Almost ten years had thus elapsed since the brothers removed to the
wilds of Impivaara, now transformed into a prosperous farm. But soon
old Jukola too, uplifted by seven sturdy men, had risen to equal rank
with it, if not to higher. And the day came when the dear home of their
birth was divided into two farms. The original Jukola, their home and
mother everlasting, was left in Juhani’s care, while Aapo took over the
other half, which stood, in itself an excellent farm, near to their
former home. Impivaara too was divided into two holdings, the masters
of which, by common consent, became Tuomas and Lauri. Timo was given
the croft known as Kekkuri, and Eero the one called Vuohenkalma, to be
ruled and enjoyed by them and their heirs without tithes or tax until
the day of their death. All married, with the exception of Simeoni,
who, desiring neither wife nor farm, settled down as bachelor uncle on
Juhani Jukola’s farm. One might add of them that they lived and toiled,
each in his own sphere, like good men and true; and the homeless beggar
praised both the farms of Jukola and Impivaara and the crofts Kekkuri
and Vuohenkalma for their hospitality. And except for Simeoni and
Timo, it might also be said that they had forsworn for ever the use of
treacherous liquor. Simeoni, that decent fellow, sometimes strayed into
the tempting paths of drunkenness, and the same happened now and again
to Timo, though much more seldom, perhaps once or twice a year.
When the juryman Mäkelä died, who stepped into his shoes? Jukola’s
Aapo, always a man of peace and justice. Who, when the old Sheriff’s
Man left this earth, was promoted to this honour? Eero Juhani-son
Vuohenkalma, a keen-witted man, skilled in reading and writing; even a
newspaper came to him once a week from Turku.
Juhani took to wife Mother Pinewood’s Venla and with her enjoyed
pleasant days, though faint murmurs of discord might indeed have been
heard now and again from the house. For Venla, although she was a
passable housewife, was a chattering and quarrelsome woman. Often she
would nag and scold at her husband for hours at a stretch, at that
lout, that owl, as she was wont to call him. But Juhani too could lose
his temper, and then he raged furiously, telling ‘the old hag, to whom
God had given a weaker brain than a man’s’, to shut up at once. Thus
he would carry on, banging his fist on the table and booming like a
thunderstorm. Until at last Venla would pretend to be mildly alarmed
and suddenly cease answering him, grinning meanwhile in secret at her
hussy of a maid. They would laugh slyly by the fireside while Juhani
preached from his seat on the bench beside the table and, often with
tears in his eyes, murmured against Him who had ‘given and assigned to
him for ever’ such an impudent and disobedient wife. Nevertheless, a
great commotion was once brought about by that Aapeli Karkkula. While
Juhani again squabbled with his wife, he began, the madman, sitting
somewhat drunk on the side-bench in the farmhouse, to meddle between
man and wife, and held forth strongly on Juhani’s side. Juhani preached
lustily, calling his Venla ‘the Devil’s own shrew’, whereupon Aapeli,
the stupid fellow, believing he was acting real wisely, also began
calling her a harridan, a she-tramp and beggar’s brat. But before long
Juhani’s eyes narrowed and rushing up like a baited bear, he sprang
upon the astonished Aapeli, who skipped out like a hare, with Juhani
pounding at his heels. The door crashed, the porch thundered, and
on the steps the dogs, panic-stricken and dismally howling, rushed
aside with hanging tails and looked back in amazement as the men ran
madly across the stony yard. Ahead galloped Aapeli Karkkula, grunting
with terror, behind him Juhani tore on at a trot; but in the spacious
living-room Venla and the maid laughed until the room echoed with the
merrily tinkling sound. Failing to overtake Aapeli, Juhani turned
back from the gate, grumbling to himself and promising to teach that
impudent Karkkula puppy in the future. Entering the room, he struck his
fist on the table, saying: ‘scold me but not my wife! She is a wife the
like of which there is only one in the whole kingdom of Sweden.’ Thus
he prattled, boasting; and indeed one could not well have belittled the
woman for her house-wifery. True, she drank coffee all too copiously,
of which Juhani was frequently heard to complain; but the wife cared
little for this and allowed her plump-breasted coffee-pot to bubble as
before. And gladly her husband too accepted a steaming cup from the
plump hand of his helpmeet. Also, when away in town, he would always
remember to buy his Venla a bag of coffee and a big chunk of sugar.
Venla presented her husband with sound and sturdy heirs. But in the
beginning these matters did not altogether turn out as Juhani would
have wished. The first fruit of his love was a sly-eyed girl-child,
at which the father was much put out, and vexed because no lusty
male-child had been given him. But he hoped that next time at least he
would have better luck. A year went by and part of a second, and Venla
gave birth to a child again. This infant, wrapped in a white cloth, the
mother-in-law now bore to the grimly waiting father, smiling a honeyed
smile. Believing his hope to have been fulfilled, Juhani was delighted
and asked: ‘boy or wench?’ ‘Look for thyself, little son,’ the old dame
answered him. He looked, only to shout: ‘take your brats to Hell!’
Being left alone, however, he muttered after a while: ‘God bless my
infant, anyhow.’ Another year passed and another, and Venla gave birth
to a son, the very spit of his father, a big, hulking boy. Then there
was much rejoicing in the house of Jukola, and even Venla seemed dearer
to Juhani than before. And now all the women fell to choosing names for
the lad. One wanted him to be Frans, another Florentine, a third Erik
Translatus, while Venla was for Immanuel. Then Juhani stepped forward
and at Venla’s bedside uttered, pointing with his hand: ‘no, my Venla,
no; Johannes is his name.’ And so the little fellow was christened
after his father. Greatly did his father love him, calling him now his
‘tit’, now his ‘little crow’.
Juhani’s family life was thus for the most warm sunshine, with little
interludes of wind and storm. And even when clouds did appear, they
soon vanished and gave way to fine weather. But with the villagers and
his neighbours his relations were not as good. Quarrels would often
arise, fierce little disputes over such things as boundary-fences,
straying horses, untended swine and other matters. And Juhani was ever
quick to settle these quarrels with his fist, so that the face and hair
of his opponent were in constant danger. Often heated lawsuits seemed
imminent, but then brother Aapo would hasten between and try, in his
capacity of juryman, to coax the would-be litigants to reason with his
conciliatory tongue. Nor was Juhani slow to come round, especially when
he perceived that he was in the wrong. In everything connected with his
farm he was a good worker. His farm-folk could not have found fault
with him, neither in the fields, the meadows nor in the forest, in a
tussle with an unruly log.
Once at haymaking time in Vehkala meadow--a meadow ringed round with
sombre spruce--Juhani showed himself a real terror before both God and
Man. The wide meadow had been raked and the haymakers already crowded
round the barn to enjoy their dinners. But the master viewed with dread
the sweltering, flame-tinted clouds that voyaged threateningly over
the sky. Behind the barn was the stump of a birch, and at the foot of
this, unseen of all, Juhani fell on his knees and prayed God to spare
the juicy, sweet-scented hay of his meadow. Thus in secret he prayed;
but hardly was the meal over than a roaring cloud dashed forward
from behind the crowns of the spruce and, enwrapped in lightning and
thunder, began pouring down a devastating flood. In a twinkling the
hay was wet through, before a single haycock could be raked together.
Rakes in hand, the haymakers fled swiftly from the field to the shelter
of the barn, but soot-black in the face with rage, Juhani remained
standing in the space before the barn, cursing horribly. There, while
the heavens crashed, he stood and swore, beating his right fist against
the palm of his left hand. He swore furiously, bending down the depth
of a span each time the word ‘Devil!’ burst from his grinding teeth.
Looking up, he cried again and again in a squealing voice: ‘what have
Heaven’s dung-carts to do with my hayfield?’ His wife called to him in
reproach from the barn: ‘what horrors art thou uttering, thou sack of
sin?’ But the man cared nothing, only shouted in a still more terrible
voice at the dark gloomy clouds: ‘I ask again firmly, is this the time
for Heaven to cart its dung when I am already making my hay?’ And at
this the wives and maidens in the barn, hearing the wild language of
the man, prayed earnestly to God on his behalf, with hands tightly
crossed. They prayed; and each time the lightning flashed a prayer,
sighing and heavy, issued from their lips, and their knees bent lower.
