinfonian helmeilevää orkesteritekniikkaa ja hänen omituisen kauniita melodiojansa. Ota ja katso! Minkään maailman kirjallisuudesta et niin valmista ja kypsää löydä. Mutta miksei sitä ole ennen tietty? — Ei ole tietty, meillä on Suomessa ollut saksalaisuus tiellä. Wasta [sic] täällä tulee käsittämään, että orkesteri ei ole yksi instrumentti vaan, että niitä on monta ja kullakin eri värinsä ja individualiteettinsa, vasta täällä niitten väriä oppii käyttämään ja seuraamaan.” Letter from Toivo Kuula to Madetoja, 19 January 1910; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 60-61. Example 5.13: Madetoja, Konserttialkusoitto, op. 7, opening. 247 Symphony (1913). Both works share a classical clarity and symmetry, an unconventional, somewhat modal, approach to modulation, and clear, unmixed orchestral colours—all of which, incidentally, are typical of d’Indy’s impact on the Schola.56 Although it was written in Vienna, Öinen karkelokuva (Night Revels, 1911), op. 11 is perhaps Madetoja’s most French-inspired composition. The introduction relies on orchestral colour, presenting short, fragmentary motives in solo woodwinds to the accompaniment of string tremolos. The castanets in the first theme are a clear expression of exoticism; a fragmented transitional section launches a short, waltzlike theme. Solos in the French horn and clarinet bring a momentary pause prior to the work’s recapitulation. Despite its sophisticated, delicate ambience, Salmenhaara finds the work “structurally and stylistically fragmentary, and the thematic material is rather impersonal.”57 On the other hand, Toivo Saarenpää considers it unparalleled, “not only in Finnish musical production, but in modern orchestral literature.”58 Madetoja revised it in 1919, renaming it Tanssinäky (Dance Vision). It was subsequently printed by the Danish publisher Wilhelm Hansen, and it remains in the Finnish orchestral canon.59 56 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 108. 57 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 99-100. 58 “Ei ainoastaan suomalaisessa sävellystuotannossa, vaan yleensä nykyaikaisessa orkesterikirjallisuudessa.” Quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 136. 59 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 99-100. 248 Example 5.14: Madetoja, Kullervo, op. 15, measures 243-44. 249 Example 5.15: Sibelius, Pohjolan tytär, op. 49, measures 160-61. 250 After the light, airy French sound of Konserttialkusoitto, Madetoja’s first symphonic poem Kullervo, op. 15 (1913) presents something of an enigma. In some respects, it suggests a return to Finnish influences. There is, of course, the decidedly Finnish subject matter; in the Kalevala, the tragic character of Kullervo is commonly seen as a parallel for Finland’s struggle for independence.60 There are also strong parallels with Sibelius, as Salmenhaara has shown. For example, the tragic stabbing of an E minor dominant-ninth chord over a bass G recalls the culmination of the main theme of the first movement of Sibelius’s First Symphony; both pieces also end with a quiet pizzicato E minor chord.61 Similarly, a repetitive percussive motif in high woodwinds, which alternates with parallel chromatic thirds in trombones and tuba, is redolent of Pohjolan tytär, op. 49 (Pohjola’s Daughter, 1906) (exx. 5.14 and 5.15).62 60 The Kalevala relates that, following the vicious slaughter of his family, Kullervo is enslaved and branded; he escapes by committing murder. He unknowingly seduces his sister, who kills herself in shame. Kullervo violently avenges the death of his family members and returns to the site of incest to commit suicide. His tragic tale inspired Aleksis Kivi to write a five-act drama based on the Kullervo legends in 1859 and a second play in 1864; later in the century, Julius Krohn (1835-1888) and Zachris Topelius (1818-1898) imparted Kullervo with more overtly patriotic connotations. For more, see Glenda Dawn Goss, “A Backdrop for Young Sibelius: The Intellectual Genesis of the ‘Kullervo’ Symphony, 19th-Century Music 27, no. 1 (Summer 2003), 49-50. 61 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 114. 62 Ibid., 114. 251 However, whereas Sibelius’s Kullervo, op. 7 (1892) was hailed as a Finnish paradigm,63 Madetoja’s Kullervo shows the integration of diverse international elements.64 While Salmenhaara notes the influence of Tchaikovsky and Rimsky-Korsakov,65 Helena Tyrväinen draws an even more convincing parallel with César Franck’s symphonic poem Le Chasseur maudit (The Accursed Huntsman, 1882).66 Both compositions, for example, open with a horn motif that represents the protagonist. In Kullervo, the instrument can be interpreted as a shepherd’s horn or a war horn, although it does not bring to mind either; 63 Following the première, Oskar Merikanto wrote that “we recognize [the melodies] as our own, even though we had never heard them before.” Päivälehti, 28 April 1892; quoted in Goss, Sibelius, 131. 64 It is important to note that Madetoja would not have known Sibelius’s Kullervo, as Sibelius had withdrawn it following its fourth performance in 1893; nor would he have known the first and third parts of Sibelius’s Lemminkäinen series, op. 22 (1895, r. 1897, 1939) which were crafted in the tradition of the Kalevala. Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 114. 65 Ibid., 114. 66 César Franck (1822-1890) was a teacher of composition at the Paris Conservatoire; Vincent d’Indy was one of his students. Example 5.17: Madetoja, Kullervo, opening. Example 5.16: Franck, Le Chasseur maudit, opening. 