Through Finland in Carts

"If you marry me you will get peace," he says.

"No. Nor shall I ever know peace again," she replies; "but I may have some happiness."

At this moment her fiancé enters the room. Mikko seizes the opportunity to tell him there is a secret between them that will disturb the happiness of all his future life. The girl appeals to Mikko by looks and gesticulations, but each time he manages to evade her gaze, and utters such strange insinuations that at last Johannes exclaims —

"This is too much!" and a desperate quarrel ensues.

Anna Liisa wishes to speak alone with Mikko. To this Johannes objects, thinking that Anna Liisa ought not to have any secret with Mikko unknown to him.

Then the whole family bundles home, having been to the store to buy things for the approaching festival.

"The matter is so," says Mikko, "that Anna Liisa was my bride four years ago. And now I come to take her, but that fellow has in the meantime – "

The Father. "Your bride! That's a lie."

The Mother. "Good gracious! You want me to believe all kinds of things —Anna Liisa– who then was only fifteen years old. Don't listen to such things, Johannes. They're only senseless chat. I'll warrant that they have no foundation whatever. Besides, others would certainly have noticed had any such relations existed between them."

Mikko. "It was not noticed. We succeeded in concealing it so well that nobody had the slightest idea."

The Father. "Shut up, Mikko, ere I get furious. That my daughter should have secret intrigues with a groom. Fie, for shame! How dare you spread such vile slander. Had it concerned any other! – But Anna Liisa, whom everybody knows to be the most steady and honourable girl in the whole neighbourhood. That you can be so impudent. For shame, I say once more."

Mikko. "Ask Anna Liisa herself if I have spoken truth or falsehood."

The Father. "Can't you open your mouth, girl? Clear yourself from such disgusting insults."

The Mother. "Defend yourself, Anna Liisa."

Johannes. "Say that he lies, and I will believe you."

Matters have gone too far. The disclosure cannot be put off.

Broken-hearted she only exclaims —

"Oh, good God!"

Mikko in his mad rage fetches his old mother, who corroborates all he has said, and tells the story of Anna Liisa's guilt, adding —

"And she could have been put in prison."

"Why?" they all cry in chorus.

"Because she murdered her child."

Anna Liisa says nothing for a time, but finally she falls on her knees before her father and implores his pardon. Then she confesses that everything the woman has said is true, even the accusation that she murdered her own child.

Her father snatches up a hatchet and tries to kill her, in which attempt he would have succeeded had not Mikko interfered and dragged her away.

When the third act opens the father, mother, and fiancé are found discussing the situation, and finally deciding to let their friends come to the congratulatory festival on first reading of the banns, and pretend that nothing unusual had happened. Afterwards they could rearrange the relationship.

The mother, who had been watching Anna Liisa, is afraid of her curious apathetic behaviour, and looks out of the window, when she sees her setting off in a boat, apparently with the purpose of self-destruction. She and the fiancé rush off to save her and bring her home. The girl explains in wild despair how she thought she saw her child under the water, and intended to jump in and rescue him. She raves somewhat like Ophelia in Hamlet, but her former lover Mikko comes back to her, and whispers in her ear. She rejects him violently.

"Let me get away from here," she murmurs to her mother, "let me get away," and a very sad and touching scene ensues.

The little sister bounds in straight from church, and says how lovely it was to hear the banns read, and to think the wedding was so near. She decorates the room with wreaths of pine branches, and festoons of the birch-tree, such festoons as we make into trails with holly and ivy for Christmas decorations. She jumps for joy as the guests begin to arrive, and in this strange play the father actually thinks it right for his daughter to marry Mikko, her seducer, whom he welcomes, and they arrange affairs comfortably between them.

This is very remarkable. In most countries it would be considered right for the father to expel his daughter's lover from his house; but in this play of Minna Canth's she draws a very Finnish characteristic.