The children, gentle and meek of eye, hid their faces and wept in their
mother’s bosom or in the folds of her dress, wept and sighed. Many a
little one, seeing the earth and heavens bathed in fire, in flashing,
flaming fire, and hearing the dreadful thunder echo around, believed
the Day of Judgment had come as the rain fell heavily and the forest
soughed mournfully around them. But Juhani, seeing what the women were
at, went on increasing the enormity of his curses; and ever louder the
women raised their voices in prayer.
In the barn there chanced to be Seunala’s young and slender daughter,
Anna of the shy glance, whose eyes shone like two stars under her
pallid, gleaming brow. Often, so it was said, had this maiden seen
marvellous visions, during which her spirit walked in the light-filled
homes of the blest and the gloomy valley of the damned, and of these
she had many wonders to relate. Often too she had foretold great
desolations for the children of mankind: wars, famine, plagues, to be
followed by the end of the world. She it was, a maiden always grave,
silent and gentle, who suddenly, while Juhani cursed in the sodden hay,
sprang out of the barn, fell on her knees on the ground, and heedless
of the pouring rain and the cross-fire of lightning, prayed in a
crying, almost shrill and screaming voice. She prayed to God to spare
the unhappy, blinded man and to keep the flaming hammer of His wrath
from striking him. So, looking up into the heights, she prayed, and a
wondrous light burned in her eyes, and on her brow shone a heavenly
fire. And behold: Juhani was silent, though his eyes still glared
angrily sideways at the maid. Until at last, when it seemed to him that
the maiden’s mission dragged on too long, he seized her by the arm and
led her back to the barn, saying: ‘go in, rag, go in now, and don’t get
thyself wet there without cause, for I need no one to pray for me.’
The maiden entered the barn, but immediately fell down on the hay and
prayed without cease in a crying voice; and hot tears welled from the
women beside her. But outside, leaning against the wall, stood Juhani,
and something akin to repentance could be read in his face, though the
anger still surged in his bosom.
Soon the rain and lightning moved on; and the next day the hay was
gathered in Vehkala meadow, gathered in blazing sunshine. But the
master of the house was no more to be seen there. Where was he now?
The voice of Seunala’s daughter echoed in his ears and gave his soul
no rest. And so, early in the morning, he set off for the rectory
in sombre mood, and repenting, confessed his sin to the rector, his
curse against God and Heaven. The rector admonished him at first in
grave tones, but soon began to speak words of consolation, and Juhani
returned home with his mind at peace. But after this scene in gloomy
Vehkala meadow a certain change became apparent in Juhani’s character
and deeds. On his head appeared a round hat like a pot, the collar of
his coat rose upright, while its skirts vanished, leaving behind only
the short snibs worn by Pietists in various parts of Finland. Thus
clad he walked about, and to church he walked oftener than before.
Awe-inspiring in his solemnity, he sat in the place kept for him beside
the solemn master of Härkämäki, now and again clearing his throat
in imitation of his companion. And after this the storms in Jukola
farmhouse and in the fields grew rarer and at last the current of
Juhani’s life flowed in an almost undisturbed stream towards its calm
evening.
Simeoni lived, a bachelor, on Juhani’s farm, receiving his food and
drink from the farm and toiling untiringly in its service from morning
to late evening. His nature was frugal even to parsimony, and his
frugality grew from year to year. With the close attention of a miser
he watched over the fortunes of the farm and the work of the men and
women on it. His lips first formed a saying that still lives and
provokes laughter amongst the dwellers around Jukola and Toukola. One
day, as he sat by the chopping-block whittling a bread-platter for
Venla while the farm-folk were all at table with a heaped-up bowl of
pork-stew before them, he saw fit to remind them that ‘a tiny bit of
pork-stew makes heaps of bread go down’. This he said, whereat both men
and women burst out laughing and even Juhani, after first laughing a
little, found cause to rebuke his brother for over-great stinginess.
But to this Simeoni only replied: ‘I exhorted you to temperance, warned
you against making gods of your bellies, which is a sin, a mortal
sin. And who is unnaturally stingy here? Not I, but that Kuninkala’s
Kalle might be who brewed the spirits for his own funeral when he felt
his end was nigh from a consumption. The lad knew himself to be the
distiller in Toukola, the one who always got the most clear spirits
with very little grain. And so it was now. In the cold bath-house porch
the miserable wretch sat beside his still, coughing and sniffing, his
nose sharp as a gimlet and the eyes in him like two glass balls. There
he sat while the spirits were carried into the house in kettlefuls. At
last he too crawled up, crawled up the steps into the porch, from the
porch into the house, fell down neatly on his bed and a few hours later
lay stiff and cold. That, good people, was miserliness, a miserliness
that never left its man even on the edge of the grave, and that I
call unnatural miserliness.’ Thus he would defend himself, and never
admitted to being a miser.
Nevertheless, he retained the goodwill of both master and mistress; for
he was a faithful and trustworthy guardian to have on the farm. Without
anxiety they could stay away from home, if only they knew that Simeoni
was in charge.
Once, on an evening in the Christmas holidays, Juhani departed with his
wife and his two youngest children on a round of visits to Impivaara
and to Tuomas and Lauri, and Simeoni was again left in charge of the
farm. The road was good and the journey progressed pleasantly through
the forests, under a cloudless sky. Little ‘tom-tit’ sat, solemn and
chubby, on Juhani’s knee, while the youngest child of all, a girl fresh
and gentle-mannered, rested in its wrapping of a white fleecy shawl
on Venla’s breast, enjoying its warm nourishment as the sleigh slid
tinkling over the snow-covered clearings, hastening from Jukola towards
the fields of Impivaara. Evening fell, and the men and maid-servants at
Jukola went off to the games at Toukola, leaving Simeoni to manage the
household alone. Two were left in his power, the two oldest girls of
the family, one nine, the other seven years old. These two had not been
taken along with their mother and father, and their uncle would not
permit them to go to the village with the others, at which both were
mightily aggrieved. Simeoni, however, cared little for their opinion,
and decided instead to make use of his power to enforce on them his
own ideas of what was fitting.
It became pitch-dark, and still no fire blazed in the fireplace as
usual in the evening. At this the children fretted and began clamouring
fiercely for light and a fire. But their uncle paid no attention to
these demands, and lay peacefully as was his habit on the top of the
fireplace, his long coarse hair hanging down from its edge. He lay
there speaking words of wisdom to the girls. ‘A fine thing, indeed,
to be always baking these bricks. Ho, ho! we’re not, I’m thinking, in
Vantta ironworks. Know, you hussies, that wood is dear; and tell me
what we shall burn when the forests have all been cut. Heather, eh?
Ay, that’s what’ll happen if we don’t look before us in time. Less
is enough for this sinful wretched body, enough, I should say, for
two idle scamps like you. Get under the rugs, there’s warmth for you.
Ho indeed! A fine thing that would be.’ So spoke Simeoni; but the
children, saucy minxes unused to giving way to their uncle, nagged
back at him, argued quite fiercely with him, snapped and at intervals
bared the white rows of their teeth at him, mocking and jibing in
their anger. And when this failed to help them they at length dared to
lay their claws on the old fellow’s scraggy hair, which hung over the
stove-top. These locks they now seized and managed to tug fairly well
before the poor man had time to climb down. But at last he was on his
feet, and seizing a sooty stick from the corner, he hammered with it on
the floor, threatening to sweep the legs from under them. Whereupon the
scamps skipped out of the room, and Jukola’s tough-grained door sang as
the little rascals ran.
But a moment later they had the boldness to enter again, and in fierce
tones demand their supper. Simeoni let them rage and scold for long,
but at last he rose and taking a splinter from the rafters split it and
lit one half. In the light of this wretched torch he ladled out gruel
from the pot for the girls, but not much, only two or three ladlefuls.