252 the programmatic content of Le Chasseur maudit, on the other hand, makes it clear that the instrument refers to hunting. To render the character of Kullervo in a dramatic light, Madetoja opens his work with timpani and string tremolos; the first horn solo sounds above in measure 2 (ex. 5.16). Franck, on the other hand, delays his muted kettledrum-tremolo until measure 12, and his initial horn motif (ex. 5.17) opens the work, sounding alone.67 Tyrväinen identifies several other musical parallels between the two works: the expansion of dotted rhythmic figures contained in their subjects, the articulation of triplet rhythms through pedal points, the derivation of similar legato, chromatic motives from previous material, the splicing of these motives into a prevailing staccato texture, and the use of piercing flutes and piccolos during dramatic forte sections.68 However, one of Kullervo’s most significant links with contemporary French music is—ironically—its use of Finnish subject matter. Interest in national thought and folk music was particularly strong within the Schola Cantorum, thanks largely to Richard Wagner, who personally encouraged d’Indy to write music drawing on French legendary sources. As Wagner stated in an 1880 interview for the magazine Le Gaulois: “So tap into your legends, which are innumerable, and of infinite richness. So read your poems of the middle ages, your songs of heroic deeds, even your novels of chivalry; they form the purest treasure of your intellectual archives.”69 67 These examples are indebted to Tyrväinen, “Kansallisten piirteiden,” 261. 68 Tyrväinen, “Kansallisten piirteiden,” 261-62. 69 “Lisez donc vos poèmes du moyen âge, vos chansons de geste, voire vos romans de chevalerie; ils forment le plus pur trésor de vos archives intellectuelles.” Le Gaulois, 5 January 1880; reprinted in Louis de Fourcaud, “Richard Wagner et l’opéra français,” in Bayreuther Festblätter in Wort und Bild: Gesammelte Beiträge deutscher, französischer, belgischer, schweizerischer, spanischer, englischer, amerikanischer und 253 Accordingly, after 1880, d’Indy incorporated French melodies into many of his works, including Symphonie sur un chant montagnard français (1886), the opera L’etranger (1903), and the symphonic poem Jour d’été à la montagne (1905). He also undertook the compilation of a series of collections of French folk music from his home region of Vivarais, an ongoing effort that would extend for four decades. Thus Madetoja’s decision to exploit the Kalevala as a source of inspiration is unsurprising; in Kullervo, he evidently took as his starting point not only Finnish national interests but also Wagner’s ideal that a composer’s task is to re-establish the relationship between folk and art music.70 Kullervo garnered considerable critical acclaim. At its première on 14 October 1913, it was hailed as a masterpiece. Evert Katila suggested that “Madetoja is a first-class artist, and in his latest creation, his orchestral skills reach new heights. […] The composer treats, develops, and illuminates the subject with iron consistency, and the many rhythmically interesting motives are of particular significance. […] A reference to Sibelius’s Pohjola’s Daughter does not lead the listener astray.”71 This positive reception was doubtless a factor in Madetoja’s later decision to compose a symphonic poem with chorus entitled Sammon italienischer Schriftsteller und Künstler mit Facsimiles aus den Original-Partituren Richard Wagners, ed. Central-Leitung des Allgemeinen Richard Wagner-Vereins (Munich, 1884), 42; quoted in Marie-Hélène Benoit-Otis, “Richard Wagner, Louis de Fourcaud, and a Path for French Opera in the 1880s,” ACT: Zeitschrift für Musik & Performance 3 (2012), 3. 70 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 264; Tyrväinen, “Kansallisten piirteiden,” 271-72. 71 “Madetoja on ensiluokan väritaiteilija ja tässä uusimmassa luomassaan kohoaa hänen soitinnustaitonsa huippuunsa. […] Rautaisella johdonmukaisuudella käsittelee, kehittää ja valaisee säveltäjä aiheitaan, joista useat rytmillisesti mielenkiintoiset motiivit varsinkin kiinnittävät mieltä. […] Muuan viittaus Sibeliuksen ‘Pohjolan tyttäreen’ ei vie kuulijaa harhateille.” Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 112. 254 ryöstö, op. 24 (“The Abduction of the Sampo,” 1915), which was likewise inspired by the Kalevala. Although it incorporates some French elements—including soft, cushioned seventh and ninth chords that show the influence of contemporary French music—in Sammon ryöstö Madetoja comes closer to what Salmenhaara terms “a ‘Finnish’ tone.”72 Unlike Kullervo, in Sammon ryöstö Madetoja succeeded in treating the Kalevala’s material in a fresh and musically striking way.73 By the time Madetoja started work on his Second Symphony in 1916, his first sojourn in Paris was a distant memory. In the intervening years, he had undertaken studies in Vienna with Robert Fuchs (1911-12), weathered an orchestral war in Helsinki (1912-13), travelled to Karelia, the cultural heart of historical Finland, to conduct the Viipurin musiikinystäväin orkesteri (1914-16), and returned to Helsinki to accept positions with the University of Helsinki and the newspaper Helsingin Sanomat. Throughout this period, Madetoja’s published writing in Finnish journals leans strongly toward Finnish music at the expense of French music.74 It is conceivable that, during these years of personal growth and intense 72 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 134. 73 Ibid., 134. 