There is no doubt about it, experts declare, that the poems or verses were written at different times, but it is nearly all of pre-Christian origin, for, with the exception of a few prayers in the last pages, there are few signs of Christian influence.
No one knows exactly how these poems originated. Indeed, the Kalevala is unique among epics, although distinct traces of foreign influence may occasionally be found, the Christian influence being only noticeable in the last runos when the Virgin's Son, the Child Christ, appears, after which advent Wäinämöinen disappears for unknown lands. With this exception the entire poem is of much earlier date.
The last runo is truly remarkable.
"Mariatta, child of beauty," becomes wedded to a berry —
Like a cranberry in feature,
Like a strawberry in flavour.
…
Wedded to the mountain berry
…
Wedded only to his honour.
…
I shall bear a noble hero,
I shall bear a son immortal,
Who will rule among the mighty,
Rule the ancient Wäinämöinen.
…
In the stable is a manger,
Fitting birth-place for the hero.
…
Thereupon the horse, in pity,
Breathed the moisture of his nostrils,
On the body of the Virgin,
Wrapped her in a cloud of vapour,
Gave her warmth and needed comforts,
Gave his aid to the afflicted
To the virgin Mariatta.
There the babe was born and cradled,
Cradled in a woodland manger.
This shows Christian origin!
Wäinämöinen's place is gradually usurped by the "Wonder-babe," and the former departs in this stanza —
Thus the ancient Wäinämöinen,
In his copper-banded vessel
Left his tribe in Kalevala,
Sailing o'er the rolling billows,
Sailing through the azure vapours,
Sailing through the dusk of evening,
Sailing to the fiery sunset,
To the higher landed regions,
To the lower verge of heaven;
Quickly gained the far horizon,
Gained the purple-coloured harbour,
There his bark he firmly anchored,
Rested in his boat of copper;
But he left his harp of magic,
Left his songs and wisdom sayings
To the lasting joy of Suomi.
Thus old Wäinämöinen sails away into unfathomable depths.
The Kalevala has, up to the present time, been a much-neglected poem, but there is now an excellent English translation by Martin Crawford, an American by birth, from which we have taken the liberty of quoting. Mr. Andrew Lang has charmingly discoursed on the great national poem of the Finns, and Mr. Edward Clodd, who wrote a delightful series of articles in Knowledge on the same subject, has kindly placed his notes in my hands.
There is no doubt about it that the fantastic mythology of the Finns has not received as much attention as it deserves. "Although mythology and theology are one," says Mr. Clodd, "we find among the ancient Finns the worship of natural objects, all living things being credited with life, and all their relations being regarded as the actions of the mighty powers."
Naturally in a country so undisturbed and isolated as Finland, fantastic mythology took firm root, and we certainly find the most romantic and weird verses in connection with the chief heroes of the Kalevala, namely, Wäinämöinen and Ilmarinen, who broadly resemble the Norse demigods Odin and Thor.
After any one has been to Finland, he reads the Kalevala with amazement. What pen could describe more faithfully the ways of the people? Every line is pregnant with life. Their food, their clothing, their manners and customs, their thoughts and characteristics are all vividly drawn, as they were hundreds of years ago, and as they remain to-day.
When we peep into the mysteries of the Kalevala and see how trees are sacred, how animals are mythological, as, for instance, in the forty-sixth rune, which speaks of the bear who "was born in lands between sun and moon, and died not by man's deeds, but by his own will," we understand the Finnish people. Indeed the wolf, the horse, the duck, and all animals find their place in this wondrous Kalevala; and dream stories are woven round each creature till the whole life of Finland has become impregnated by a fantastic sort of romance.
The Kalevala opens with a creation myth of the earth, sea, and sky from an egg, but instead of the heroes living in some supernatural home of their own, they come down from heaven, distribute gifts among men, and work their wonders by aid of magic, at the same time living with the people, and entering into their daily toils.
It is strange that the self-developing egg should occur in the Kalevala of Northern Europe, for it also appears among the Hindoos and other Eastern peoples, pointing, maybe, to the Mongolian origin of the Finnish people.