He set the bowl on a stool and bade the children eat; meanwhile he
covered the pot with the lid of the baking-trough and for further
safety put the heavy chopping-block from the corner on the lid. The
children, however, were dissatisfied with these rations and demanded
more; they wanted at least a piece of bread; and little Venla, a sharp
little puss, wept musically. Simeoni bit off a piece of bread hardly
as big as a man’s thumb and handed it to the girl. But seeing its
smallness, she would have none of it, and angrily thrusting out her
hand, knocked the bread out of Simeoni’s hand into the corner. And now
the man too lost his temper; pursing his lips tightly together, he
twitched her by the hair with two fingers, saying: ‘thou baggage, dost
thou mock at the dear gift of God? Ho indeed! A fine thing.’
At that the girl began to weep harder, but Simeoni at least cared
little for that, but merely began at last to make a fire. With a few
paltry embers he built up a wretched blaze, saying in a scolding tone:
‘hold thy tongue now, or I’ll take a stick from yon corner and thrash
thee properly. The little imp, to throw God’s gift out of my hand into
the corner. Oh well! Be without bread now and lap up thy gruel nicely
like thy older sister is doing. And it’s quite enough for a child’s
supper. We haven’t the means to feast and live like rich men do. Shut
up, thou wretch. Ay, a fine thing that’d be.’ Thus he spoke, sitting
on the hearth and coaxing his unwilling fire of embers; the old fellow
never saw how the little minx, spoon in hand, made angry faces at him
and wagged her little jaw in time to his words.
However, neither the girls’ tears nor angry words helped, and they had
to be content with their uncle’s rations. And at last an overpowering
sleep laid the children in bed, and soon they were sleeping soundly
under the soft, sheepskin rugs. Meanwhile Simeoni’s fire let the
cold into the house instead of warming it; neither would he wait for
the fire to burn out. Thinking to himself: the dear wood will do for
tomorrow, he began to extinguish his feeble, dispiriting evening blaze
and closed the dampers tightly, despite the acrid smoke that streamed
into the room from the air-hole. Relighting his skimpy torch, he ate
his supper: a small piece of mouldy bread and seven dried-up sprats’
heads from an oaken bowl. Eagerly the burning eyes of the dogs watched
his meal, the movements of his hand from bowl to mouth and mouth to
bowl, but not a crumb was left over for them. And having eaten, he
crossed his hands, fell on his knees on the hearth-stone, and weeping
burning tears thanked David’s Son for having in His boundless mercy
always fed him, a sack of sin. And then, rising, he opened the door
and began shooing out the dogs for the night, ‘to guard the house from
thieves’. He said this, although as far back as anyone could remember
thieves had been unknown in Jukola. A fierce wintry wind had risen
outside and the dogs were little minded to exchange the rustling straw
of the room for the cold out-of-doors; and thus a tumult ensued in
which the dogs, however, got the worst. Squealing, with drooping tails,
they fled at length before Simeoni’s weapon, the sooty stick.
This accomplished, he carefully closed the heavy doors of the porch, a
burning splinter between his grinning teeth. Coming back into the room,
he held his torch to the left and looked at the girls, who dreamed
sweetly in their bed under the warm rugs, cheek against cheek, glowing
like two newly-blown roses on a summer night. The man gazed upon
them, gazed smiling and tucked the woollen edge of the rug closer to
little Venla’s throat; and as he moved away to the hearth, he uttered
in a fond, mincing tone: ‘what’s to stop you from sleeping, with your
bellies full of gruel.’ And having said this, he prepared for his own
nightly rest. Once again he fell on his knees and clasping his hands
firmly together and shedding hot tears, thanked the Lord, David’s Son,
for all the good they had enjoyed, praying for His sheltering hand to
be held over the farm also during the coming night. He prayed on his
own behalf, on behalf of the little ones in the bed and for all on the
face of this earth. Then he lay down on his beloved stove-top, and with
the embers gratefully warming the soles of his feet, fell asleep.
Cold was the room, cold and cheerless, when the men and maid-servants
came back from the games at Toukola to sleep somewhere about midnight,
and the next day they glowered angrily at Simeoni. And when the
master and mistress returned from their visits, all began fiercely
complaining, both the children and the grown-ups. But Simeoni cared
nothing at all, and only whittled beside his chopping-block, remarking
in an idle tone: ‘we haven’t the means to live like gents, that you all
know. To live like gents on this farm.’
Such was Simeoni’s life in his old home, on old Jukola: toiling
diligently and always on the watch inside and outside the house. Yet
days would come when nothing on earth moved him. It happened at times
that he came from the village altogether drunk, came back a merry
fellow, who blustered loudly and pranced backward and forward on the
floor, to the amusement and laughter of all on the farm. But the next
day he would be very ill in soul and body. Sighing and with hands
crossed, he would lie on the sooty oven-top, and a great repentance
would gnaw at his heart. Then came an event which caused these drunken
hours and long days of atonement to grow much rarer. Juhani once
brought him an expensive gift from town: a big, stiff-backed Bible
weighing almost a stone. Simeoni’s joy and delight were great; and for
this kind deed he never wearied of thanking and praising his brother.
And after that he forgot the tempting glass almost entirely.
Each Sunday and week-day evening he was now seen sitting beside his
Bible, studying the Word; and thus he seldom fell in with strong drink.
Nevertheless, this was still to happen one All Saints’ Eve. In merry
mood the man blustered, strutted and danced around, only to fall asleep
at last on his stone; and the next day again knew black repentance in
his bosom. And what did he do then? Standing at the head of the table
with the Bible open before him, he called together the farm-folk from
the eldest down to the youngest. And placing two fingers on the Book
and rolling his eyes heavenward, he swore a sacred oath never more to
taste strong drink, not another drop as long as he lived.
A year went by and a second and even a third, and still Simeoni held
firmly by his oath. Once again, however, he was to fall into this
besetting sin of his, and this fall caused a great commotion on the
farm. As a perjured, soul-less worm the poor man now regarded himself,
having broken a vow made with two fingers on the Book. Therefore he
decided to shorten his miserable days. Swiftly, but with firm footsteps
and ice-cold mind, he left the house, climbed to the stable-loft and
tying the old speckled mare’s blanket-strap round his neck, fastened
the other end to the highest rafter under the roof. And there he
calmly set himself hanging, sleeping the sleep of death; and stiffly
the man’s eyes stared before him, his cheeks swelled out with terrible
speed and his hands clenched into iron fists. But the measure of his
days was not yet filled.
Juhani’s mother-in-law went out to look at her hens’ nests in the loft,
and seeing a man at the end of a rope she at once raised the alarm with
her shouts and squeals. Juhani hastened without delay to the place of
danger and saved his brother from the very jaws of death. With one
jerk he snapped the strap and groaning and uttering cries of surprise,
carried his brother into the house, and around them swarmed the women
and children, weeping, crying out and striking their palms together.
Into the chamber, onto Venla’s yielding rug, Juhani bore his brother,
and soon Simeoni had come to and sat gloomily, sighing and peering
at the floor, on the edge of the bed. With a smoking cob between his
teeth, Juhani then hastened to Aapo, walking rapidly and groaning, to
tell his brother of the awful event and to ask his advice regarding
Simeoni. He himself thought a little thrashing, given secretly and in
all moderation and silence by his brothers, to be followed by a few
stern godly words, would be best for the man. But Aapo dismissed the
hiding as unnecessary and harmful, and decided to use only the power of
the word on him. And when he too had lit his pipe, the two brothers set
off from Aapo-Jukola over the fields to Juhani-Jukola, to talk wisdom
with Simeoni, that child of sorrow.
Aapo shook the hand of Simeoni warmly in greeting, and reloading his
pipe, began with solemn mien and voice to pronounce judgment, followed
soon by words of consolation. Simeoni listened for long without saying
a word, only peering dismally down at the floor. But Aapo, ceaselessly
relighting his cob, waving his hand and looking out of the window
towards the distant horizon with eager eyes, went on increasing the
power of his speech. And the words fell from his mouth like a glowing
golden rain. And suddenly, bitter-sweet lines appeared round Simeoni’s
mouth and the man’s throat burst into a mighty sobbing. Juhani’s jaw
trembled too and hung aslant, and soon he too was weeping, and even in
Aapo’s eyes a moist gleam could have been seen.