74 From 1913 to 1918, Madetoja’s focus was on national music. During this period, he wrote a number of important articles on Finnish music, including four important articles on Sibelius; however, his only article on French music was a 1915 homage to Camille Saint Saëns. See Leevi Madetoja, “Jean Sibeliuksen uusimmat pianosävellykset,” Uusi Suometar, 28 May 1913, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 68-71; Leevi Madetoja, “Jean Sibeliuksen uusin orkesterirunoelma ‘Aallottaret’,” Uusi Suometar, 14 July 1914, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 72-74; Leevi Madetoja, “Jean Sibeliuksen taiteilijauran yleiset piirteet,” Helsingin Sanomat, 8 December 1915, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 75-88; Leevi Madetoja, “Jean Sibelius: pari persoonallista muistelmaa,” Karjala, 8 December 1915, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 89-91; and Leevi Madetoja, “Camille Saint-Saens 80-vuotias,” Otava (1915): 463. 255 sociopolitical turmoil, he considered national efforts more pressing than French influences. It is also possible that he was discouraged from strong expressions of French style by the Finnish government’s close political ties with Germany, which only waned following the latter’s defeat in the First World War. The Second Symphony’s similarities with Debussy’s Prélude are therefore of great significance, since Madetoja retained these Gallic aspects in the form of deeply ingrained musical procedures even during a time of relative abandonment of French styles. Following the 1918 Civil War, Madetoja turned even more strongly to French music as a source of inspiration.75 One of his first tasks was the 1919 revision of Tanssinäky; this was followed by some of his finest works, including Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto, the Third Symphony, and the ballet-pantomime Okon Fuoko. The first of these, Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto, op. 53 (Comedy Overture, 1923) clearly represents Madetoja’s refined French style. Avoiding an overly weighty demeanour even in fortissimo passagework, it embodies, as Salmenhaara suggests, the core of Madetoja’s art: subtlety, balanced 75 Madetoja’s 1918 return to the subject of French music was marked by an article on Debussy inspired by the latter’s recent passing: “Sotavuosina kuolleita kuuluisia säveltäjiä II: Claude Debussy,” Helsingin Sanomat, 31 August 1918, reprinted in Madetoja: Kirjoituksia musiikista, 34-39. Several articles on French music followed: “Parisin soitannollisesta elämästä,” Helsingin Sanomat, 19 October and 12 November 1920, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 40-42; “Polytonia: eräs uusi suunta nykyajan säveltaiteessa,” Helsingin Sanomat, 1 January 1921, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 43-46; “Parisissa käymässä,” Suomen Musiikkilehti, no. 6 (1924): n.p., reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 47-49; “Parisin musiikkielämästä,” Helsingin Sanomat, 24 March, 5 April, 17 April, and 24 May 1925; “Maurice Ravel: luonnekuva kuuluisasta ranskalaisesta sävelmestarista,” Helsingin Sanomat, 10 May 1925, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 55-60; “Ylimääräinen, kesäinen soitantokausi Parisissa,” Helsingin Sanomat, 18 June 1925, reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 50-54; “Parisin katuhuudot,” Suomen Musiikkilehti, no. 4 (1925): n.p., reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 61-63; and “Houilles’in kottarainen ja kukot,” Suomen Musiikkilehti, no. 6 (1926): n.p., reprinted in Madetoja, Kirjoituksia musiikista, 64-67. 256 classicism, a modicum of counterpoint, and the ability to say a lot with limited means. Further, it reveals a “fourth dimension” in Madetoja’s orchestral production: “in addition to pastoralism, resignation and tragedy, it shows a gentle, playful sense of humor.”76 All three themes of the work’s free-rondo form are distinctive, maintaining interest through unusually long lines and whimsical rhythmic gestures. A special characteristic of the third theme is its parallel triads, which sound in divisi flutes (ex. 5.18). Korhonen states that “despite its seeming innocuousness, [Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto] is one of the most coherent and most delightful works Madetoja ever wrote.”77 Remarkably, it was neglected by critics after the première. Evert Katila and Väinö Pesola each spared it one sentence, and Karl Ekman less than that. Leo Funtek found “a certain conventionalism”; Heikki Klemetti could not “get a clear grasp” of its contents and wished for “something a little more resonant, perhaps with a slightly more pronounced melodic line.”78 Madetoja was 76 Madetoja, Salmenhaara, 212. 77 Korhonen, “Orchestral Works,” par. 10. 78 “Jotakin kaikuvampaa kokoa olisi ehkä kaivannut, ehkä myös hieman selvempää melodista piirrosta jossakin.” Madetoja, Salmenhaara, 211. Example 5.18: Madetoja, Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto, op. 53, third theme. 257 well known on one hand as a contemplative Finnish lyricist, and on the other as a symphonist whose serious and monumental works included Kullervo and the Second Symphony. He appears to have been pigeonholed by these successes, for his deviation from them confused Finnish audiences. This is, perhaps, most evident in Ikonen’s concert review for the Suomen Musiikkilehteen, which states that Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto “contained some sort of artistic feature that, coming from Madetoja, appeared to some extent contrasting and foreign. It could anyway be that it was the finding of a first hearing and that this strange tune is later recognized as a positive development within Madetoja’s flowing and delicate production.”79 Contra Wagner, who declared in 1849 that “the last symphony has already been written,”80 1920s Paris supported a circle of symphonic composers representing “a little known but important branch of French music of the day which evolved in the shadow of triumphant impressionism and was represented by the likes of an Albert Roussel, an Alberic Magnard or a Paul le Flem,”81 composers who most certainly warrant comparison with Madetoja in future studies. Madetoja’s Third Symphony in A Major, op. 55 was conceived in 79 “tuntui jonkinlainen artisti-nen piirre, joka Madetojasta lähteneenä vaikutti jossain määrin omaksutulta ja vieraalta. Saattaa kumminkin olla, että se toteamus oli kuulijassa vain ensikertalaisuutta, ja että hän myöhemmin huomaa tämän toistaiseksi oudon sävyn myönteiseksi kehitykseksi Madetojan vuolaassa ja herkässä tuotannossa.” Madetoja, Salmenhaara, 211. 