The way the life of the people is depicted seems simply marvellous, and the description holds good even at the present time. For instance, these lines taken at hazard speak of spinning, etc. —
Many beauteous things the maiden,
With the spindle has accomplished,
Spun and woven with her fingers;
Dresses of the finest texture
She in winter has upfolded,
Bleached them in the days of spring-time,
Dried them at the hour of noonday,
For our couches finest linen,
For our heads the softest pillows,
For our comfort woollen blankets.
Or, again, speaking of the bride's home, it likens the father-in-law to her father, and describes the way they all live together in Finland even to-day, and bids her accept the new family as her own —
Learn to labour with thy kindred;
Good the home for thee to dwell in,
Good enough for bride and daughter.
At thy hand will rest the milk-pail,
And the churn awaits thine order;
It is well here for the maiden,
Happy will the young bride labour,
Easy are the resting branches;
Here the host is like thy father,
Like thy mother is the hostess,
All the sons are like thy brothers,
Like thy sisters are the daughters.
Here is another touch – the shoes made from the plaited birch bark, so commonly in use even at the present time; and, again, the bread made from bark in times of famine has ever been the Finnish peasant's food —
Even sing the lads of Lapland
In their straw-shoes filled with joyance,
Drinking but a cup of water,
Eating but the bitter tan bark.
These my dear old father sang me
When at work with knife or hatchet;
These my tender mother taught me
When she twirled the flying spindle,
When a child upon the matting
By her feet I rolled and tumbled.
To-day, Finnish women still wash in the streams, and they beat their clothes upon the rocks just as they did hundreds, one might say thousands, of years ago and more – for the greater part of Kalevala was most undoubtedly written long before the Christian era in Finland.
Northlands fair and slender maiden
Washing on the shore a head-dress,
Beating on the rocks her garments,
Rinsing there her silken raiment.
In the following rune we find an excellent description of the land, and even a line showing that in those remote days trees were burned down to clear the land, the ashes remaining for manure – a common practice now.
Groves arose in varied beauty,
Beautifully grew the forests,
And again, the vines and flowers.
Birds again sang in the tree-tops,
Noisily the merry thrushes,
And the cuckoos in the birch-trees;
On the mountains grew the berries,
Golden flowers in the meadows,
And the herbs of many colours,
Many lands of vegetation;
But the barley is not growing.
Osma's barley will not flourish,
Not the barley of Wäinölä,
If the soil be not made ready,
If the forest be not levelled,
And the branches burned to ashes.
Only left the birch-tree standing
For the birds a place of resting,
Where might sing the sweet-voiced cuckoo,
Sacred bird in sacred branches.
One could go on quoting passages from this strange epic – but suffice it to say that in the forty-sixth rune Wäinämöinen speaks to Otso, the bear —
Otso, thou my well beloved,
Honey eater of the woodlands,
Let not anger swell thy bosom.
Otso was not born a beggar,
Was not born among the rushes,
Was not cradled in a manger;
Honey-paw was born in ether
In the regions of the Moonland.
With the chains of gold she bound it
To the pine-tree's topmost branches.
There she rocked the thing of magic,
Rocked to life the tender baby,
'Mid the blossoms of the pine-tree,
On the fir-top set with needles;
Thus the young bear well was nurtured.
Sacred Otso grew and flourished,
Quickly grew with graceful movements,
Short of feet, with crooked ankles,
Wide of mouth and broad of forehead,
Short his nose, his fur robe velvet;
But his claws were not well fashioned,
Neither were his teeth implanted.
Swore the bear a sacred promise
That he would not harm the worthy,
Never do a deed of evil.
Then Mielikki, woodland hostess,
Wisest maid of Tapiola,
Sought for teeth and claws to give him,
From the stoutest mountain-ashes,
From the juniper and oak-tree,
From the dry knots of the alder.
Teeth and claws of these were worthless,
Would not render goodly service.
Grew a fir-tree on the mountain,
Grew a stately pine in Northland,
And the fir had silver branches,
Bearing golden cones abundant;
These the sylvan maiden gathered,
Teeth and claws of these she fashioned,
In the jaws and feet of Otso
Set them for the best of uses.
Taught him how to walk a hero.
He freely gave his life to others.
These are only a few stanzas taken haphazard from Kalevala, but they give some idea of its power.
At the Festival we met, among the Runo performers, a delightful woman. About forty, fat and broad, she had a cheerful countenance and kindly eyes, and she sang – if such dirges could be called singing – old Finnish songs, all of which seemingly lacked an end. She was absolutely charming, however, perfectly natural and unaffected, and when we got her in a corner, away from the audience, proved even more captivating than before the public.