Thus was Simeoni’s heart turned once more towards life and hope. And
it was with a face beaming with gratitude that he squeezed Aapo’s
hand in farewell. He thanked God too for the new mercy shown him; and
little by little he relapsed into his former ways on the farm. And thus
pious Simeoni, never draining another glass, lived out his peaceful
days, now whittling beside the chopping-block, now, pipe in mouth,
hacking pine-twigs in the fresh-scented yard, now sitting by his Bible,
studying the Word.
Aapo ruled over the other half of Jukola, over the farm now known as
Aapo-Jukola; his farmhouse stood only a few hundred paces from his
former home. He had married Hindrikka Konkkala; a mild and gentle
woman in every way; a busy housewife and good-tempered helpmate. Aapo
was content with her, though he deemed it best to give her now and
then strict instructions and advice in the care of a household. To
these she would listen in silence or laughing, her eyes twinkling,
her simple merry laugh. Aapo would also instruct the maids and little
servant-girls, when it chanced that their work offended his eye. The
oldest maid once received a stern lesson from him while she swept the
floor. For Aapo, being of the mind that she swept too stormily and left
dust in the corners, suddenly lost his temper and snatching the broom
from her, began anew with nimble movements to sweep the room from the
rear end to the door. But halfway across the floor, he thrust the broom
at her again, saying: ‘that’s how a good girl should sweep.’ Then the
mistress, who had looked on from the fireplace at Aapo fussing broom
in hand with the maid, laughed her guileless, melting laugh, laughed,
screwing up her eyes and holding her hands on her knees. Whereas Aapo,
as soon as he had left the maid to her work, cast a sternly reproving
glance at her. Yet he was always fair and honest with his men and
maids; this they would all admit with one mouth.
He practised the art of healing, too, as he had learned it from an old
medical book which he was always studying. Very often his remedies
proved successful, though many of them were of his own invention,
concocted of herbs. He was especially famous at curing erysipelas,
fainting-fits, mumps and the itch. At massage he was unexcelled;
many were the men whom his hand had treated and who had found in it
alleviation. Stomach-aches and the gripes he would often cure merely by
massage. And as danger knows no laws or rules, it happened more than
once that women too had to submit to treatment by Aapo’s palm, when
colic pains and retchings tore ceaselessly at their stomachs.
There was one woman, the wife of the rag-gatherer, old Matti
Tervakoski, who suffered from an obstinate nightmare. It rode her in
the most exhausting fashion for weeks at a stretch. Sometimes when it
failed to afflict her, she had hopes that she had been saved from this
nightly tormentor. But then it would return and the old woman would
writhe again in the grip of her persecutor. She sought help from wise
women and from doctors, but always in vain. Then at last a rumour of
Aapo’s great skill and power of curing diseases reached her ears, and
once more she fared forth to seek relief. Bundle on arm and knitting
in hand, she walked the long weary way to Jukola, but once there, she
was freed for ever from her trouble.
As a juryman too, Aapo was the right man. Grave, often with his hand
behind his ear, he sat on the court-room bench, carefully following
the course of a law-suit. There, holding his head manfully erect, he
would sit, a faint smile of self-satisfaction playing occasionally over
his lips. His judgments were always wise, impartial and just. Of this
the Judge was aware, and therefore he always listened patiently to his
somewhat long-drawn speeches, as, spreading out his hands, he held
forth on the case in point.
Thus he lived in his peaceful home, a good master, and the good father
of sturdy children.
Impivaara, the part first cleared, was ruled over by Tuomas, a man
broad-shouldered and strong. No brave dared preen himself in the
presence of the master of Upper-Impivaara. Great was his strength, and
his whole being bespoke power and security. In working his farm he
never had recourse to shouting and bluster; yet he kept good order and
upheld the fear of God both in his home and out in the fields. He was
the most generous of all the brothers, and always treated the suffering
children of hard fortune mercifully and with kindness. Not for him to
question, or to probe the origin of the misery of those seeking his
help. He would not upbraid the man whose own folly had brought him to
the beggar’s staff. He gave to all, gave without discernment, thinking:
at least thou art unhappy. Tenderest was he to little beggar-girls,
who, with shy glance, walked the path of mendicancy in fear and
trembling. Two such wanderers he had taken into his care, and these
were brought up and cared for as lovingly as his own children, bouncing
boys every one of them.
His wife was Härkämäki’s only daughter, a grave and noble woman, worthy
to be the spouse of the mighty hero of Impivaara. Robust, at once
quick, grave and calm, was she in countenance and character. Her bosom
swelled proudly; her plait, thick and flaxen-yellow, danced pleasantly
on her strong shoulders under her neckerchief, red-checkered on a white
ground. Peace dwelt ever on her brow and in her heart the fear of God,
strict and whole-souled. This was the mistress of Impivaara, the noble
mother of the children of the farm, their own and those adopted. Often
her eyes, fine and charitable, would dwell dreaming on a delicate
girl-child, saved once from orphanage and destitution.
Thus the days of Tuomas’s life passed calmly by, towards the calm haven
of death. The life of man is often compared to a stream. But Tuomas’s
life, from the time when he took over Impivaara to the moment of his
death, I would compare to a mighty river which fares majestically,
calmly onward towards the boundless eternal ocean.
Two or three gunshots east of Tuomas’s farm, Lauri’s farm stood on a
heath; it formed the other half of Impivaara and was called Laurila.
Here dwelt a silent man, who tilled his land with energy, toiled busily
in his fields, but keener still in the backwoods and bogs.
He had taken his wife from Kukkala Farm. Of the Kuokkala twins,
Lauri had espoused one and the other had fallen to Timo’s lot, to be
mistress of Kekkuri Croft. There was a woman for thee, Lauri’s wife: a
broad-bosomed wench; short she was too. Her shrill voice carried far,
like the piercing note of a clarionet, especially when, brimming over
with wrath, she stormed at her husband; and at such moments her brown
eyes emitted sparks.
Silent, whittling a piece of wood, Lauri would sit, heedless though
his wife raged and blustered like a tempest. And this tried the woman’s
patience so that her gall would rise still higher. Yet it could happen
at times that the man’s patience gave out, and then it was not good to
look him in the face. Even the wife would be suddenly silent and slip
out best she might, to hide in some corner of the cowhouse, in some
sheltered nook or cranny. There she would linger a while in hiding,
peeping cautiously out at intervals to find out how the storm she
had awakened was progressing. So she would stay away until the man’s
wrathful mind was appeased. Yet it was seldom that quiet Lauri was thus
aroused. Often, when his wife raged and fumed again, he would go out
into the forests, a pipe between his teeth and an axe under his arm,
and look for useful bits of timber, birch-bark for shoes, and fungoids.
Gladly he lingered on these trips, searching, looking around and
meditating. And not until long after sunset, when all others rested,
would he trudge home in the mild half-dark of the summer nights, with a
burden of roots, twisted tree-trunks and a mighty ball of birch-bark on
his shoulder.
It often happened at such times that on his homeward way he would meet
his sturdy bull, Hälli of the broad back, bound in passionate thoughts
for the village; come face to face with him in the mists of even on
the sandy road; see him approach with baleful eyes. But then steel
met steel; for Lauri, roaring in his hoarse voice and brandishing his
axe, would always force the obstinate brute to turn in the end. And
then they would march back to Laurila, Hälli ahead and Lauri behind.
Hälli tried to turn to the right, but immediately Lauri would be there,
waving his axe; once more Hälli would try to the left, but again from
the left Lauri’s axe threatens him. And so the bull would deem it best
to march off home, even though it did shake its head angrily and blow
out the mighty passion of its heart through its nostrils.
They would pass the home of Tuomas, where the maid would hear in her
bed the thud of footsteps, swishings and tappings, from the sandy road.