80 “Die letzte Symphonie bereits geschrieben sei.” Richard Wagner, Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft (1849; repr., Berlin: Contumax Hofenberg, 2016), 54. 81 Riita Pulliainen, liner notes for Leevi Madetoja, Madetoja Orchestral Works 4: Laurel Wreaths, Oulu Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Arvo Volmer, Alba ABCD 162, 2001, CD, 5. 258 this heady environment in 1925, during a stay in the Parisian suburb of Huilles82; it is the composer’s final symphony and widely considered his “orchestral masterpiece.”83 Unlike such orchestral works as Konserttialkusoitto and Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto, it lacks the resignation and melancholy most commonly associated with Madetoja’s oeuvre.84 Instead, it serves as a showcase for French elegance. It is refined and well-proportioned, employing colourful, translucent orchestration and flowing counterpoint.85 Even by Madetoja’s standards, the work has an exceptionally airy sound.86 Henri-Claude Fantapié describes it as “Gallic in its classicism, in its elegiac character, in its refusal to seek an easy effect, in its effort to be musique pure.”87 The opening is cheerful, illustrating Kaipainen’s assessment as “a gentle counterpoint of unclouded thoughts” infused with a “glowing optimism.”88 The movement is in two parts: it opens with an introductory Andantino with an inviting melody that is treated in a number of different ways over the course of the movement. An Allegretto follows, featuring a lilting, 82 This stay is documented in an entertaining article for the Finnish journal Suomen musiikkilehti entitled “Houilles’in kottarainen ja kukot” [Houilles’s Starlings and Roosters], in which Madetoja transcribes various sounds that interrupted the composition of his Third Symphony. 83 Korhonen, “Orchestral Works,” par. 11. 84 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 232. 85 Korhonen, “Orchestral Works,” par. 11. 86 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 54. 87 Pulliainen, Madetoja Orchestral Works, 5. 88 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 54. 259 rhythmically engaging theme that appears in canon with itself. Development is limited, and the movement fades to a close following a simple recapitulation. It perfectly characterizes Madetoja’s French influence: the opening theme is lyrical, displays concise melodic material, is developed throughout the Symphony, is elegant and serene, and outlines seventh and ninth harmonies that suggest a possible French origin.89 The Adagio second movement, in D minor, opens with a peaceful, folk-inspired canon that gradually builds in power.90 This is followed by a broad, lyrical melody in the cellos that is imitated in violins, and a powerful restatement of the main theme in the brass that calms down as quickly as it appears.91 The overall atmosphere is contemplative and melancholy, but Madetoja’s well-crafted melodic lines maintain a sense of forward motion.92 The third movement, “Allegro non troppo,” is as long and eventful as the two opening movements are short. The brass open with a staccato chord motif. A theme reminiscent of 89 Koponen, “Symphony,” 27. 90 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 231. 91 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 54. 92 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 231. Example 5.19: Madetoja, Symphony No. 3, third movement, measures 44-45. 260 the scherzo from Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony follows, launching a triplet ostinato texture, which continues throughout the movement; even as one of Madetoja’s more common mannerisms, it is “fresh and stimulating” here.93 Altogether, the movement contains three themes, the second of which is rhythmically and melodically (in inversion) reminiscent of Dukas’s L’apprenti sorcier (ex. 5.19). Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the movement is the strange chromaticism that emerges midway through the movement in tandem with the third theme; Salmenhaara considers it “Madetoja’s most brilliant thematic invention.”94 A rhythmic dimension adds to the interest. The theme lags behind the accompanimental texture by a dotted quarter and, furthermore, is shaped into short triangular phrases, each three dotted-quarters long. Consequently, it shows a lack of congruity within the established quadruple compound (12/8) meter (ex. 5.20).95 93 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 54. 94 “Se on Madetojan nerokkaimpia temaattisia keksintöjä.” Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 231. 95 Ibid, 232. Example 5.20: Madetoja, Symphony No. 3, third movement, measures 99-104. 