First she sang a cradle song, and, as she moaned out the strange music, she patted her foot up and down and swayed her body to and fro, as though she were nursing a baby. She was simply frank too, and when asked to sing one particular song exclaimed —
"Oh yes, I can sing that beautifully; I sing it better than any one on the East Coast of Finland."
Abundant tears shed for no sufficient cause – for no cause at all, indeed – would seem to be a characteristic of these lady vocalists.
The singer of the bear legend wore a beautiful red-brocaded cap. In fact, her attire was altogether remarkable; her skirt, a pretty shade of purple shot with gold silk, was cut in such a way as to form a sort of corset bodice with braces across the shoulders, under which she wore a white chemisette. A beautiful, rich, red silk apron, and a set of well-chosen coloured scarves drawn across the breast completed her costume and added to the fantastic colouring and picturesqueness of the whole. She was very friendly; again and again she shook hands with us all in turn, and, during one of the most mournful of her songs, she sat so close to me that her elbow rested in my lap, while real tears coursed down her cheeks. It was quite touching to witness the true emotion of the woman; she rocked herself to and fro, and mopped her eyes with a neatly folded white cotton handkerchief, the while she seemed totally oblivious of our presence and enwrapped in her music. When she had finished she wiped away her tears, and then, as if suddenly recalled from another world, she appeared to realise the fact that we were present, and, overcome with grief, she apologised most abjectly for having forgotten herself so far as to cry before the strange ladies! This was no affectation; the woman was downrightly sorry, and it was not until we had patted her fondly and smiled our best thanks that she could be pacified at all and believe we were not offended.
In her calmer moments she drew, as we thought, a wonderful purse from under her apron – a cloth embroidered thing with beads upon it. Great was our surprise to discover that it contained snuff, from which she helped herself at intervals during the entertainment, never omitting to offer us some before she took her own pinch.
This unexpected generosity reminded us of an incident that occurred while crossing the Grosser Glockner mountain in the Tyrol, when we were overtaken by a violent snowstorm. Being above the snow line the cold and wind were intense. One of the guides, feeling sorry for us and evidently thinking we looked blue with cold, produced from his rucksack a large flask which contained his dearly loved schnapps. He unscrewed the cork and gravely offered it to us each in turn. There was no glass, nor did he even attempt to wipe the rim, although but an hour before we had seen all the guides drinking from the same bottle.
This equality of class is always to be found in lands where civilisation has not stepped in. "Each man is as good as his neighbour" is a motto in the remote parts of Finland, as it is in the Bavarian Highlands and other less-known parts. What the peasants have, they give freely; their goodness of heart and thoughtfulness are remarkable.
The Runo woman, who wept so unrestrainedly, had most beautiful teeth, and her smile added a particular charm to her face. When she was not singing she busied herself with spinning flax on the usual wooden oar, about five feet long and much carved and ornamented at one end. On the top, at the opposite end, was a small flat piece like another oar blade, only broader and shorter, fixed at such an angle that when she sat down upon it the carved piece stood up slant-wise beside her. Halfway up the blade some coloured cotton bands secured a bundle of flax, while in her hand she held a bobbin on to which she wove the thread.
She was never idle, for, when not occupied in singing to us, she spent her time spinning, always repeating, however, the second line of the other performers.
Another woman danced with her head bent low, a very strange slow shuffle round and round, something like an Arab measure, but after a while she broke into a sort of waltz. The dancing, like the Runo music, was primitive.
These Runo singers could but be regarded as a connecting link between the present and the past.
Here were people, the representatives of generations gone before, who had handed down by word of mouth the runes of that wonderful epic, the Kalevala. Just such folk as these had sat during long winters in their small wooden huts, practically windowless; besides, it was generally too cold to put back the wooden shutter, used for economy instead of glass, for more than a few moments at a time; they had sat in the dusk chanting the songs of their land, the mystic lines of which they had sucked in almost with their mother's milk, until music and verse filled their very souls. The weird, the wild, the fantastic, had become their nature. The mind loves to dwell on the supernatural, the unreal; and in those lonely, dreary, darkened lives mythological legends flourished as mushrooms in a cellar. The population literally feasted on the mythical, just as the twentieth century society revels in Christian Science, Theosophy, or New Thought.