‘Who is out so late?’ she would think, and rising up sleep-befuddled in
her shift, she would go to the window, peep out and see her neighbour’s
bull go marching gravely and solemnly by with its master. In front the
bull, unwilling, behind it the master, every now and again brandishing
his axe and carrying on his shoulder a bundle of wood and a ball of
birch-bark. So they would vanish at last from the maid’s sight. Then
the bull would open its throat and sing in its wrath a fearsome,
screaming song, and the heath would quake and heaven and earth echo.
But then Lauri would say: ‘ay, I’ll give it to thee. Art thou angry?
Aha! rascal, march nicely home now; even Kaura-Matti’s tricks wouldn’t
help thee here. As thou knowest.’ So he would say as he strode on, with
the bull marching before him and blowing a proud triumphant march,
which echoed in the silent night to far distant villages.
Lauri would shut up Hälli firmly in the yard to keep the farm’s own
cows company, and then enter the house, where a supper grown cold
awaited him. In the house all slept already; only the mistress lay
fretfully awake in her bed in the chamber, waiting for her husband.
When he had eaten Lauri would at last enter the chamber, and at once
a sharp gale would blow to meet him. His wife screamed and babbled
passionately at him from her bed, crackling with fury like fire in a
dry juniper bush at her husband, at ‘that lout’s accursed idling in the
depths of the forest’. Silently the man would sit, undressing himself,
and then, lighting his cob, lie down at last beside his wife, who
still scolded and flared up at him. But when the pipe had been smoked
to the end, Lauri would place it carefully on the floor, twitch the
coverlet a little higher and then utter in a firm tone: ‘Be quiet now,
bless thyself and sleep in God’s name while the weather’s good: mind
that, while the weather’s good.’ And at that the nagging wife would
be still, though her heart still heaved in her bosom; until, having
angrily jerked the coverlet more to her own side, she would fall asleep
like the man beside her.
Thus until the dark nights came Lauri lingered in the forests on these
pleasant outings. And of all that he saw there worth noting, marvelling
at or thinking over, he seldom said a word to anyone during the week.
Only on Sundays and generally at the breakfast table would he relate a
thing or two to his farm-hands.
Once when he returned from the forest, his mind worked harder than
ever, thinking, meditating; but what it was he pondered over so deeply
no one knew. Silent and increasingly morose from day to day he moved in
his yard, snapping viciously at both men and women, which had seldom
been his habit earlier. A cloud of deep or vexing thoughts hid his brow
without cease and cast dark shadows in the hollows of his eyes. Such
was his appearance a whole long week. Came Sunday at last, and Lauri
sat at table with his men, but in complete silence. At last however he
opened his lips and said to the others: ‘Men, I have one thing to ask
you; explain it if you can. Five days ago when I walked over the smooth
rise in Koivisto meadow, in the new snow that hid the ground thinly
with its woolly garment as it does now, I saw tracks that my brain
cannot make out. Curse! for days and nights already my thoughts have
coursed hither and thither, in all directions, seeking an explanation
to this matter. But listen: in the meadow I saw tracks, the tracks of
a full-grown man, which I followed, idly walking. But suddenly these
tracks broke off, and from this point, continuing over the rise and
down into the thicket, the tracks of a fox began, clear fox-tracks,
of which there had been none on the ground up to now, not one. Where
had the man got to? He had not turned back, either to the right or the
left, no, but he must have gone up to Heaven and a fox come down from
there to continue his tracks in the snow. Or can the man have carried a
fox on his back, and then at the spot where his own tracks ended have
climbed on to Reynard’s back and ridden him through the thicket on to
the church road? Impossible; yet I can see no other way of explaining
this matter. What do you say, men? Are there still magicians in our
village? Had the man changed himself with the Devil’s help into a fox?’
Thus he spoke, and the farm-folk listened in astonishment, nor could
any of them explain the riddle; one and all ended in believing that a
wizard must have walked in Koivisto meadow.
But in Lauri’s heart there was no peace; having eaten, he set off
tramping again towards Koivisto meadow. Reaching the rounded rise he
noticed the same phenomenon again: human tracks changing into those of
a fox in the newly-fallen snow. Beside himself, he shouted in an angry
voice: ‘Is the very Devil at his tricks here?’ And shouting, thus with
twisted lips, he kicked at a dung-hill that showed faintly through
the snow, whereupon the gleam of bright steel flashed from it. In one
instant fine dung and chaff flew into the air, while at the same time
the shining arcs of a wicked fox-trap closed on his legs, squeezing
them mercilessly. And at this Lauri’s eyes opened wide; he bent down
hurriedly to release his aching, swelling calves from the obstinate
irons, and with a shrieked curse cast them from him to the ground.
Now he knew what kind of traps had been set in his meadow, but of the
puzzling change in the tracks he could still make nothing. He began
wrathfully walking homeward, limping badly and clenching his teeth
each time he put his foot to the ground. And soon he felt the need of
some prop to help him on his way and began seeking a likely staff in
the thicket by the church road. In a bush he saw two birchwood poles,
and when he had dragged these from their hiding-place he found them to
be two stilts, both of which had exceedingly natural fox-paws carved
at their lower ends. And now his face brightened and all was clear to
him. He understood now that some trapper, wishing to avoid anything
that might breed suspicion in a fox, had used these stilts each time
he had been to examine his traps. By this means he left behind him not
human tracks, which the cunning Michael of the hills would naturally
avoid, but those of a fox. The matter was now clear to Lauri; and with
a lighter heart, albeit with aching calf, he limped away, using one of
the wooden legs as a crutch.
And now it chanced that Kolistin, the crusty old fogey, visiting
the squirrel-snares which he had set between the hay-poles in the
meadow and in the fences of the fields, saw Lauri’s tracks in the
open meadow and began to ponder deeply. ‘Here’s a man and a dog gone
by, but--what am I to think of such wonders?--a one-legged dog. The
Devil and a marvel! A one-legged dog has hopped beside its master
across this stump-besprinkled, God’s own meadow. What in damnation am
I to make of such a marvel? Are wizards and Lapps about? Eh?’ Thus he
pondered as he stood on the clearing, tearing his rough black looks,
rolling a quid between his front teeth and knitting his grey eyebrows
in a terrible frown. Soon, however, he walked on, but still without
comprehending the miracle on the clearing: a one-legged dog that hopped
beside its master. He brooded over the matter long and deeply without
a word to anybody until on his deathbed, when he asked his gentle
daughter-in-law what she thought of this marvel, which gave him no
peace even in the jaws of death. But the woman, with tears in her eyes,
only shouted in his ear an entreaty to dismiss all such thoughts from
his mind and to think only of his everlasting soul. To this the old man
made no answer, but continued to stare before him; and thus he took the
strange mystery of the heath with him to the grave unanswered.
Lauri’s leg soon healed of its bite and he toiled on his farm as
before, now in the forests, now in his roomy farmhouse. Such was the
life he led with his sturdy wife and children. And as long as they
remained in their mother’s care, his children never lacked a shirt or
stockings, their daily bread or the whip.
Timo ruled over Kekkuri Croft, and his wife was the second of the
Kuokkala twins. Both in character and outward appearance she was the
spit of her sister: a plump-bosomed, tilt-nosed, brown-skinned woman.
She was said, however, to possess a somewhat softer heart than her
sister, the wife of brother Lauri. Greatly did Timo love her, even
though his hair sometimes flew in the lusty grip of his hot-tempered
mate; for it was not good to oppose her in anything. Timo always tried,
too, to do his wife’s will in every way, and life went on well on the
farm. One matter only would now and then disturb the peace of their
household. Timo had the habit, a deeply-rooted habit, of drinking
himself into a rowdy state of intoxication once a year, about the
Feast of Hallowe’en, on which occasions he would linger in the village
for a day or two in the company of his boon friends. But then a rare
commotion would arise when at last he saw fit to return home.