261 The finale, “Pesante tempo moderato - Allegretto,” brings back the solemn introductory motifs by way of a pesante unison hymn reminiscent of Schubert’s C major symphony.96 This is, however, a diversionary ploy. The Allegretto brings a galloping rhythm that superimposes triple meter over common-time material; it is reminiscent of Strauss’s Der Rosenkavalier (ex. 5.21).97 Although Kaipainen notes an endearing “capriciousness and personal quality,”98 the waltz also contains a darker element in its broad, developmental modulations. The recapitulation presents an expedited repeat of the introductory material.99 The ending is surprising; just when the symphony seems to be readying for an energetic close, it fades to silence.100 The Third Symphony was premiered alongside Aslak Smaukka, Op. 37, a Symphonic Poem for male choir, baritone and orchestra, in Madetoja’s fifth composer concert in 96 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 232. 97 Ibid., 232. 98 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 55. 99 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 232. 100 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 55. Example 5.21: Madetoja, Symphony No. 3, fourth movement, measures 72-79. 262 Helsinki on 8 April 1926.101 Leo Funtek, in a Svenska Pressen review, described the audience as “very mediocre”; it “did not know its responsibilities and besides it had little knowledge of music-cultural, patriotic aspects either in or out.”102 Although reviewers praised the Symphony, none of them were able to discern its true meaning. Many expressed their expectations of a sequel to the tragic and monumental Second Symphony, in contrast to which the lightness and consistency of the Third felt somehow less significant. Henri-Claude Fantapié explained the premiere in this way: “The listeners expected the opera [Pohjalaisia] to be followed by a nationalistic anthem and were disappointed to hear something that seemed to them to be hermetic and that, to crown it all, was lacking in pomposity and solemnity … the properties the majority of Finnish music-lovers always expect in a new work.”103 Unfortunately, this reception left a lasting impression, preventing the Symphony from earning an important position in Finland’s canon of symphonic music and prompting Madetoja to focus his efforts on printing the score for the Second Symphony in lieu of the Third. Nevertheless, the Third Symphony is now widely considered Madetoja’s finest, and one of the few Finnish works that can be placed in the orchestral canon alongside 101 The latter was composed in 1917, but due to wartime restrictions it could not be performed at the time. Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 229. 102 Ibid., 229. 103 Pulliainen, Madetoja Orchestral Works, 5. 263 Sibelius. Salmenhaara’s tongue-in-cheek remark is apt: “Madetoja showed in his Third that Sibelius had another full-length symphony.”104 The suite from the pantomime ballet Okon Fuoko, op. 58 (1925-27) is one of Madetoja’s most striking and original works. In fact, according to Salmenhaara, it is “one of the finest scores in Finnish music,” possessing “an unusual clarity, translucence and richness of nuance.”105 The original pantomime drama—written by Danish writer Poul Knudsen, who collaborated with Sibelius on Scaramouche—was constructed around a heterogenous mixture of dialogue and mimed expression that was deemed dramatically unsatisfactory at the February 1930 première. However, Madetoja’s concise orchestral suite, consisting of four movements performed without a break, was highly successful, vividly expressing the symbolic, fairy-tale character of Knudsen’s play and once again illustrating Madetoja’s mastery of orchestral colour.106 The opening number, “Okon Fuoko, unitaikari” (Okon Fuoko, the Dream Wizard), introduces the story’s titular protagonist, a dollmaker (ex. 5.22). Tam tam and castanets evoke a distant, mysterious atmosphere without resorting to the superficial exoticism of the Japanese theme; sparing use of the celesta, although evocative of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker, is nonetheless used to novel effect here. Okon Fuoko largely avoids traditional thematic 104 Salmenhaara, Leevi Madetoja, 230. 105 Salmenhaara, “Composer from Ostrobothnia,” par. 12. 106 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 55. 264 development, and its subjects are short, often consisting of only two or three notes; Salmenhaara goes so far as to suggest that the work’s core motive is a descending semitone, Example 5.22: Madetoja, Okon Fuoko, Suite 1, “Okon Fuoko, unitaikuri,” measures 1-8. 265 an interval that appears for the first time in the horns in measure 7.107 Harmonies are occasionally bitonal; even the opening measures show different tonal implications of the stratified layers. The E-G# dyad in con sordino strings (m. 6), while reminiscent of Dukas’s L’apprenti sorcier, also finds fitting antecedents in “Laideronnette: impératrice des pagodes” from Ravel’s Mother Goose Suite (1910-11) and Dukas’s La Péri (1912); the latter, like Okon Fuoko, contains an opening pianissimo string gesture (m. 8-11) and discreet celesta garnishes (m. 10). The fourth and final movement combines three different scenes: “Miehen tanssi” (Man’s Dance), “Naisen tanssi” (Woman’s Dance), and “Dance Grotesque.” The grotesque character of the finale appears to be based largely on the obstinate repetition of a woodwind phrase and the alternation of 3/4 and 7/8 meter (the latter marked “three and a half over four time” in the score); thus Kaipainen suggests that the model could well be the “Danse générale” finale of Ravel’s Daphnis et Chloe.108 Other scholars link Okon Fuoko with French Neoclassicism; Kimmo Korhonen, for example, finds Neoclassical overtones reminiscent of Prokofiev in “Miehen tanssi” (Man’s Dance) and the closing “Danse grotesque.”109 Yet another source of inspiration for the tenacious rhythms and dissonant harmonic language could be the music of Diaghilev and the Ballet Russes—particularly Stravinsky’s Firebird 107 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 261. 