As the women applied the scrutcher to the flax, or carded the wool, they dreamed wild dreams of ghosts and goblins, and repeated to themselves, in queer chant, the stories of the sacred bear, or those beautiful lines to the sun and the moon to be found in Kalevala. They lived again with Ahti, the Finnish sea god, otherwise called Lemminkäinen; or the husband invoked the aid of charms, as at his work he recited how Lemminkäinen reached Pohjola but to quarrel and fight, and related verses showing how he finally cut off the head of the representative champion of the beautiful Louhi. Or wild stories of an ox with a thousand heads engrossed their fancy, and they lingered fondly over the tales of the hundred horns to plough up the land. Or, again, the old wife would chime in with the weird rune where Wäinämöinen's harp blew into the sea, when a boat was manned with a thousand oars to fetch it back, but Wäinämöinen destroyed that boat by means of magic.
Louhi then changed herself into an eagle, with claws and scythes of iron, and wondrous breastplate, while on her wings she bore aloft a thousand armed men, and upon her tail sat a hundred archers, and ten upon every feather.
With one wing she sweeps the heavens,
With the other sweeps the waters.
This is cleverly represented in a picture by Gallén, a well-known Finnish artist.
In another stirring verse, the poem goes on to tell how Louhi swooped down upon the heroes, when desperate battle ensued for the treasure under dispute.
Wounded and exhausted, Louhi threw the treasure into the sea rather than surrender it, emblematic still in the tenacity of the Finnish race.
CHAPTER VII
MANNERS AND CUSTOMS
Such are the manners and customs of the past; now let us take a look at the Suomi of to-day, that we may better understand the life of the people before we start on our trip in carts through the interior of that enchanting but far-away land.
For some hundreds of years Finland belonged to Sweden, and the stamp of Sweden is to be found on its inhabitants; especially among the aristocracy, who still speak that language in their homes. But in 1808 Russia stepped across the frontier, seized Finland, annexed it as her own, and a year later the King of Sweden renounced all his claims.
Since Finland was ceded to Russia, the Russian sovereigns, as Grand Dukes of Finland, have on the whole faithfully observed the pledges given to the Grand Duchy by Alexander I., though, especially in recent years, they have been frequently broken.
It was because the Finlanders behaved so well that the Tzar conceded much, and left them their independent constitution and their Lutheran Church. The Tzar is really the Grand Duke of Finland. The Governor-General is President of the Senate, which is the real Executive Body in Finland. The Diet has no executive power; only legislative authority. It is composed of four Houses – the Nobles, the Clergy, the Burghers, and the Peasants. The members of Parliament meet every third year, and have the power of voting money, altering the constitutional laws of the country, and regulating commercial enterprise.
Since 1863 has come the renaissance of Finland. Art, literature, industry, commerce, and politics have revived. The people saw themselves once more a nation conscious of its own gigantic tenacity of soul, prompted with a knowledge of its destiny, though sneered at, and threatened on all sides by famine, contempt, and absorption. Finland is like a man who has slept long and suddenly wakes up refreshed, with renewed vigour to work. That is why he has come so much forward in the last quarter of the century, and is now prepared to make gigantic strides. Learned, artistic, commercial, and athletic societies sprang up, each imbued with a fresh and sincere national enthusiasm. Tournaments were held for ski, rifle-shooting, yachting, and other sports. Attention was called to the ancient songs and national music, and the great musical festivals, such as was held at Sordavala, were reinstated.
Parliament began meeting regularly, and hope beamed brightly. Nevertheless danger is lurking within and without, for the Finlanders speak three languages; the Finlanders themselves only speak Finnish, the more educated people speak Swedish, and in official circles they must know Russian, a language which has been forced upon them; while the great Russian people are ready to overwhelm and absorb, and march over them to new fields. Still, as a Finlander truly said to the writer, "The destiny of a people is in the hands of the Lord, and Finland has courage in God;" and therefore it is possible a great future may be in store for that beautiful country, beautiful whether we peep at Tavasland, Karelen, or Österbotten.
The people in Tavasland are fair-haired, slow, but exceedingly tenacious, and also somewhat boorish. Here the principal towns, manufactures, etc., are to be found. Many of the inhabitants speak Swedish, and all have been influenced by Sweden.
