Troubadour Tales
[Illustration]
Troubadour Tales
_By_ Evaleen Stein
[Illustration]
With Illustrations
By Virginia Keep
Maxfield Parrish
B. Rosenmeyer &
Edward Edwards
Indianapolis
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
Publishers
Copyright 1903
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
July
_Printed in the United States of America_
PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOK MANUFACTURERS
BROOKLYN, N. Y.
To My Mother
Contents
THE PAGE OF COUNT REYNAURD 1
THE LOST RUNE 27
COUNT HUGO’S SWORD 76
FELIX 132
Troubadour Tales
THE PAGE OF COUNT REYNAURD
HOW HE EARNED THE FAVOR OF KING RENÉ
AND WON A SILVER CUP FOR CLEVERNESS
IN THE LATIN TONGUE
“PIERROT! Pierrot! are thy saddle-bags well fastened? And how fare my
lutestrings? Have a care lest some of them snap with jogging over this
rough bit of road. And, Pierrot, next time we pass a fine periwinkle
thou hadst best jump down and pluck a fresh bunch for my Barbo’s ears.”
The speaker, Count Reynaurd of Poitiers, patted the fluffy black mane
of his horse Barbo, and loosened the great nosegay of blue flowers
tucked into his harness and nodding behind his ears. Barbo was gaily
decked out; long sprays of myrtle dangled from his saddle-bow, and a
wreath of periwinkle and violets hung round his neck; for the Count
Reynaurd was not only a noble lord, but also a famous troubadour. That
is to say, he spent his time riding from castle to castle, playing on
his lute or viol, and singing beautiful songs of his own making.
In the days when he lived, which was many hundred years ago, there
were numberless such poet-singers strolling over the sunny land of
France, and especially that part which lies to the south and is called
Provence. Many of the greatest of these kept little pages to wait
upon them and carry their musical instruments; and so it was that
Pierrot rode a little white palfrey by the side of Count Reynaurd, and
carried his lute, and gathered the periwinkle for the gay bouquets that
decorated Barbo’s ears.
It was May-time, and they were journeying through the lovely land of
Provence, which was quite enough to make any one happy, and the count
and Pierrot were fairly brimming over with good humor as they rode
along. They were bound for the old town of Aix, where in those days
stood the palace of the good King René, whom everybody loved.
Now, King René himself was a troubadour, although he could not wander
about over the country as did the others, but was obliged to stay in
Aix and govern his people. Yet he spent hours and hours every day
writing poetry and making up music for it; and he delighted above all
things to gather about him all who could finger a lutestring or sing a
merry song. There were always dozens of fine troubadours staying with
King René, and he was never weary of adding to their number, and of
seeking out the best in France; and so it chanced he had heard much of
the great skill of Pierrot’s master and also of another noble lord, the
Count William of Auvergne. The friends of each of these boasted that
none other in all France was worthy to be called the champion of the
troubadours. So René had sent messages to both, inviting them to come
and visit him, and to hold a contest of song, saying he would give a
beautiful collar of jewels to the one who sang the better.
In response to this invitation, the Count William was already in Aix,
having come the day before, after a long journey from his castle in
Auvergne. He was now resting, awaiting the Count Reynaurd, and pleasing
himself in thinking of the glory of winning the jeweled collar; for he
fully expected by and by to carry it off as his prize.
Meantime, Count Reynaurd and Pierrot trotted gaily along the road to
Aix. The almond-trees were in flower, and from one of them Pierrot had
broken a little switch covered with rosy blossoms, with which he now
and then tapped the flank of his little white palfrey, who would then
kick up her heels and frisk along at a rollicking pace. Pierrot’s own
legs looked lovely in party-colored hose, the right being a beautiful
pearl-gray and the left a delicate robin’s-egg blue; his doublet was of
pink silk embroidered in silver and slashed with white satin; and on
his head he wore a jaunty cap with a long feather. He was a handsome
little fellow, with bright eyes and dark curls, and as gay and lively
as the great black crickets that live in Provence.
His master, Count Reynaurd, looked very stately in a suit of
plum-colored velvet, with a collar of fine lace fastened with a golden
violet, which he often felt, so as to be sure he had not lost it and
that it was still tightly clasped. For the gold violet was a prize
that the count had just won in the town of Toulouse, whither, every
May-time, all the troubadours used to go and hold great contests,
called the Games of Flowers. At these games each one sang a song, and
the most skillful received prizes, a violet of gold and a rose of
silver being the most wished for.