108 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 55. 109 Korhonen, “Orchestral Works,” par. 12. 266 (1910); Stravinsky’s Petrushka (1911), especially the second tableau; and Sibelius’s Scaramouche (1913; premièred 1922).110 Conclusions to This Chapter This chapter illustrates similarities between certain compositional principles inherent in the music of Debussy and Madetoja, including the use of freely floating rhythms, layering, shifting accompanimental figures, ambiguous harmonies and section boundaries, and near-constant thematic variation. It also explores French elements in other works by Madetoja, suggesting points of comparison with a number of early twentieth-century French composers. Madetoja’s approach was striking in early-twentieth-century Finland, a country that based its compositional attitudes soundly in the German tradition while viewing French music with suspicion. Thus, while Madetoja ushered elements of French music into his compositions rather furtively, he did cultivate an airy, refined style that is emphasized by the almost complete lack of pathos associated with the Germanic style: In particular in the later works Madetoja’s actual thematic and structural work seems often to be taking a back seat at the expense of lyrical elements. To take an example, many of the individual symphony movements are ‘beautiful’ rather than ‘tensioned’, which says little for the impact on Madetoja of the German symphonic tradition.111 110 In a conversation with me on 23 March 2018, Daniel Grimley suggested that Petrushka was a major influence for La Péri, just as Firebird was for Scaramouche. 111 Kaipainen, “French Colouring,” 49. 267 The later works are now seen as Madetoja’s finest. Referring to the Third Symphony and the Comedy Overture, Heineken concludes that: “today they are often seen as Madetoja’s crowning achievement. Their humane, unpretentious classicism and their cultured outlook on the roots of Finnish art make them unique in Finnish music.”112 112 Heininen, Sinfonia III; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 32. 268 Conclusion Leevi Madetoja represents the consciousness of a composer whose music has immortal value, even though his great works have been infrequently performed. Madetoja’s music, from which harsh self-criticism has eliminated anything of low value, is the music of the future, and it will surely once again be given a place of honour within the world’s musical literature. The Finnish people must be happy to have Jean Sibelius and to have Leevi Madetoja.1 Future research is absolutely necessary if we are to uncover the progressive nature of Madetoja’s music. An investigation of additional works in his oeuvre and of relationships with colleagues and place in musical currents both in Finland and in France would throw more light into his career and music. Each of these endeavors would be aided by further examination of source materials housed in collections across Finland. Madetoja’s correspondence is held in archives in Helsinki at the National Library of Finland and the Finnish Literature Society; his autograph manuscripts at the National Library; and his personal library (approximately 2,900 titles) at the Oulu University Library. Other printed matter is available in public and private archives across Finland. Madetoja’s newspaper and journal articles are available via the National Library; at the time of this writing, many 1 “Leevi Madetoja on ollut kaikkien tietoisuudessa säveltäjänä, jonka musiikilla on kuolemattomuuden arvo, mutta varsinkin hänen suuret teoksensa ovat jääneet suhteellisen vähäisen esityksen varaan. Madetojan musiikki, josta ankara itsekritiik ki on karsinut pois kaiken halpahintaisen, on tulevaisuuden musiikkia, jolle varmasti vielä kerran tunnustetaan kaikkialla kunniasija maailman musiikkikirjal lisuudessa. Suomen kansa saa olla onnellinen siitä, että sillä on Jean Sibelius ja että sillä on Leevi Madetoja.” Tauno Pylkkänen; quoted in Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 330. 269 articles up to 1929 are freely accessible online, providing a significant amount of readily available sources. A primary avenue of ongoing study should involve Madetoja’s repertoire, notably his symphonies. The First Symphony, despite its echoes of Sibelius and Tchaikovsky, is a mature and restrained work. It features highly original orchestration, full technical control, and intriguing harmonic touches showing the influence of French composers. The Third, one of Madetoja’s finest works, continues in the direction set by the Second with increasingly sophisticated structural and thematic manipulation. A study of the evolution of harmonic and structural elements over the course of Madetoja’s three symphonies would advance the current understanding of Madetoja’s style. The symphonies notwithstanding, Madetoja’s output, consisting of 82 works with opus numbers and numerous unclassified works, contains a wealth of material for further research. One intriguing inquiry would be an analysis of a line in Madetoja’s orchestral output epitomized by Konserttialkusoitto, Huvinäytelmäalkusoitto, and the Third Symphony, a trajectory that Salmenhaara suggests is connected by its lightness, optimism, and French style and that runs almost unnoticed within Madetoja’s oeuvre.2 There is also significant room for exploration of other important symphonic works, including Tanssinäky, the ballet-pantomime Okon Fuoko, the symphonic poem Kullervo, and the symphonic poems with choir Sammon ryöstö, Aslak Smaukka, and Väinämöisen kylvö. 