"Se oli niin sallittu" ("It is so ordained") is a sort of motto amongst this Northern people. Whether it is that they are phlegmatic, wanting in energy, fatalists, or what, one cannot say, but certain it is that they sit down and accept the inevitable as calmly as the Mohammedan does when he remarks: "It is the will of Allah."

The festivities proceed. An old fiddler and more peasants appear. The men sit down on one side of the room, the women on the other, and the former lover, Mikko, thinking himself the bridegroom-elect, cheerfully invites every one to dance. The old fiddler strikes up a merry air, and they dance the jenka, a sort of schottische, joyously. Gaiety prevails, the girl's father being apparently as happy as his guests, when the door opens and the rector of the parish and other distinguished guests enter.

"Where is the bride?" it is asked.

No one knew exactly how to answer; Johannes no longer wishes to marry her, and she refuses to marry her former lover, Mikko.

Again the priest asks: "Where is the bride?"

After waiting some time the door opens slowly. Anna Liisa enters and is greeted – as is usual on such occasions – by cries of Eläköön, eläköön (let her live!) in chorus. Answering with the unusual words: "Let God's Holy Spirit live in us!" the girl advanced into the room and stood before them, robed in the black gown which it is the fashion for peasant brides in Finland to wear. The clergyman addressed her as a bride.

"I am not a bride," she replies, as she stands sadly alone in her black robe.

"What do you mean? the banns have just been read," he asks.

"All is broken off between Johannes and me," she tragically replies, and then, turning to the clergyman, she says: "My conscience won't keep it any longer; for four years long I have – "

Mikko and his mother try all they can to prevent her speaking.

But the clergyman, seeing the girl wishes to say something, thrusts them aside and exhorts her to proceed.

"I am a great sinner," says the girl tremulously. A breathless silence seizes every one present as Anna continues, "Four years ago I had a child, in the forest yonder, and, I, poor creature, I killed it."

At this juncture a bailiff, who chanced to be of the company, rises and inquires if her parents knew this at the time.

"No," she answers in her clear and dulcet tones, "they knew nothing."

Turning to her heartbroken parents with great earnestness, she says:

"Father and mother, do not grieve for me! Do not sorrow! I am not in trouble any more. You see how glad I am. Never in my life have I felt so happy."

Johannes (touched). "Anna Liisa– !"

The Father. "Don't you then consider the disgrace you have brought over our gray hair?"

Anna Liisa. "I repent. Forgive me! Oh, that I could once make good what I have done wrong!"

The Mistress of Ristola and other guests express their sympathy with the parents.

Mikko (aside to Husso). "There's nothing more to be done. Things must have their course. Let us be off!"

[Exeunt.

The Father. "Oh, that I could get into my grave! That's my only hope."

Rector. "Not so, dear friends, not so! You have no reason for sorrow at this moment, but gladness and joy. The Spirit of God has been working in your daughter and has gained the victory. Do not look upon this matter as the world does, but from a higher standpoint. Until to-day Anna Liisa has erred. Now she has found the right way. Let us thank and praise the Lord of Heaven!"

Mistress of Ristola. "Yes, it is truly so. It is a chastisement for the flesh, but not to the spirit."

The Father. "We are shortsighted, we human beings. We do not always comprehend the purposes of the Almighty."

The Mother. "And the earthly mind always seeks to govern."

Rector. "Let us strive the more to progress in the life of the Spirit, and by God's help we can win like Anna Liisa (grasping Anna Liisa's hand). Yes, go in peace, my child. Go where your conscience compels you to go, and the Heavenly Father strengthen you that you may hold out to the end. We did congratulate you on a less important change in external life, but a thousand times more warmly do we congratulate you on the change in your inner life."

Doctor. "I agree with the Rector. Good-bye!"

Anna Liisa (embracing first her father and then her mother). "Good-bye, father! good-bye, mother! good-bye! Good-bye all!"

Chorus. "Good-bye, we wish you happiness."

Johannes. "Anna Liisa, won't you bid me farewell?"