So Count Reynaurd was very proud and happy thinking how finely the
violet would serve to clasp the collar of jewels he expected to win
from King René, and he smiled pleasantly when Pierrot called out to him:
“See, my Lord! are not those the high towers of Aix?”
Count Reynaurd looked ahead, and, sure enough, far in the distance rose
the city of Aix. They set their horses a-galloping, and in a little
while found themselves riding through its quaint, crooked streets, till
they reached the great square where stood the king’s palace. This was a
very beautiful one, strangely built, with two ancient round towers and
a wide porch with many pillars; all about it was a lovely garden full
of orange and acacia trees, and sweet roses and jasmines clambered over
everything.
Count Reynaurd and Pierrot dismounted at the palace gate, and were
led into the great hall where sat King René, wearing a blue robe
embroidered in bright flowers. He was an old man, and his hair and
long beard were quite white, but he was gay and happy-hearted as
Pierrot himself. When he saw the Count Reynaurd enter the hall, he
arose from his throne and came down and embraced and kissed him, and
patted Pierrot kindly. For René was not like most kings, who are very
particular to have everybody about them as stiff and uncomfortable as
possible.
Then presently the Count William, who had been walking in the garden,
hearing of the arrival of Reynaurd, came hurrying in, his own little
page Henri following close upon his heels. He greeted Count Reynaurd
very cordially, for he had often met him at the games of Toulouse, and
the little pages Henri and Pierrot soon became the best of friends also.
As the day was now drawing to a close, the good old king invited them
all into the banquet hall, where were already gathered numbers of
troubadours, and minnesingers who were the troubadours of Germany.
Some were eating and drinking; some were telling stories or making
up poetry; while still others were playing on all sorts of musical
instruments, and were altogether having the jolliest kind of time.
Reynaurd and Pierrot were very hungry after their long ride, and so
were glad to sit down at one of the long tables while the king’s
seneschals brought in roasted boar’s-head and venison pasties, and
large baskets of the fine white bread of Provence and of brown
marchpanes, which were nice little old-time French cookies full of
raisins and covered with nuts and poppy-seeds.
Pierrot waited upon his master very prettily, and then feasted upon
dainties to his heart’s content, all the while listening with delight
to the gay songs of the troubadours and minnesingers. By and by his
curly head began to nod, and he fell asleep while still munching a
marchpane, and slept so soundly that he had to be shaken when it was
time to go upstairs, where a little cot was spread for him close to the
great canopied bed of the Count Reynaurd.
So the days passed merrily on. But when, time after time, King René
fixed a day for the contest between the Counts Reynaurd and William,
they would plead that they were not ready; for they had grown so lazy
and pampered by the life they led in the palace that they dawdled away
their time in idle pleasure.
At last the king grew impatient, and declared that he would shut them
up, each in his own room, where they must stay for ten days composing
their songs; and he commanded that then they should appear before him,
and be judged and rewarded according to their skill.
So Count William and Count Reynaurd were escorted up the palace
stairway to their chamber doors, and each agreed, upon his knightly
honor, which was a very solemn vow indeed, that he would not set foot
beyond his threshold until the day appointed by the good king; and it
became the duty of Pierrot and Henri to bring food and wait upon their
noble masters.
But these two masters fared differently in their song-making. In
the apartments of Henri’s lord, things went far from smoothly; for,
although Count William was really a very accomplished troubadour,
yet when he found himself shut up and obliged to make a song, not a
word could he write. Indeed, poets declare that this is often the way
with them; most beautiful verses will suddenly pop into their heads,
sometimes in the middle of the night, so that they have to jump up in
the dark to get pencil and paper to write them down before they forget;
while, many times, if they have paper and pen ready, so contrary are
their wits that very likely they can not write a word! And so it was
with the Count William.
He fussed and fumed, but not even the least little bit of a rhyme could
he make; and the more he wished it, the more impossible it seemed to
become. He strode up and down the room; he snatched his paper and tore
it into bits; and then he scolded Henri till the poor little fellow
tiptoed out in his little pointed velvet shoes, and fled to the garden,
where he sat down under an orange tree, and consoled himself with some
fresh cookies that one of the kitchen scullions brought out to him. As
he crunched down the sugary morsels he now and then flung a crumb to
the pretty goldfishes in a fountain by his side; and then he wondered
what any one wanted to make up poetry for anyway, especially when it
was May-time and one might sit in King René’s garden, and above all, on
a day when King René’s cooks were making sweetmeats.
