THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC
Old Dame Louhi, unlovely and unloved, sat in the doorway of her
dwelling. She looked out and saw that which made her wrinkled, uncanny
face beam with joy. Her toothless mouth expanded into the mockery of a
smile. Her small, greedy eyes twinkled beneath her shaggy eyebrows. Her
long, crooked fingers trembled nervously, they seemed to be grasping at
something invisible.
She was pleased because where once were naught but vast brown meadows
she now saw fields of ripening grain. Where once were miry marsh lands
she saw green pastures with hundreds of sleek cattle grazing thereon.
Where once were sandy barrens and wind-swept hills she saw fruitful
orchards and blooming gardens. And in the village, instead of wretched
huts she saw neat cottages and well-filled barns, the homes of
contentment and plenty. Who can wonder that her face was wreathed with
smiles while her heart was overflowing with joy? [G]
“My mill of fortune has done all this,” she muttered to herself. “This
fair, sweet country shall now no longer be called the Frozen Land. It
shall everywhere be known as the Land of Plenty, the home of the
Sampo.”
She turned her head and listened. A faint, musical sound, far away,
came to her ears. It was the sound made by the magic mill, grinding,
grinding forever in the cave beneath the hill of copper. She could hear
its pictured cover turning, turning—pouring out wealth for all the
people. She could hear the grains of gold dropping, dropping—the
precious royal sap feeding the rootlets of the corn, filling the apple
blossoms with nectar, and pervading the rich warm soil itself.
Suddenly she was startled by hearing another sound—a strange, unusual
noise, a clamor as of the voices of many people all trying to speak at
once, all trying to make themselves heard. The sound grew louder every
moment. It became a confused uproar; it drew rapidly nearer. What could
it be?
The Mistress, looking eagerly, soon saw whence the clamor came. A great
crowd of excited people appeared coming up from the seashore. The road
between the gardens was filled with half-grown boys, chattering little
girls, shouting young men, singing maidens, hard-working women from the
farms, and old men from the fishing boats; and all were using their
voices vigorously, excitedly, as though some wonderful thing was
happening.
The Mistress was alarmed. “Surely the world has gone mad!” she cried in
dismay. “Who are these people, and what do they mean by their strange
actions?”
The rabble came nearer. Dame Louhi could distinguish some of the faces.
She was sure that the children and some of the old men and old women
were her own subjects—she had seen them every day of their lives, but
never in so jolly a mood as now. But who were those noisy young men and
maidens, dressed in foreign garb, who formed the greater portion of the
noisy company? And who were the two heroes who led them—one
white-bearded and tall, the other sad-eyed and pale but with the limbs
of a giant? Ah! Dame Louhi knew them only too well.
“Hail to you, heroes!” she said, as they paused beside her dwelling and
silence fell upon the company. “Your faces are familiar to me and your
names I have not forgotten. If you come in peace, I welcome you to this
land of plenty.”
“We come in peace,” answered the Minstrel, wise and truthful. “We have
heard strange stories in our country concerning the magic Sampo and the
great changes it has wrought in Pohyola. Now our eyes see that which
our hearts could not believe and we would fain rejoice with you and be
glad because of your good fortune.”
“Good fortune comes to those who labor for it and who most deserve it,”
said Dame Louhi coldly. “But tell me, what fresh news do you bring from
the Land of Heroes?”
“There is no news but of famine and sorrow,” answered the Minstrel.
“The children are crying for food, and men and women perish because of
the poverty of the land. Therefore we have come to ask you to share the
Sampo with us. It has made you rich and happy, now give us a small
portion of it that it may bless our suffering people also.”
The face of the Mistress grew ashy-white with anger. “The Sampo is but
a little thing,” she said, “and never will I share it with another. Can
two hungry men share a sparrow? Can three divide a tiny squirrel? You
may hear the Sampo whirring, you may hear its pictured cover grinding
in the cavern where I placed it—but it whirs for me alone, it grinds
out wealth and plenty for my people and for no other.”
“Surely you are unwise and selfish,” then said the Minstrel, “and
foolish it would be to waste words in argument. Since you will not
share the Sampo with us I warn you that you shall lose the whole of it.
We will take it out of the cavern where it is grinding and we will
carry it far away to our own country to give comfort and joy to our
neighbors and food and clothing to our loved ones.”
When Dame Louhi heard this she rose up quickly and stood, furious, in
her doorway. She clenched her bony fists and shook them high above her
head, calling upon all her people, all her armed men, all her servants,
to come quickly in their might and drive the robbers from the shores of
Pohyola. Loud was her voice, stern were her commands, and there was no
one who did not hear her. Instantly a hundred swordsmen were at her
side, a thousand spearsmen answered her call. They stood ready to smite
and to slay, to drive the intruders into the sea.
But Wainamoinen, old and fearless, stood in his place unflinching and
firm as a rock in the midst of a storm. He held the kantele in his
hands and began to play upon it, softly, gently. Instantly every voice
was hushed and every arm was stayed. He raised his fingers nimbly and
moved them swiftly over the harp strings. One sweet note followed
another, pleasures indescribable issued from the harp of fish-bone,
while the Minstrel sang his rarest, richest songs—songs so melodious
that every heart was entranced, bewitched, overcome with joy.
Forthwith all the creatures of the woods and fields came near to
listen. The squirrels came leaping from branch to branch. Soft-furred
ermines, minks, otters, and seals laid themselves down in the grass
before him. Sharp-eyed lynxes looked out from the foliage of the
thickets and drank in the wonderful music. Herds of reindeer came
racing over the meadows. In the marshes the savage wolves awoke and
stretched themselves, and then with one accord rushed out and ran with
speed to the spot where the kantele was playing. There they squatted
down in orderly rows, their ears pricked up, listening and rejoicing.