Anna Liisa. "Certainly! Good-bye, Johannes."

Johannes. "The Lord keep you, Anna Liisa. But one word more – you are as pure and good in heart as I thought you from the first."

Anna Liisa. "Thank you for your kindness… I have found everlasting life and happiness. Now, Mr. Bailiff, I am ready, give me the severest punishment you can. I am ready to meet it all."

Rector. "She is following the everlasting road. Blessed is she."

Curtain

The idea of this very strange play has been undoubtedly taken from one of Tolstoi's well-known books, but Minna Canth herself is a great writer. She seizes the subtleties of life, draws character with a strong hand, and appreciates the value of dramatic situations. No wonder the Finlanders admire a woman who writes in their own tongue, and feel proud of her as one of themselves.

Never have I seen an audience weep so much as the audience wept that night at the Suomalainen Teaatteri (Finnish Theatre): they positively sobbed. Was it that they seldom saw a play, or was it that the generally phlegmatic Finn once roused is really intensely emotional?

Possibly if the fact were known, the minds of those spectators were not so actively engaged in criticism, that they could not appreciate healthy enjoyment. But as much cannot be said for a fashionable blasé audience, which is too bored to care to be entertained.

CHAPTER VI

"KALEVALA," AN EPIC POEM

Many strange customs still linger in East Finland, probably because the inhabitants, far removed from civilisation, cling tenaciously to the traditions and usages of their forefathers. As a fitting ending therefore to the Sordavala Festival, an accurate representation of a native wedding of a hundred years ago was given, perhaps for the reason that the performers were thus naturally enabled to introduce many of the bridal songs contained in their great epic poem, Kalevala, and their collection of lyric poems called Kanteletar.

The open-air stage was cleverly arranged, and the performance proved really a dramatic representation of music we had heard the delightful Runo singers chanting for days. They were old Runo bards, however, and as it was feared their voices would not reach the eight or ten thousand people assembled in the open-air arena, younger and stronger folk had been taught the different roles by them.

The wedding festivities were unlike anything to which we are accustomed. They began with a formal betrothal. In a log hut sat the bride's family, the mother spinning at one of the wooden erections so closely resembling an oar. The father and his friends were meantime gathered round a table drinking small beer (Kalja) from large wooden pots, or rather buckets, called haarikka. Each man helped himself out of the haarikka by dipping into that vessel the usual wooden spoon and sipping its contents, after which performance he replaced the spoon in the bucket.

Thus happily occupied sat the family till the bridegroom and his friends arrived.

It is not considered proper for an intending bridegroom ever to propose in person, consequently a spokesman has always to be employed, who expatiates on the many excellent qualities possessed by the modest lover.

Even the spokesman, however, deems it strict etiquette at first to prevaricate concerning the real nature of his errand, and consequently the actor told a cock-and-bull story about the purchase of a horse; rather a transparent bit of make-believe considering the matter had been quietly arranged previously.

At last, after some ridiculous talk about that imaginary horse, a formal request was made for the daughter's hand, and finally the bride herself appeared, solemnly led in as if a prisoner.

Silent and alone, with head bent sadly down, she stood in the middle of the room till asked if she were willing "To marry this man?" when, without looking up, she answered "Yes."

Then the "weeping woman" who is hired for such occasions – just as in days, happily gone by, English families used to hire mutes for funerals – put her arm round the bride's waist, and, with bowed head, swinging her body to and fro the while, began in a most melancholy voice to sing "The Bride's Lament to her Home." The paid professional chants the words of the Kalevala, which are supposed to embody every bride's sentiments, implores her parents not to hurry her away. She begs her brother to keep her, not to let the breach between them be so large as the Ladoga lake; might she remain even so long in her father's house as it will take to catch the fish and cook them.