Meantime, across the corridor from Henri’s master things were going
on very differently with the noble Reynaurd and Pierrot. As luck
would have it, this count was getting on famously. He had composed a
most beautiful poem, and lovely music by which to sing it, and was
altogether so pleased with himself and all the world that he snapped
his fingers joyously, and fetched Pierrot a playful slap on the
shoulder, crying, “Hey, Pierrot, just listen to this!” And then in a
loud voice he began to sing.
Pierrot was so delighted that he clapped his hands, and declared he was
quite sure his lord would win the prize, and shame the Count William
into everlasting silence. Then he helped himself to a couple of great
golden oranges from a basket he had just brought to Reynaurd, and
strutted out to air himself, and to boast to Henri of his master’s
superior skill.
Meantime, Count Reynaurd sang over and over his new song, each time
roaring it out louder and louder, till his lungs fairly ached.
While all this was going on, the Count William, in a great rage, was
still striding up and down the floor of his chamber, which happened to
be across the corridor and at no great distance from that of the happy
Reynaurd. And, as it happened also, when Pierrot went out he forgot to
close the door behind him—a fact which Count Reynaurd had not noticed.
The door was very thick and heavy, and fitted badly between the stone
walls, so it was not to be wondered at that Pierrot did not manage to
latch it.
As it was, the loud voice of Count Reynaurd came rolling forth, and
suddenly the Count William, angrily pacing the floor, stood stock-still
and pricked up his ears.
Now, the count’s ears were famous for being extraordinarily sharp,
and he was also wonderfully apt at remembering anything to which he
had once carefully listened. He knew in a moment the voice of Count
Reynaurd, and then a broad smile crept over his face, and he listened
harder than ever.
As Reynaurd kept singing over and over again, it was not long till
Count William had the whole song by heart, and then, seizing his own
lute, he began practising it very softly.
“Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed to himself. “Thou great foolish Reynaurd!
Canst thou never learn how to hold thy tongue? But never mind, I will
play such a trick on thee as will teach thee a lesson thou’lt not soon
forget. Ha, ha, ha!” And then he practised longer, till he knew both
the poetry and music as well as Count Reynaurd himself.
The next day, Pierrot, still exulting over his master’s skill, happened
to meet Henri in the garden, and asked how his noble lord was getting
on.
“Oh!” said Henri, “finely. He has just made a lovely new song!” And
with that he hummed a snatch of the melody he had heard Count William
singing, and which he thought his master had composed.
As Pierrot heard the music he could scarce believe his ears; first he
was speechless with astonishment, but at last he sputtered out:
“It is not true—it is stolen! That is my dear master’s, the Count
Reynaurd’s!”
“Pierrot,” burst in Henri, “I would have thee understand that my noble
lord, the Count William, does not steal, and is a far better singer,
anyhow, than thy great Reynaurd!”
From this matters went from bad to worse, till the two little pages
were just on the point of coming to blows; but, fortunately, at
this point one of King René’s seneschals caught sight of them, and,
hastening up, gave each a sound cuff on the ear, crying out as he did
so:
“Ho, ye saucy little knaves! Know ye not the good king will have no
brawlers upon these palace grounds? Take that, sirrahs! and see to it
that ye behave more seemly hereafter.”
The pages being thus forcibly separated, Pierrot ran as fast as his
legs could carry him up the palace stairs, and burst into his master’s
chamber, panting out indignantly:
“Dear Lord Reynaurd, the wicked Count William has stolen thy beautiful
song and will win the prize! And I tried to stop Henri, and—o-o-oh—”
Here poor Pierrot, still smarting under the cuff from the seneschal,
quite broke down, and was obliged to double his fists very hard and
bite his lips to keep back the angry tears.
At first Count Reynaurd gasped with astonishment, and then jumped up
in a towering passion. But by and by his wits came back to him, and he
remembered that Count William had always been a good friend of his; but
then his heart misgave him as he remembered, too, that Count William
was a famous joker, and loved a jest above all things.