2 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 282. 270 Madetoja’s extensive output of works for choir, which Lappalainen and Salmenhaara deem “one of the most impressive achievements in the Finnish choral canon,” is also deserving of further review. This body of works includes numerous cantatas, pieces for men’s and mixed choir, and solo works.3 Finally, there are Madetoja’s operas. Salmenhaara states that Madetoja is, in addition to Aarre Merikanto, the only past Finnish opera composer representative of an international standard.4 Although the emphasis in this dissertation has been on Pohjalaisia and its national associations, Helsingin Sanomat critic Tauno Karila wrote that Juha is “to be considered the author’s masterpiece and one of Finland’s greatest operas, even though it has not yet reached the status in operatic literature to which it belongs.”5 Another important area of research involves further analysis of the aesthetic environment supporting Madetoja and his music. While Madetoja naturally felt the influence of Sibelius and of the cultural period in which he developed his craft, scholars have long considered Madetoja’s output as suggestive of a broader Finnish style that encompasses not only Madetoja and Sibelius but also other early twentieth-century Finnish composers. For example, Timo Mäkinen, writing in 1965, suggests that “characteristics, earlier thought of as being exclusively those of Sibelius, have later been accepted as Finnish 3 Lappalainen and Salmenhaara, “Leevi Madetojan Teokset,” 120. 4 Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 351. 5 Juhaa “on pidettävä tekijänsä pääteoksena ja suomalaisen oopperasävellyksen suursaavutuksena, vaikka se ei vielä ole päässyt siihen asemaan oopperakirjallisuudessa mikä sille kuuluu.” Salmenhaara, Madetoja, 324. 271 in a wider sense.”6 The idea of a typically Finnish sound, which Madetoja, Sibelius, and others have attempted to describe,7 is problematic, owing in no small part to the diversity of approaches in early twentieth-century Finland. As Madetoja wrote in 1914, “Let us remember the musical output of our own folk. Both Sibelius and Melartin have composed patriotic works. Who would believe that they are men of the same nationality?”8 Nevertheless, such an exploration would provide a solid foundation for a broad comparative study of Madetoja and his contemporaries. A final productive avenue for future research involves Madetoja’s complicated relationship with Paris. It would be worthwhile to catalogue Madetoja’s interactions with French composers through correspondence and personal accounts of the era. It would also prove insightful to build on the work of Jane Ellen Harrison concerning debussysme in early twentieth-century France.9 Harrison not only lists a number of musical processes seen in debussyste compositions but also identifies a wide number of composers whose work would fall under this category, including Raymond Bonheur, André Caplet, Charles Koechlin, Paul Le Flem, Maurice Ravel, Albert Roussel, and Florent Schmitt. As Harrison suggests, 6 Mäkinen and Nummi, Musica Fennica, 50; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 31. 7 See, for example, Jean Sibelius, “Some Viewpoints Concerning Folk Music and Its Influence on the Musical Arts,” trans. Margareta Martin, in Daniel Grimley, Jean Sibelius, 318-25. 8 Leevi Madetoja, “Ajankysymyksiä: Mita on kansallinen musiikki?,” Aika (1914): n.p.; trans. Karjalainen, “Nationalism,” 197n. 9 Jane Ellen Harrison, “Fashionable Innovation: Debussysme in Early Twentieth-Century France” (PhD diss., Ohio State University, 2011). 272 debussysme cannot be easily labeled a style or even an idiom, for it encompasses a wide variety of practices; rather, it should be seen a “set of possibilities that [manifest] differently in each composer’s idiom and even in each composition.”10 Pinpointing such possibilities in Madetoja’s music with a greater degree of specificity could be used to support or refine Fantapié’s position, described in Chapter Five, that Madetoja was less concerned with the music of Debussy than that of a small circle of early twentieth-century French symphonists, including Magnard, Roussel, and Le Flem. Madetoja’s efforts support a diverse oeuvre. His output, Karjalainen suggests, comprises “a synthesis of the European styles from the beginning of the 20th century.”11 This eclecticism is not, however, contrary to a unified compositional voice, but rather a natural consequence of a strong musical personality.12 Antero Karttunen supports this perspective by stating that “Leevi Madetoja was the creator and the discoverer of new modes of expression. For his was an original, national, visionary musical outlook, by virtue of which he was able to make familiar procedures serve the purpose of expressing in music previously uncaptured moods.” 13 10 Harrison, “Fashionable Innovation,” 5. 11 Karjalainen, Madetojan oopperat, 3. 12 Koponen, “Symphony,” 31. 13 Karttunen, Pohjalaisia; quoted in Koponen, “Symphony,” 31. 