One Sunday on the confines of October and November the man had again
strayed from the straight path and joined in a merry carouse with
Kyösti Tammisto and Karkkula’s Aapeli. In the cool attic at Tammisto
they drank from a black, shining bottle, talking with great gravity,
singing and embracing each other lovingly. Thus they spent two days and
two nights, cheering and singing and staring carelessly with bemused
eyes out of the windy windows of their eyrie. They stared over the
dung-covered yard, over the straw-littered cowhouse, over a stony hill,
over fields and meadows right to the distant bog called Lemmilä, over
which, high under the clouds, the wild swans flashed, wheeling hither
and thither on their migration to the lands of the south. Unheedingly
they stared, gazed with watery goat’s eyes, prattled foolishly and
wagged their heads, in which a delicious heat and giddiness made
themselves felt: far away were the cares and sorrows of ordinary
wretched mortals.
But at last the third day dawned, and the friends awoke with aching
heads from their chilly couches. Finished were both money and drink,
and no way was left of inducing housewives to tap their casks. Silent
and with disordered countenance, Timo finally started to trudge
homeward; with lagging footsteps he passed along the lane, walked
mournfully up the hill, his thoughts dwelling on the hot-tempered
mistress of Kekkuri. His homespun trousers had a miserable droop
to them, and between his trousers and the red-striped waistcoat he
affected his shirt stuck vacantly out; his eyes bulged, little and
bloodshot, as, with his hair in a thousand tangles, he marched on
towards Kekkuri; and the open breast of the man, gleaming and red as
the scoured side of a copper kettle, glowed afar. In gloomy humour
he walked, and the forests, hills and valleys glared angrily at him.
Yonder the yellowed birch bore stern witness to his sin; the dark-hued
spruce loudly proclaimed it, and like a black, vicious imp, a tarry
stump, stood by the roadside; Nature, formerly so loving, now turned
a strict step-motherly countenance upon him. Yet on trees, rocks
and stumps, he looked but little, but kept his gaze directed ahead,
remembering the hot-tempered mistress of Kekkuri. On those who chanced
to meet him on the road, young or old, man or woman, he hardly deigned
to cast a glance, and indeed he would have been hard put to do more
now, even if the Grand Duke of Finland himself had walked past him.
Silent, brooding with a faint smile over his home, his wife, the
farm-folk and his children, he marched on, and every now and again a
sudden but soundless sigh would burst forth from his breast.
Finally he reached his yard, and here he halted to consider whether
he dared enter the house, and whether there were any means left under
the sun by which he could appease even slightly his infuriated mate.
There he now held his head, held it a long time, looking hither and
thither, until at last an idea flashed into his brain and he said to
himself: ‘I have found a way.’ And at once he began piling up an armful
of cordwood from the pile. And then, with a mighty load of wood in his
embrace, he staggered towards the house, hoping by this trick to please
his firm-willed wife. With a great scraping he mounted the steps and
entered the porch and from there shouted in an innocent tone: ‘open
the door ... open the door, you children there, the boy or the girl.’
And presently his son, little milk-bearded Jooseppi, came and opened
the door, and in stepped Timo with his load, looking straight and
unwaveringly before him. And when he had dropped his load with a great
clatter in the corner, he said: ‘the cordwood pile seems to be going
down a lot; but what of it; there’s plenty of forest on Jukola.’ And
having said this, he made bold to cast a swift glance at his wife; but
there a thunderstorm, threatening and heavy with wrath to come, met his
gaze.
It was a dreadful moment. Hardly had the wife shrieked out the
question: ‘where hast thou been, thou devil-possessed?’ before a slap
fell on Timo’s cheeks, a fiery slap right and left. But soon the sound
of slaps ceased and an awful silence followed, during which Timo’s hair
was in a fiery mill, so that the world span round before his eyes. At
last he lost his temper, and seizing his wife’s arms in his brawny
fists, he thrust her down on a stool and there held her quietly for a
while. And with his hair terribly tousled, red as a turkey-cock in the
face, Timo then spoke to the furious woman: ‘what now, if I were to
give it thee from a real man’s fist, thou slut, thou she-ass’s colt.
Dost think thou canst dare to treat me like that? Oho! that’s where
thou art mistaken. There aren’t many fellows I’d let touch my hair,
let alone any old woman. For, devil take me, I’m a proper hot-blooded
fellow, as, more’s the pity, is not so often seen and heard nowadays.
Ay, ay, take care I do not wallop thee a little even now.’ Thus he
threatened, without however fulfilling his threat. Perhaps he had
not the heart for it. For he still loved his wife greatly. But in a
black rage his wife screamed: ‘let go, thou accursed man, let go this
minute!’ At this interruption Timo was taken aback and pondered for
a moment whether to let go his hold, or to restrain his mate a little
longer. Once again the woman shrieked and louder; and Timo loosened his
grasp; but at once the man’s hair was in a mill again. Whereupon he
lost his temper again and completely this time, and deciding to leave
his wife to the Devil, began marching proudly out. Slow, however, and
difficult was his progress from the room; for the woman flapped at his
neck like a little brown hawk on the back of a ruddy male capercaillie,
with the feathers flying all around. But without heeding this, he tore
his way out of the room, tore himself out by force, but not until the
porch steps were reached did his wife release her hold, promising
to give her husband a good lesson yet: and down the steps Timo came
gravely, saying as he went: ‘that’s how I teach ’em, women!’ He strode
away from the house and disappeared behind the hops, but once there, he
grinned cunningly to himself and returned quickly to the stables, where
he climbed into the loft. He thrust down a couple of armfuls of hay
to the horses in their stalls, dropped down on his yielding, rustling
couch, and having pondered a while over his wife’s ‘violent heart’,
fell into a heavy sleep.
Night came, a cold and frosty night, but of Timo nothing more was
heard. Greatly anxious, the mistress lay down on her bed, thinking
gloomily of her husband’s fate. ‘He had gone, maybe, the wild fellow,
and hung himself; or perhaps thrown himself in a temper into the
bottomless well in Nummenniittu meadow; or had fallen asleep in the
forest, and was sure to freeze the nose, nails and limbs of him,
the poor lad.’ Fancying these things, she soon burst into a fit of
passionate weeping as she lay there on her bed without her beloved
husband. She sighed and sobbed for an agonized hour or two, her
restless ear ever alert for sounds in the gateway or porch. But the
night wore on and on, and there was no sound of approaching footsteps.
Finally she rose, dressed herself, and lit a richly-decorated tin
lantern with the intention of going out to seek the lost one. She dared
not, however, face the night alone; she had always been much afraid
of gnomes, ghosts and all kinds of spooks. Their own bath-house had a
special terror for her, for had not recently the old pensioned soldier,
foam-bearded Iisakki Honkamäki, died there? She aroused, therefore, her
maid Taava for company on her search. Taava rose and dressed herself,
but it was in peevish and irritable mood that she followed her mistress
into the cold, dismal night. They searched first the bath-house, then
the barn, but without result. They came back into the yard, and there
on the edge of the field the wife fell to weeping and calling loudly
on her husband by name. She shouted lustily, and the forest and the
barn on the open clearing echoed. At length they heard from the loft a
kind of rough, hoarse growling in answer, and to this spot the women
now hastened. Up into the loft, lantern in hand, the wife climbed
and there found Timo; raising himself sleep-drunken on his rustling
couch, he stared bewildered at her, as an old goat bewitched out of its
sense by wolves might stare. He stops not, the crazy animal, to seek
shelter with the man who has saved him from the wolves, but suddenly,
unexpectedly, sets off at a run after the wolves, stopping now and
then, stamping his feet and looking quite ferociously around him. So
Timo too now stared at his own wife without recognizing her; some
influence of the after-effects of drink still worked perhaps in his
brain.
WIFE. Why dost thou sit here? Come in; God’s creation, thou
hast no need to scorch thyself here in the grip of the frost; that I
will say. Come in, Timo.
TIMO. Who art thou then?
WIFE. Good Lord preserve us! Art thou so far gone as not to
know me? Ho-hoo! There now, that’s how sin and the Devil lead poor
souls astray. Ho-hoo, ay!
TIMO. What art blubbering for there? Who are you anyway?
WIFE. Ah indeed, ah, oh! Timo, Timo!