After that she was placed in a chair, and her mother, with pomp and gravity, undid her "maiden plait," her loosened hair denoting that she could no longer be regarded as a maiden. All her relations came and pulled at her hair, which fell over her shoulders, to assure themselves the plait was really undone. Then the weeping woman, swaying to and fro as before, sang another dirge over her – a most melancholy form of betrothal, we thought – and finally put a white linen cap on the bride's head, trimmed with lace, which completely concealed her face. Thus covered, the bride and the weeping woman sat side by side on chairs, when, still swaying their bodies as if in unutterable grief, they recited more bridal songs, all of the same dreary character. Finally, the bride had a verse sung for her by the weeping woman addressed to her parents, to each of whom she clung in turn. Her father, mother, brothers, sisters, etc., were singly poetically addressed after the following doleful but remarkable fashion: —

O the anguish of the parting,O the pain of separation,From these walls renowned and ancient,From this village of the Northland,From these scenes of peace and plenty,Where my faithful mother taught me,Where my father gave instructionTo me in my happy childhood,When my years were few and tender!As a child I did not fancy,Never thought of separationFrom the confines of this cottage,From these dear old hills and mountains;But, alas! I now must journey,Since I now cannot escape it;Empty is the bowl of parting,All the fare-well beer is taken,And my husband's sledge is waiting,With the break-board looking southward,Looking from my father's dwelling.How shall I give compensation,How repay, on my departure,All the kindness of my mother,All the counsel of my father,All the friendship of my brother,All my sister's warm affection?Gratitude to thee, dear father,For my father life and blessings,For the comforts of thy table,For the pleasures of my childhood!Gratitude to thee, dear mother,For thy tender care and guidance,For my birth and for my culture,Nurtured by thy purest life-blood!Gratitude to thee, dear brother,Gratitude to thee, sweet sister,To the servants of my childhood,To my many friends and playmates!Never, never, aged father,Never, thou, beloved mother,Never, ye, my kindred spirits,Never harbour care nor sorrow,Never fall to bitter weeping,Since thy child has gone to strangers,To the meadows of Wäinölä,From her father's fields and firesides.Shines the Sun of the Creator,Shines the golden Moon of Ukko,Glitter all the stars of heaven,In the firmament of ether,Full as bright on other homesteads;Not upon my father's uplands,Not upon my home in childhood,Shines the Star of Joyance only.Now the time has come for partingFrom my father's golden firesides,From my brother's welcome hearth-stone,From the chambers of my sister,From my mother's happy dwelling;Now I leave the swamps and lowlands,Leave the grassy vales and mountains,Leave the crystal lakes and rivers,Leave the shores and sandy shallows,Leave the white-capped surging billows,Where the maidens swim and linger,Where the mermaids sing and frolic;Leave the swamps to those that wander,Leave the cornfields to the plowman,Leave the forests to the weary,Leave the heather to the rover,Leave the copses to the stranger,Leave the alleys to the beggar,Leave the courtyards to the rambler,Leave the portals to the servant,Leave the matting to the sweeper,Leave the highways to the roebuck,Leave the woodland-glens to lynxes,Leave the lowlands to the wild-geese,And the birch-tree to the cuckoo.Now I leave these friends of childhood,Journey southward with my husband,To the arms of Night and Winter,O'er the ice-grown seas of Northland.

All this must have seemed very sad to the bridegroom, who sat dumb in a corner, a perfect nonentity.

Moral for all young men – Never get married in Finland.

The second scene represented the wedding. It was the bridegroom's house. They had been to the church, and he was bringing her home. The guests were assembled to receive her, some were baking cakes in great haste, others arranging the pots of Kalja, all excited and joyful.

At last some one rushed in to say "They are coming, they are coming," and immediately appeared a procession of peasants with the bride and bridegroom hand in hand. She wore a dark-red cashmere gown with a handsomely embroidered white apron, and large round silver brooch, such as the Highlanders of Scotland use to fasten their kilt; but she was still covered by the linen cap with its lace adornments, which hung over her face. She was solemnly escorted to a seat by the table, and only raised this veil when the meal began. After "the breakfast" was over, four young men and four girls danced a sort of lancers, with grand variations, and executed gymnastic feats – frog dancing and a sort of Highland-reel step – very pretty and very quaint. The bride and bridegroom did not join in the measure – both sat solemn as judges; indeed, a Karjalan wedding is a monstrously sad affair for the bridegroom, at all events, for he plays a rôle of no importance, while it must be a melancholy business for the bride.