Even the lazy bears came ambling from their lurking-places; they
climbed upon the rocks and into the trees and sat there in solemn
silence, drinking in the bewitching sounds.
The birds of the air also came on silent wings from the four corners of
the sky. They flew backwards and forwards, soared in circles, and
paused with outstretched pinions, looking down to enjoy the wondrous
melodies. The eagle left her fledglings in her lofty eyry and came to
listen to the hero’s playing. Wild ducks from the deep inlets of the
northern sea and snow-white swans from the marshes of Pohyola came in
flocks to hearken to his singing. Sparrows and wrens and all the tiny
birds of the fields and woods assembled by thousands; they perched on
the Minstrel’s head and shoulders, they filled the branches of the
trees, they hovered in the air, forgetful of everything save the sweet
notes that issued from the kantele.
The fairies of the rainbow and the mists also came, some riding on the
yellow sunbeams and some resting on the crimson borders of the clouds.
The slender daughters of the air, who weave the golden fabrics of each
man’s life, paused in their work to listen, and as they paused their
shuttle fell from their hands and the precious thread of their spinning
was broken.
Nor did the creatures of the sea fail to hear the all-entrancing
melodies. Little fishes and large fishes came in shoals and lifted up
their heads along the beach to rejoice and wonder. The slender pike,
the graceful salmon, nimble herrings, all kinds of finny creatures,
came crowding to the shore to listen to the songs of Wainamoinen. White
whales from the icy seas, savage sharks, and squirming eels swam side
by side and trembled with emotion. And the Old Man of the Sea, even the
king of the boundless deep, came, and sitting upon a throne of
water-lilies listened with joy to the ravishing melodies that issued
from the kantele. The water nymphs, also, cousins of the reeds that
grow in the still waters between the hills, they heard the sweet music
and were enraptured by it. They left off playing with their silken
tresses, they dropped their combs and their silver brushes and lifted
their comely heads to enjoy the Minstrel’s wondrous songs. And their
mother, the Wave Mistress, terror of seafaring men, raised herself from
the billows and listened. Then with speed she betook herself shoreward,
hiding her awful head among the rushes, and there she lay until the
music soothed her to deepest slumber.
For one whole day—yes, for two long, dreamy days—the Minstrel played
thus upon the harp strings, upon the inimitable kantele, and as he
played he sang the songs of truth and beauty which he had learned from
the Wisdom Keeper, from the earth, the sea, and the sky. And all the
creatures, all the people, were spellbound and motionless because of
the great joy and comfort and wonder that had come upon them.
At length he changed his theme and sang of the grandeur and glory of
life, of things mighty and things lowly, and of the great hereafter
beyond the silent river. And from the kantele he drew forth such
marvellous melodies that not one among all his hearers could refrain
from weeping. The heroes wept, old men and matrons, swaggering youths
and timid maidens, half-grown boys and lovely little girls, all wept,
for their hearts were melted. Tears welled up even in the eyes of the
beasts and the birds and fell like rain upon the leaves and the grass
and the gray sand by the shore.
Meanwhile, as he played, the Minstrel himself was moved to weeping.
Down his cheeks the water-drops went coursing, they ran down his beard
and down his heaving breast. Round as cranberries and large as the
heads of swallows his tears fell, chasing each other to the ground.
They rolled like hailstones down upon his feet, they flowed in streams
till they reached the margin of the sea, and there they fell tinkling
and splashing into the sparkling water, down to the black ooze at the
bottom.
“Who will bring my tears back to me?” asked Wainamoinen, his voice
trembling while his long fingers still played upon the harp strings. “A
dress of softest feathers shall be given to that one who gathers my
tears from beneath the crystal waves.”
The raven heard him and flew down, snapping with his sharp beak and
trying to gather up the tears. But not one could he recover from the
sparkling water.
The blue duck also heard him and with swift strokes swam to the spot
where the tears had fallen. She dived deep down into the water and
there she found the tear-drops lying on the black ooze at the bottom.
Hastily with her spoon-like beak she gathered them up, she carried them
to Wainamoinen and laid them on the grass before him. Lo! every
tear-drop was a pearl of wondrous beauty—a pearl of priceless value,
fit to adorn a queen or deck the crown of the mightiest king.
“O brave blue duck, friend and helper!” said the Minstrel. “You have
done well and you shall be rewarded quickly.” And so saying, he gave
her a dress of feathers—a dress of wondrous beauty, well-fitting and
soft and suited to one who lives in northern climates by icy seas. And
all this while the music never ceased, the kantele kept pouring out its
sweetest, rarest treasures, while Wainamoinen sang new songs to charm
the listening multitude.
At length, however, the people could hold out no longer. Their strength
forsook them and they sank, one by one, upon the ground, all overcome
with weariness. They closed their eyes and gave themselves up to
slumber. Children and young people and men and women, all lay drowsing.
The hundred brave swordsmen and the thousand spearsmen of Pohyola were
soundly sleeping. Even old Dame Louhi yawned and closed her eyes and
sank back upon her couch overcome with slumber, forgetful of the Sampo,
forgetful of everything. Of all the multitude none remained awake save
the heroes and the young men and maidens that had plied the oars on
board of the crimson ship.
Softly, more softly, the strains of music issued from the kantele;
sweetly, more sweetly, the tones of the wonderful singer vibrated in
the air. Then suddenly both stopped and silence reigned.