The following little anecdote gives some idea of the character of the natives of Tavasland: —
A fortress was besieged by the Russians in 1808. After a severe struggle it was at last taken by assault, when the Russians discovered that fifty-five out of the sixty defenders were dead. But none had yielded!
The people are determined and persevering, and it is no uncommon thing for a lad to follow the plough until he is thirteen years of age, reading for his school and his university, and finally taking his M.A. degree, and even becoming a Professor.
The people of the Karelen district are quicker and of lighter heart. They are nearer to Russia, and the Russian influence is distinctly seen. They are not so cleanly or so highly educated as the rest of the country, but they are musical and artistic.
One must remember the word Finn implies native peasant; the upper classes are called Finlanders. Until lately the two spoken languages of Finland represented two parties. The Finns were the native peasants who only spoke Finnish, the Radical party practically – the upper classes who spoke Swedish among themselves were known as Svecomans, and roughly represented the Conservatives. But since the serious troubles early in the twentieth century, these two parties have been more closely drawn together against Russia, and Finlander is the common name for both Finnish-speaking and Swedish-speaking people. Finn is often used as synonymous with Finlander. There are Swedish peasants as well as Finnish; and while the Finn speaks only Finnish, the Finlander only knew Swedish until quite lately, except what he was pleased to call "Kitchen Finnish," for use amongst his servants; but every year the Finlander is learning more and more of his native language, and Swedish bids fair to be relegated to the classics as far as Finland is concerned.
The Fennomans take interest in, and work for the Finnish language, literature, and culture; while the Svecomans, who are principally composed of the old Swedish families, try to maintain the old Swedish culture in Finland.
Since 1899 Finland's relations with Russia and the defence of the Finnish Constitution is the principal question in politics.
Party strife is terrible. It would be far better if the Fennomans and Svecomans tried to remember that their real object is the same, namely, the welfare of their own country, and turned their attention only in that direction instead of to petty and often ridiculous political squabblings.
It is wonderful to note how democratic the people are in Finland. Each peasant is a gentleman at heart, brave, hasty, independent, and he expects every one to treat him as his equal.
Few persons are rich in Finland according to English lights, but many are comfortably off. It would be almost impossible there to live beyond one's income, or to pretend to have more than is really the case, for when the returns are sent in for the income tax, the income of each individual is published. In January every year, in the Helsingfors newspapers, rows and rows of names appear, and opposite them the exact income of the owner. This does not apply if the returns are less than £200 a year; but, otherwise, every one knows and openly discusses what every one else has.
Very amusing to a stranger, but horrible for the persons concerned. Fancy Jones saying to Brown, "Well, old chap, as you have £800 a year, I think you could afford a better house and occasionally a new suit of clothes;" and even if Jones didn't make such a remark, his friend feeling he thought it!
It is the fashion for each town to select a committee in December for the purpose of taxing the people. Every one is taxed. The tax is called a skatt-öre, the word originating from the small coin of that name, and each town decides whether the öre shall be charged on two hundred or four hundred marks. Let us take as an example a 400-mark öre (tax). The first four hundred marks are free; but payment is required on every further four hundred, and so on. For instance, if a man has 16,000 marks, he pays nothing on the first four hundred, and has therefore thirty-nine sets of four hundred to pay for, which is called thirty-nine skatt-öre. If overtaxed, the aggrieved person can complain to a second committee; and this sometimes happens. The tax varies very much; in some of the seaport towns, which receive heavy dues, the öre, which includes parochial rates, is very low. In Wiborg they have had to pay as much as fifteen marks on every four hundred; but as a rule it is less.
The habit of publishing the returns of all the incomes began about 1890, and is now a subject of much annoyance – as much annoyance to a Finlander as the habit of never knocking at the door to a stranger. No one ever thinks of knocking at a door in Finland. People simply march in, and as few doors possess bolts, the consequences are sometimes appalling, especially to English people, who go through more daily ablutions than most nations, and prefer to do them in private. During our visit to Sordavala, for the Musical Festival, we had some curious experiences in connection with boltless doors. We were located at the brewer's. Now this was a great favour, as he was a private individual who cheerfully gave up his beautiful salon upholstered in red velvet "to the English ladies," but, unfortunately, this sumptuous apartment was reached by a smaller chamber where a man had to sleep. Not only that, but the sleeping apartment of the man was really a passage which conducted directly into the Konttoori or office of the brewery. As far as the man was concerned, this did not so much matter; eventually he became quite accustomed to hearing his door suddenly opened and seeing a stranger with an empty basket on his arm standing before him and demanding the way to the Konttoori (which is pronounced, by the bye, exactly in the same manner as an Irishman says country), when with a wave of the hand he indicated the office. But for us it was different. One morning, when the gentleman occupant of the passage was away and we were in the early stage of dressing, our door opened, and a fat burly man dashed into the middle of our room, where he stood transfixed, as well he might.