The more he thought of it, the more sure he felt that William only
meant in some way to tease him, though he could not understand how
he had learned the song. Just then his eyes fell on the door, that
Pierrot in his haste had left unfastened, as usual; and then it flashed
through Count Reynaurd’s mind how Count William had found out about
the music. Reynaurd, moreover, had no doubt but that, before the king,
William would probably sing the piece as his own,—a thing which he
could easily do, as René had announced that they would be called on
in alphabetical order, according to the names of their domains; and as
Auvergne thus came before Poitiers, Reynaurd knew that Count William
would sing first, and that it would then be hard to make the people
believe that the song was his and not William’s; yet he determined, if
possible, to try in some way to get the better of him.
He thought and thought very hard for a little while, and then suddenly
he said to Pierrot:
“Pierrot, dost thou still remember the Latin tongue that good Father
Ambrose taught thee last winter in our castle in Poitiers?”
The little page assured his lord that he did, for he was really a
clever scholar in the Latin tongue, which both his master and the Count
William understood but indifferently.
Then Count Reynaurd called him close to his side, and whispered a plan
to him that seemed to please them both mightily. Pierrot at once took
the goose-quill pen that Reynaurd handed him, and after screwing up
his face and working very carefully, he wrote these lines:
Hoc carmen non composui,
Quod cano, quod cano!
and this he took great pains to teach his master.
The next day Count Reynaurd sang his song over again and again, and
Pierrot purposely left the door ajar. Count William noticed that after
every stanza there were two new lines added in another tongue:
Hoc carmen non composui,
Quod cano, quod cano!
At first this puzzled Count William very much indeed.
“Faugh!” he said to himself at length, “that ridiculous Reynaurd is
seeking to give a learned air to his poetry! I dare say he has picked
up those lines out of some old manuscript, and thinks to pass himself
off for a great scholar.”
Then Count William tried to make out the meaning of the words, which
were fitted into the rhyme of the stanzas in such a way that they
could not well be left out. He studied over them till he thought he
understood them, though, as it turned out, he was quite mistaken. But
as it was a common way with the troubadours to end every stanza with
similar lines, which they called the refrain, Count William suspected
nothing, and set himself to work to learn the new words.
The time that the king had allowed the rival noblemen was now almost
up, and in two days more the song-contest took place.
The great banqueting-hall had been beautifully hung with garlands of
flowers and gay banners. At one end of it the king’s throne stood on a
dais, and over it swung a scarlet canopy like an enormous poppy-flower
turned upside down. In the middle of the room were placed long tables,
and in the palace kitchens the cooks were running about busying
themselves preparing the great feast that was to follow.
By and by King René came into the hall and took his seat on the throne.
He wore a rich robe of purple velvet, embroidered all over in the
brightest silks and gold; after him came a great troupe of troubadours
and minnesingers, some carrying their own harps or viols, and some
followed by little pages who bore their masters’ belongings.
As the good King René looked at his gay company and the brilliantly
lighted hall and the long tables, his eyes sparkled with delight, and
his heart swelled with joy when he thought of the coming contest;
for he was never so pleased as when thus surrounded by his dear
troubadours, whom he loved to make in every way as happy as possible.
Then, when all was ready, a gaily dressed herald came into the hall,
and kneeling before the king, and bowing to the assembled company,
announced the coming of the two counts, William and Reynaurd. All the
other troubadours and minnesingers stood up, and King René smiled
graciously as the two noblemen entered, followed by their pages,
Pierrot and Henri, each of whom carried a viol bedecked with long
silken ribbons.
When the counts had saluted the king and taken their places before him,
he commanded a seneschal to bear in the prize; and so the beautiful
collar of jewels was brought in upon a silver tray and placed on a
carved bench beside the king. Then a herald stepped out, and, lifting
the collar upon the point of a flower-wreathed lance, displayed it to
all the company and announced the terms of the contest of song about to
take place.
This ceremony was a great deal better and prettier than the customs of
most of the other royal courts of that time. In all the lands except
where King René lived, when the people desired entertainment, they used
to gather together to see contests called tournaments, in which noble
lords tried to overthrow one another with real lances on which were no
garlands. But King René could not endure such barbarous displays, and
so in his palace no one fought another except with pretty verses, and
the best poet was champion.