273 Despite a lifetime of critical acclaim, Madetoja’s music is today rarely performed outside Finland. While this may, in part, be due to Sibelius’s overwhelming legacy, it is possible that Madetoja’s deviation in the 1920s from contemplative lyricism and momumental seriousness—the two attributes for which his music was most celebrated—confused and alienated Finnish audiences. As Ralf Parland, writing in 1945, states: Because Madetoja never makes any concessions to the listener, his music has not gained the position it deserves in the public’s awareness. People are now beginning to open their ears to it. But that he deserves far greater attention, and that his music is both rare and precious and not simply a poor edition of the music of Sibelius - that is something they have not yet learnt.14 It is hoped that the work presented here will spark greater interest outside Finland in this relatively neglected composer. 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Abbreviation Meaning b. i. basic idea c. i. contrasting idea trans. transitional acc. accompaniment pres. presentation cont. continuation cad. cadential phr. phrase ant. antecedent cons. consequent v. p. varied phrase n. p. new phrase mod. modulatory → modulatory dev. developmental ↑ more tension ↓ less tension 291 Bar numbers 1 3 6 8 10 13 15 17 18 19 20 24 28 32 35 37 39 41Thematic analysis Themes Motives • linear 1a 1a 1a1 1a1’ 1a2 1a3 1b A1 A2 A2’ A2’ A3 • accompanimentalFormal structureb. i. b. i. pres. phr. pres. phr.b. i. cont. cad. b. i. Measure grouping 3 2 2 3 2 2Tonal structure Gb+ Cadencesmodel copyComments resembles sonata-allegro "transition"Proceduresseq.Eb+/G- → Bb- Cb+/Eb- → F#-cont. cad. 2cont. phr. cont. phr. dev. dev. mod. dev. Sentence LevelSentence Form Sentence Form v. p. n. p. v. p. v. p.c. i. antecedent consequentc. i. Period levelPeriod FormThematic Area 1acc.1 acc.1’ acc.21b 1c A3Theme 1292 Bar numbersThematic analysis Themes Motives • linear • accompanimentalFormal structure Measure groupingTonal structure CadencesCommentsProcedures Sentence Level Period level42 48 51 54 58 62 64 69 71 73 75 77 78 83 84 89 90 99 103A3 A3 1a 1a B 1a3 C D A4 D A4acc.2+3 acc.1’v.p.stableAb+/C- Eb+/C-IACmodel copy model copy copyresembles sonata-allegr "transition"modelseq.seq. seq.→ Bb+/D-/G- Gb+/Bb- Bb+ Db+/F- Ab+F#-dev.v. p. n.p. n.p. n.p.↓n.p.mod., ↑ mod., ↓ ↑ mod., ↑v. p.Thematic Area 1 Trans. Areaacc.1’ acc.1→4A3 1a4293 Bar numbersThematic analysis Themes Motives • linear • accompanimentalFormal structure Measure groupingTonal structure CadencesCommentsProcedures Sentence Level Period level105 107 109 113 115 117 121 125 129 133 137 141 145 151 156 158 168 172 176 1783b 3b' 3a’ 3a’ 3a’’ 3a’’ 3a’’’ A5 4a 4bacc.4c. i. c. i. v.p. v.p. v.p. n.p. b. i. c.i.↑ ↑ ↑ ↓4 4 4 4 4 4 2 2PAC HC Ab+/C- Db ped → Db+/F-Ab+b. i. cont. 4 4Sentence Form (incomplete) v.p. n.p.pres. phr. cont. phr. (↑) dev., ↑ stableb. i. b. i. ant.antecedent consequent period formPeriod Form Small BinaryThematic Area 3 Trans. AreaThematic Area 4acc.5acc.1→4 acc.3’ acc.3’E →3a 3aTheme 3 Theme 4294 Bar numbersThematic analysis Themes Motives • linear • accompanimentalFormal structure Measure groupingTonal structure CadencesCommentsProcedures Sentence Level Period level180 182 184 186 188 190 192 194 196 198 200 202 204 207 208 210 211 212 2134a 4b’ 4c 4d 4c’ 4d’ 4a 4a 4a 4a 4a+1a3 A6 4a 4a+A6 4a 4a 4a 4a A6b.i. c.i. b.i. c.i. b.i. c.i.2 2 2 2 2 2model inc. copyseq.HC →Db+/F- F- → D peddev., ↑mod. dev. ↑ant. cons.n.p. v.p. v.p.cons.period formperiod formSmall BinaryThematic Area 4acc. 2?Theme 4295 Bar numbersThematic analysis Themes Motives • linear • accompanimentalFormal structure Measure groupingTonal structure CadencesCommentsProcedures Sentence Level Period level216 217 219 223 224 229 230 235 241 245 249A6 A6’ D 4a+A4 D 4a+A4 D Dv.p.↓D+/F#- Ab+→Bb pedmodel copymodelseq.seq.copyHC → Ab+ → B+ → F#+→n.p.dev., ↑ mod., ↑ ↓ mod., ↓v.p. n.p. n.p.Thematic Area 4 Trans. Areaacc.1’1a4296 Bar numbersThematic analysis Themes Motives • linear • accompanimentalFormal structure Measure groupingTonal structure CadencesCommentsProcedures Sentence Level Period level258 260 263 265 267 270 272 274 276 278 279 284 286 287 293 296 2971a 1a 1a1 1a1’ 1c 1c’ 1a2 1a3 A3 A3 A3acc.3b. i. b. i. pres. phr. pres. phr.b. i. cont. cad. b. i. cad. 3 2 2 3 2 2 2 2modelseq.copyC#- B- → Db+/F-Eb+ → Gb+ → A+cont. dev. dev. mod., ↑cont. phr. cont. phr. (↑)Sentence Form v.p. n.p. v.p.Sentence Formc. i. c. i. antecedent consequentPeriod FormThematic Area 1’acc.1’acc.11b A3Theme 1297 Bar numbersThematic analysis Themes Motives • linear • accompanimentalFormal structure Measure groupingTonal structure CadencesCommentsProcedures Sentence Level Period level299 303 307 309 314 316 318 320 322 327 330 333 334 342 348 353 357 359 3671a 1a 1a3 C 1a5 1a6 1a6acc.1’ acc.6n.p. n.p. v.p. v.p. v.p. v.p. v.p.↑ ↑ ↑ ↓Ab+/C-IACmodel copy modelcopyseq.seq.Db+/F- Eb+ →↑ stablemod., ↓ stable ↑n.p. v.p. n.p.n.p. v.p.Trans. AreaThematic Area 1’acc.1’ acc.2E →298 Bar numbersThematic analysis Themes Motives • linear • accompanimentalFormal structure Measure groupingTonal structure CadencesCommentsProcedures Sentence Level Period level371 373 375 377 379 381 383 385 387 389 391 392 393 395 396 397 399 401 403 4054a 4b 4a 4b’ 4c 4d 4c’ 4d’ 1a 4a E 1a 4a E 1a1 1a1 1a1’ 1a1’b. i. c.i. b.i. c.i. b.i. c.i. b.i. c.i.2 2 2 2 2 2 2 2PACEb ped Db pedstable ↓ fragmentaryn.p. n.p. v.p.cons.period formant. cons.ant.period formSmall BinaryTrans. Area Thematic Area 4’ Thematic Area 1’’acc.5Theme 4299 Bar numbersThematic analysis Themes Motives • linear • accompanimentalFormal structure Measure groupingTonal structure CadencesCommentsProcedures Sentence Level Period level407 410 411 412 414A7 1a 1a A7 1Gb pedDb ped Cb ped↓n.p.Thematic Area 1’’
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"The mighty spring tide of Finnish music" : nationalism and internationalism in the music of Leevi Madetoja
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