"Go away," we exclaimed. He heeded not. We waved and indicated, with the help of a brandished stocking, our desire that he should leave our apartment. But the stolidity of a Finn is always remarkable, and the appearance of strange Englishwomen in somewhat unusual attire appeared really to fascinate the gentleman, who neither moved nor spoke, only simply stared. "Go away," we repeated, gesticulating more violently than before. The situation was intensely awkward, and it seemed to us as though hours instead of moments had passed since the entrance of our burly friend, and we were just wondering how on earth we were to get rid of him, when slowly, as though rolling the letters round his mouth, he pronounced the word Konttoori.
"Yes, go into the country," we answered, pointing vehemently in the direction of that oft-inquired-for office. Very solemnly and quietly he turned round and marched out of the door – let us hope much impressed and less disconcerted by the interview than we had been. Once we were rid of him, we sat down and laughed so immoderately over the scene that the bed, one of those wooden collapsable affairs, peculiar to the country, on which my sister was sitting, completely gave way, and she was deposited upon the floor. The peals of merriment that followed this second misadventure apparently aroused the interest of some other visitor outside, for again the door opened and a youth of about seventeen stood before us. This was really getting too much of a good thing, for what may be considered a joke once becomes distressing if repeated a second time, and absolutely appalling on a third occasion.
However, as we could not understand him, and he could not understand us, we wished him good-morning, and gently waved him away. Eleven times in the course of five days did odd men and women thus rush like avalanches into our room, all having mistaken the way to the Konttoori.
Another peculiarity of the Finlander is that he never shakes hands. He seizes one's digits as though they were a pump handle, and warmly holds them, wrestles with them, waggles them, until the unsuspecting Britisher wonders if he will ever again be able to claim his hand as his own. In this way the gentleman from the Grand Duchy is demonstrative with his acquaintances; he is very publicly devoted also to his wife, fondling her before his friends. On the other hand, he seldom kisses his mother, and never his sisters. Indeed, all the outward affection seems reserved for husbands and wives; daughters seldom kiss their parents, and brothers and sisters rarely even shake hands. This struck us as particularly strange, because the members of an English family generally greet one another warmly when meeting for breakfast, especially parents and children; yet in Finland, as a rule, they hardly take any notice of one another. A certain son we knew kissed his mother's hand on the occasion of leaving her for some weeks, while he merely nodded to his brothers and sisters standing around.
Another strange freak, in a land where there is no night for two or three months, is that the better houses never have shutters, and seldom blinds, at the windows; therefore the sun streams in undisturbed; and when a room has four windows, as happened to us at Sordavala, the light of day becomes a positive nuisance, and a few green calico blinds an absolute godsend; indeed, almost as essential as the oil of cloves or lavender or the ammonia bottle for gnat bites, or the mosquito head-nets, if one sleeps with open windows. Mosquitoes have fed upon me in tropical lands, but they are gentlemen in comparison with the rough brutality of the mosquitoes of the far North; there their innings is short and violent.
It is indeed a strange experience to sleep with one's head in a sort of meat safe, for that is what these unsightly green muslin bags called mosquito nets resemble. They are flat on the top, with a sort of curtain hanging down all round, which one ties neatly under one's chin before retiring to rest. Behold a beautiful lady – for all ladies are as certain to be beautiful when they write about themselves, as that authoresses are all old and ugly, which seems to be a universal idea in the eyes of the public generally – behold then a beautiful lady enveloped in a large unwieldy and very wobbly net head-covering, of such a vivid green hue that the unfortunate wearer looks jaundiced beneath! Well, they had one advantage, they saved some bites, and they afforded us much amusement; but becoming they were not.