TIMO. Eh?
WIFE. Dost thou not know me? I am thy wife Ulla.
TIMO. Ah! Ay, so you are.
WIFE. Come in and don’t hang about here in the cold stable
loft. Oh, thou miserable man!
TIMO. Ay, a fine fuss because the master sleeps in his loft.
Shut up and don’t talk so childishly there. What’s harming a man here?
MAID. They won’t, drat them, let a poor maid rest her nights
in peace, but here she has to be nosing round corners looking for a
drunken swine.
WIFE. Hurry now. Give me thy hand and come down nicely.
MAID. Give me thy hand! I’d drag him down by the leg like a
sack of chaff.
TIMO. What’s Taava snapping at down there? Shut up, wench,
there’s nothing the matter with any of us.
MAID. I’d matter him.
WIFE. Hold thy jaw thou, and take this lantern. Canst thou not
get down from there?
TIMO. I’ll be down in my own time; go on ahead to the house,
you two.
They entered the house, the mistress ahead and the maid behind, and
last of all came Timo. Muttering wrathfully to herself the maid
hastened to her bed, while the mistress began nimbly preparing supper
for her man. On the table she set out butter, round loaves, beef-stew
and big potatoes in their skins; and with pleasure Timo tackled his
meal. But sore of heart, his wife tearfully watched him from the other
end of the table.
WIFE. I will say; why canst thou not stop properly at home,
strange fellow, when thou knowest what a hot-tempered Gypsy-Kaisa I am?
Now I’ve been at thy hair again. What came over my claws, what came
over an old woman’s claws? I’ve been tearing at thee again.
TIMO. Ay, to be sure, a fine to-do for pulling the master’s
hair. What art thou blubbering for so childishly when there’s nothing
the matter with anybody? But it was a hot tussle, all the same, and
thou gavest it me with a man’s hand. He-he! The Devil anyhow! Go and
pour out some beer.
WIFE. What cause hast thou to hang about the villages and
village taverns night and day, night and day? Is this a right state of
things?
TIMO. Well, I won’t say that it mightn’t have happened about
once a year; ay, it has, it can’t be denied.
WIFE. Where hast thou frolicked now, and with whom? Say? Who
were the rascals?
TIMO. Ay, I had my companions, that I had.
WIFE. Where hast thou wallowed and with whom? Tell me at once.
TIMO. Why, with Tammisto’s Kyösti and Karkkula’s Aapeli in
Tammisto attic yonder.
WIFE. What did you drink?
TIMO. Only spirits, nothing dearer. Ay, where would the likes
of us get rum, rum and liquors?
WIFE. Godless man! If death were to strike thee now, thou’dst
sink down to the lowest hell without help or mercy.
TIMO. It isn’t often, God knows, that anyone is ready. But
what’s to kill us here, in our best years. Shut up about dying and draw
me some beer.
The wife drew brown, foaming beer for her husband from the cask, and
having eaten a meal suited to a full-grown man, Timo emptied almost the
whole tankard. Whereafter both withdrew to their beds.
But another side of the mistress’s nature should also be shown. Each
Sunday or holiday morning, before setting off to Communion Service with
her husband, she always wept stinging tears and begged each member of
the family for forgiveness, beginning with her husband and passing
down to the shepherd boy. And with his mouth in a contented simper,
Timo would go out to hurry on the harnessing of the horse, walk there
happily, his shirt collar high up his neck, raised there by the nimble
hand of his own wife. And with his farmhand, who harnessed the horse
in the yard, he would speak thus: ‘Eh, but that wife of ours is a good
wife, that she truly is, no one could deny it. Where should I be, poor
beggar, with all my brats without her, the wife of wives? Dog take it,
three hundred roubles wouldn’t pay all I’d lose if this woman were to
die; even four hundred wouldn’t do it. Believe me, Kaapolad.’ Thus he
spoke, and with all that he said the wily Kaapo was quick to agree,
although each time he was on the other side of the brown gelding, a
roguish grin spread over his countenance. But at last the mistress
would come out in her new rustling skirt and gleaming linen, her eyes
swollen by weeping; she would approach the cart, climb gravely into
it and sit down sighing in her seat. And behind her on her right,
reins in hand, Timo would seat himself, glowing like the full moon in
late summer, glowing, smiling and happy, full of blood, health and
vitality. He would jerk slightly at the reins, smack his lips once,
and immediately the swift gelding would be trotting along the church
road. Soon they would be lost in the shadowy opening of the birch-wood,
and for a brief while a sandy smoke would glitter over the sunlit road.
Eero, youngest of the brothers, lived and toiled on Vuohenkalma Croft,
on a stony hill beside the church road. He was the wise and active
Sheriff’s Man of the parish, who caused many a wolf, glutton and bear
to lose its life in a well-baited trap. He was much in demand by the
Sheriff as an assistant, for all the matters entrusted to his care were
wont to turn out exceeding well. His skill in writing and reckoning
also brought him much work, and likewise income. Yet these never
tempted him to neglect the tilling of his land, and his farm was ruled
with discipline and a fiery energy; no one was allowed to dawdle in
his yards. Ever his eye swept searchingly around him, like the sharp
eye of a hook-beaked hawk that spies out the land from the branch of a
withered birch in a clearing in the bright summer sunshine.
On Sundays or holidays he either studied his newspaper, or wrote the
news or described parochial happenings from his own parish for the
same newspaper. And gladly the editor accepted these writings of
his, whose contents were always to the point, their style pithy and
clear, often showing genius. And with these interests his outlook on
life and the world broadened. The country of his birth was to him no
longer a vague part of a vague world, of which he knew neither the
site nor the character. He knew well where lay the country, that dear
corner of the earth, where the Finns dwelt in toil and struggle, and
in whose bosom the bones of his fathers rested. He knew its frontiers,
its seas, its secretly-smiling lakes and the pine-clad ridges that
run like stake-fences throughout its breadth. The whole picture of
the land of his birth, its friendly mother-face, had sunk for ever
into the depths of his heart. And from it was born in him a desire to
help the happiness and prosperity of his country. Through his sturdy
and unresting endeavours a kind of elementary school was built in the
parish, one of the first in Finland. And other useful institutions,
too, he brought into the district. And in all his work in the house his
eye dwelt constantly on his eldest son, whom he had decided to educate
into a man of knowledge and skill.
His wife was Sunala’s slender daughter, the flaxen-haired, shy-eyed
Anna, she who had seen the wonderous visions and in delirium prophesied
many miracles. She was now mistress of Vuohenkalma, a free and
prosperous croft; yet her dominion was not over wide. Much more than
on her did the care and guidance of the household rest on the master’s
shoulders. In his pocket clinked the keys of the flour-bin; he it
was who settled and measured out the rations for man and beast and
paid both serving-maids and men. Often the little mistress would walk
dejectedly, stand near the fireplace beside her cauldron, silently
meditating. But when she bent down to the baby in its cot, her eyes
beamed with a wondrous light. She rejoiced when the infant tumbled and
gambolled sturdily in her lap. And to nourish him with the milk of her
breasts, to nurse him, clothe him, and, as she would say to herself,
‘make of him an heir to the city of peace of the blest’, was all she
needed for her modest glance to glow.