The men's dresses were of ordinary cloth with bright-coloured linen shirts, and leather boots turned up at the toe, the soft leather legs reaching nearly to the knees, the last two or three inches being laced behind, so as to enable the wearer to pull them on. The sisters of the bride wore crowns composed of plain bands of various-coloured ribbons – nearly a quarter of a yard high in front, but diminishing towards the back, where the ends of the ribbons hung below the waist.

The words of the bride's lament are so strange, that we give some of them from Kalevala, thinking every man who reads the lines will sympathise with the wretched bridegroom, and every woman wish to have as devoted a husband as the young man is exhorted to make.

But alas! there comes a day of reckoning, when he may "instruct her with a willow," and even "use the birch-rod from the mountains."

THE BRIDE'S FAREWELLBridegroom, thou beloved hero,Brave descendant of thy fathers,When thou goest on a journey,When thou drivest on the highway,Driving with the Rainbow-daughter,Fairest bride of Sariola,Do not lead her as a titmouse,As a cuckoo of the forest,Into unfrequented places,Into copses of the borders,Into brier-fields and brambles,Into unproductive marshes;Let her wander not, nor stumbleOn opposing rocks and rubbish.Never in her father's dwelling,Never in her mother's courtyard,Has she fallen into ditches,Stumbled hard against the fences,Run through brier-fields, nor brambles,Fallen over rocks, nor rubbish.Magic bridegroom of Wäinölä,Wise descendant of the heroes,Never let thy young wife suffer,Never let her be neglected,Never let her sit in darkness,Never leave her unattended.Never in her father's mansion,In the chambers of her mother,Has she sat alone in darkness,Has she suffered for attention;Sat she by the crystal window,Sat and rocked, in peace and plenty,Evenings for her father's pleasure,Mornings for her mother's sunshine.Never mayest thou, O bridegroom,Lead the Maiden of the RainbowTo the mortar filled with sea-grass,There to grind the bark for cooking,There to bake her bread from stubble,There to knead her dough from tan-bark.Never in her father's dwelling,Never in her mother's mansion,Was she taken to the mortar,There to bake her bread from sea-grass.Thou should'st lead the Bride of BeautyTo the garner's rich abundance,There to draw the till of barley,Grind the flower and knead for baking,There to brew the beer for drinking,Wheaten flour for honey-biscuits.Hero-bridegroom of Wäinölä,Never cause thy Bride of BeautyTo regret her day of marriage;Never make her shed a tear-drop,Never fill her cup with sorrow.Should there ever come an eveningWhen thy wife shall feel unhappy,Put the harness on thy racer,Hitch the fleet-foot to the snow-sledge,Take her to her father's dwelling,To the household of her mother;Never in thy hero-lifetime,Never while the moonbeams glimmer,Give thy fair spouse evil treatment,Never treat her as thy servant;Do not bar her from the cellar,Do not lock thy best provisions.Never in her father's mansion,Never by her faithful motherWas she treated as a hireling.Honoured bridegroom of the Northland,Proud descendant of the fathers,If thou treatest well thy young wife,Worthily wilt thou be treated;When thou goest to her homestead,When thou visitest her father,Thou shalt meet a cordial welcome.Censure not the Bride of Beauty,Never grieve thy Rainbow-maiden,Never say in tones reproachful,She was born in lowly station,That her father was unworthy;Honoured are thy bride's relations,From an old-time tribe her kindred;When of corn they sowed a measure,Each one's portion was a kernel;When they sowed a cask of flax-seed,Each received a thread of linen.Never, never, magic husband,Treat thy beauty-bride unkindly,Teach her not with lash of servants,Strike her not with thongs of leather;Never has she wept in anguish,From the birch-whip of her mother.Stand before her like a rampart,Be to her a strong protection,Do