Once in the summer, on a Sunday evening, when the sun drooped to the
northwest and air and forest were still, she sat alone with her child,
sat on a bench at the end of the table. Eero paced his fields and
meadows, and all the servants had gone to the village. A rapturous
peace reigned without and within the croft’s Sunday-swept room, and
decked with leaves the floor smiled up at her. Peace and silence
prevailed; only the distant tinkle of cattle-bells was heard now and
again from the birch-clad hill. On a bench sat the young mistress and
talked to the child who like a radiant morn looked up at her from her
lap. ‘Tell me; my little one,’ she said, humming between speech and
song, ‘tell me, my little one, how didst thou know thy way home?--I
came along the Turku road, tripped o’er the ox-paths of Häme.--But how
didst thou know thy home, little one?--By the grey dog beside the gate;
I knew the house by its precious well, and were there not the rector’s
horses in the shed and a barrel of ale in the barn?--How didst thou
know thy darling mother, how thy father?--Mother poured out wort by
the blazing fire, she poured and sang in a ringing voice, a shawl at
her throat, a shawl like snow and the bow of Heaven. How did I know
my father? He carved away at the shaft of an axe, whittled beside the
golden window.--So thou foundest thy way, so thou knewest thy home,
knewest thy father and mother. But where is thy father now, say where,
and whether he thinks of us?--Surely he thinks of us, and should he
forget thee, I will never forget thee, not in the tides of time, not in
death, thee, the bright sunshine of my soul and its languishing eve, my
joy and sorrow tender. But why my sorrow? Ah! this world is false and
stormy, and many a sailor has sunk for good in the eternal depths of
its seas. Tell me, my child, my summer-bright, tell me: wouldst thou
not sail away from here to a haven of everlasting peace, while the
white pennant of childhood still flies clean? On the shore of a misty,
tideless lake stands the dark manor of Tuoni; there in the heart of a
shadowy grove, in the bosom of a dewy thicket a cradle is prepared for
thee with snowy linen and wrappings. Hear therefore my song; it wafts
thee to the land of the Prince of Tuoni. O hear the song of my heart!
‘Grove of Tuoni, grove of night!
There thy bed of sand is light.
Thither my baby I lead.
Mirth and joy each long hour yields
In the Prince of Tuoni’s fields
Tending the Tuoncla cattle.
Mirth and joy my babe will know,
Lulled to sleep at evening glow
By the pale Tuoncla maiden.
Surely joy the hours will hold,
Lying in thy cot of gold,
Hearing the nightjar singing.
Grove of Tuoni, grove of peace!
There all strife and passion cease.
Distant the treacherous world.’
So she sang to her child; and the harp rings not as sweet as her voice
rang then in the Sunday-swept room. But when she had ceased singing
she gazed for long in silence at the heavens; up into the holy, giddy
heights she looked; and pure and clear was the sky, not a single wisp
of cloud chowed under Heaven’s curving dome; only a summer swallow,
scarce visible to the eye, glittered there, flying hither and thither,
light and happy as the thoughts of a Sunday-child. So she sat, and her
cheek, tanned by the sun, drooped to the drowsy infant’s temple; but
the blue eyes still stared upward into the blue heights, and peace
shone on her brow.
Her husband returned from the woods and in the yard heard his wife’s
song, and never before had it echoed so divinely in his ears. He
entered, and striding across the room, sat down beside his wife; it was
a mark of friendship he seldom showed her. Swiftly the woman turned to
him, laid the child in his lap and, pressing her forehead against his
breast, burst into passionate weeping. But at that the man threw his
arm round her and stroked a lock of her flaxen-yellow hair that had
fallen behind her ear. There in the calm Sunday evening they sat on the
white bench at the white table.
So lived and laboured Eero, youngest of the brothers, on his croft; and
I have now related a fragment of the life of each brother, from the
eldest down to the youngest. And I have yet to relate of a Christmas
gathering at the house of Juhani Jukola. For the brothers had decided
to fore-gather once again on the Christmas straw in their former home.
All arrived with their wives and children; and there was a great hubbub
in Jukola’s spacious living-room as the numerous host of children
tumbled and rolled in the rustling straw. There, round the fireplace,
sat the group of wives in cheery conversation, and Kekkuri’s buxom
mistress, the doughty wife of Timo, stood meekly stirring Venla’s
gruel-cauldron, which for very fullness boiled over in white foam.
There also, at the foot of the blaze, hymn-book on knee, Simeoni was
to be seen, ready to begin the common Christmas hymn. But at the
back of the room, round the table sat the other brothers, talking of
by-gone times, of days in the night of the forests and on Impivaara’s
stump-besprinkled clearing, under the crannied, roaring fell. And
memories of past dangers, battles and toil, merged pleasantly together
in their minds, as the forests, valleys, mountains and high heaths all
merge together in the misty blue of distance. All was blended in a
dark, delicious dream that awakened a faint repining in their bosoms.
Thus they gazed back on days that had fled. So, on an autumn evening,
when Nature has lain down to rest and the friendly grove stands yellow,
may a cow-herd look from afar at the cherished clearing where he had
laboured through the summer, grumbling, bathed in sweat. The day was
hot and sultry, thunder rolled in the distance, and gnats and gadflies
befogged the air, driving the cattle to a galloping frenzy. But before
night had fallen he had gathered together his herds and marched merrily
home with them to the tinkle of bells. Such days he now remembers
and smiles. So also a mariner growing grey on shores recalls to mind
ancient storms at sea. Clouds wrapped the vessel in darkness, the
foaming waves threatened death; but before night the wind had died and
the wave was stilled and slept, and from the brightening west the sun
shone out again, pointing the road to heaven. This storm the sailor now
remembers with silent joy. Thus the brothers too remembered departed
days, sitting round Jukola’s table on a pleasant Christmas Eve and
speaking amongst themselves.
But the cauldron was lifted from the fire, a cheery blaze built up of
cordwood, and now in its flaming light a solemn chanting began. And at
once a hush fell over the babbling children; the brothers too round
the table ceased talking as Simeoni struck up a beautiful hymn and the
women, hymnbooks in lap, joined their voices to his. Sweetly the song
echoed in the roaring of the fire, and sweeter than any other, the pure
and gentle voice of the modest Anna could ever be heard amongst the
rest. And when at last they ceased singing, they gathered round the
supper-table, and presently sank down amidst the straw on the floor to
their nightly repose. Early the following morning they awoke, awoke to
set out to the transfigured church, which with its thousands of burning
candles glittered like the starry heavens. Then when the day had fully
dawned, they came back racing amongst themselves and spent a merry
Christmas in Old Jukola.
But here my story ends. And I have now told of seven brothers in the
backwoods of Finland; and what more could I relate of the day of their
life and its fortunes here on earth? It rose steadily to its noontide
height and sank steadily downward to evening rest amidst the passing of
many thousands of golden suns.
THE END
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The period which coincides with the life of Alexis Kivi, was for
Finland a time of powerful national awakening. Having formed a part of
Sweden for 600 years, Finland, after the war of 1809, was united to
Russia, but nevertheless retained a unique position. She enjoyed her
own form of constitutional government, which the Tsar of Russia, at the
same time Grand Duke of Finland, confirmed by special oath on accession
to the throne. During the liberal rule of Alexander II, these special
rights were steadily enlarged and increased. In 1863, representatives
of the four Estates of Finland--clergy, nobility, middle classes and
peasants--were summoned to sit in the Diet, which thenceforth assembled
regularly. Finland was granted her own financial administration, her
own customs and postal services; in addition she possessed her own
army, solely detailed for the protection of her frontiers.
Shortly after separation from Sweden, Finland awoke to consciousness of
her individuality as a nation. The cry of these times was: ‘Swedes we
are not, Russians we do not wish to become, Finns therefore let us be!’
Out of this national consciousness gradually arose a powerful national
movement, the aim of which was to elevate the language of the great
majority of the people to its rightful status. Hitherto all higher
education had been given in Swedish, although the speakers of Swedish
represented only eight per cent. of the entire population. A great
factor in the awakening of this national feeling was the publication of
the _Kalevala_, which Professor Elias Lönnrot had woven together
out of a collection of the national folk-songs and combined into one
great epic. The work thus created was a noble monument, testifying to
the creative and poetic genius of the Finnish Nation as a whole.
An important section of Finland’s intelligentsia, whose mother tongue
was Swedish, now voluntarily adopted Finnish as their language. They
were joined by an ever-increasing tide of young enthusiasts, drawn from
the lower classes, who had received higher education.
After long and stubborn efforts the Finnish language was finally
accorded equal status with Swedish in the official, social and
intellectual life of the country.
[2] Maiden’s Height
Transcriber’s Notes
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Inconsistent punctuation has been retained as it appears in the
original publication.
Perceived typographical errors have been silently corrected.
Footnotes have been moved to the end of the text.