not let thy mother chide her,Let thy father not upbraid her,Never let thy guests offend her;Should thy servants bring annoyance,They may need the master's censure;Do not harm the Bride of Beauty,Never injure her thou lovest;Three long years hast thou been wooing,Hoping every month to win her.Counsel with the bride of heaven,To thy young wife give instruction,Kindly teach thy bride in secret,In the long and dreary evenings,When thou sittest at the fireside;Teach one year, in words of kindness,Teach with eyes of love a second,In the third year teach with firmness.If she should not heed thy teaching,Should not hear thy kindly counsel,After three long years of effort,Cut a reed upon the lowlands,Cut a nettle from the border,Teach thy wife with harder measures.In the fourth year, if she heed not,Threaten her with sterner treatment,With the stalks of rougher edges,Use not yet the thongs of leather,Do not touch her with the birch-whip.If she should not heed this warning,Should she pay thee no attention,Cut a rod upon the mountains,Or a willow in the valleys,Hide it underneath thy mantle,That the stranger may not see it,Show it to thy wife in secret,Shame her thus to do her duty,Strike not yet, though disobeying.Should she disregard this warning,Still refuse to heed thy wishes,Then instruct her with the willow,Use the birch-rod from the mountains,In the closet of thy dwelling,In the attic of thy mansion;Strike her not upon the common,Do not conquer her in public,Lest the villagers should see thee,Lest the neighbours hear her weeping,And the forests learn thy troubles.Touch thy wife upon the shoulders,Let her stiffened back be softened;Do not touch her on the forehead,Nor upon the ears, nor visage;If a ridge be on her forehead,Or a blue mark on her eyelids,Then her mother would perceive it,And her father would take notice,All the village-workmen see it,And the village-women ask her:"Hast thou been in heat of battle,Hast thou struggled in a conflict,Or perchance the wolves have torn thee,Or the forest bears embraced thee,Or the black-wolf be thy husband,And the bear be thy protector?"…By the fireplace lay a gray-beard,On the hearth-stone lay a beggar,And the old man spake as follows: —"Never, never, hero-husband,Follow thou thy young wife's wishes,Follow not her inclinations,As, alas! I did, regretful;Bought my bride the bread of barley,Veal, and beer, and best of butter,Fish and fowl of all descriptions,Beer I bought, home-brewed and sparkling,Wheat from all the distant nations,All the dainties of the Northland;But this all was unavailing,Gave my wife no satisfaction,Often came she to my chamber,Tore my sable locks in frenzy,With a visage fierce and frightful,With her eyeballs flashing anger,Scolding on and scolding ever,Ever speaking words of evil,Using epithets the vilest,Thought me but a block for chopping.Then I sought for other measures,Used on her my last resources,Cut a birch-whip in the forest,And she spake in terms endearing;Cut a juniper or willow,And she called me 'hero-darling';When with lash my wife I threatened,Hung she on my neck with kisses."Thus the bridegroom was instructed,Thus the last advices given.…Then the Maiden of the Rainbow,Beauteous bride of Ilmarinen,Sighing heavily and moaning,Fell to weeping, heavy-hearted,Spake these words from depths of sorrow:"Near, indeed, the separation,Near, alas! the time for parting,Near the time of my departure;Fare thee well, my dear old homestead,Fare ye well, my native bowers;It would give me joy unceasingCould I linger here for ever.Now farewell, ye halls and portalsLeading to my father's mansion;It would give me joy unceasingCould I linger here for ever."

What a delightful representation! A beautiful scene of peasant life a hundred years ago. The charm of the singing in the open air, the people dressed in the old costumes, the scene really correct, old spinning wheels, etc., having been borrowed from the museum for the purpose.