When all the usual ceremonies had been gone through, the king called
Count William to step forth first and sing his song. There was a merry
twinkle in the count’s eyes as he took his viol from Henri, hung the
silken ribbons about his neck, and then, after striking a few soft
notes with the tips of his fingers, began to sing, as his own, the song
made up by Count Reynaurd. He went through the whole piece, although
each time when he came to the Latin lines he mumbled them over so that
the words sounded indistinct, and one could not be certain just what
they were.
When he had finished, the king was delighted, and all the listeners
clapped their hands and wondered how it would be possible for Count
Reynaurd to do better. Indeed, they looked rather pityingly on
Reynaurd, as one already defeated.
Then, when the cheers had somewhat quieted down, King René commanded
Count Reynaurd to stand forth and take his turn for the prize. Reynaurd
quietly stepped out, and, saluting the king, said:
“My royal liege, the song to which you have just listened was not the
work of Count William of Auvergne, but of myself, Reynaurd of Poitiers.”
At this, as Count Reynaurd had expected, every one looked incredulous,
and Count William pretended to be very indignant, and declared that
he had not been outside of his own apartments for the ten days; that
he had not set eyes on Count Reynaurd through all that time; and
altogether he appeared to be terribly angry that Count Reynaurd should
hint that the song belonged to him.
Count Reynaurd, however, asked but one thing of the king, who readily
granted his request. It was that Count William be commanded to sing the
song once more, and that each time he should sing the Latin lines as
plainly as possible.
Count William looked somewhat abashed at this proposal, and began to
suspect that a trap had been laid for him. However, he could not refuse
to do the command of King René, especially when it seemed so simple a
thing; and so he was obliged to sing again, and say the Latin words
plainly, all the while very angry with himself because on the spur of
the moment he could think of no other words to put in place of the
Latin refrain, which was so cleverly woven into each stanza that it
could not be left out without spoiling the rhyme.
The king listened attentively, for, as the Count Reynaurd knew, René
was a good Latin scholar himself; and presently, when the refrain came
into the song:
Hoc carmen non composui,
Quod cano, quod cano!
King René began to laugh; and he laughed and laughed till the tears
fairly ran down his cheeks; for what do you think the words really
mean? They mean:
I did not make this song,
That I sing, that I sing!
When the king at last managed to stop laughing for a few minutes, he
translated the lines so that every one could hear.
At first Count William looked very blank; then, realizing how cleverly
the tables had been turned upon him and he had been caught in his
own prank, he enjoyed the joke as much as anybody, and laughed the
loudest of all. Indeed, such a “Ha, ha!” as went up through the whole
banquet-hall was never before heard, and the very rafters seemed to
shake with glee.
The good king was so delighted with the entertainment that he called
Count Reynaurd and Count William both before him, and taking a hand
of each, he declared that the jeweled collar must be divided equally
between them. He at once ordered his goldsmiths to set to work to make
it into two collars instead of one; which they could very easily do, as
it was so wide and heavy.
Then the king had a lovely silver cup brought in for Pierrot, because
of his cleverness in the Latin tongue; and afterward the whole company
of troubadours and minnesingers and pages sat down and feasted so
merrily that, years later, when Pierrot himself grew to be a famous
troubadour, he used often to sing, in the castles of the French nobles,
of the gaiety of that great festival.
THE LOST RUNE
THE LEGEND OF A LOST POEM AND THE ADVENTURES
OF LITTLE ELSA IN RESTORING
IT TO HER PEOPLE
Eery, airy,
Elf and fairy,
Steep me deep in magic dreams!
Charm from harm of water witches,
Guide where hide the hoarded riches
Sunken in Suomi streams!
As the strains of Elsa’s voice floated up and wandered away among
the cottage rafters, “Bravo”! cried her father; “bravo, little one!
Already thou singest like the April cuckoo!” Elsa, the little Finnish
girl thus addressed, smiled with pleasure, and nestled closer to her
father’s reindeer coat as he proudly patted her fair hair and gave her
an approving hug.
The two were sitting on a rude bench drawn out from the cottage wall;
and here they had been all the evening, singing snatches of strange
old songs, and toasting their toes at the turf fire that blazed in the
great fireplace.
It was barely September, but in the far North, the winter begins early
and the winds sweep with a bitter chill across the wide plains of
Suomi, the old name by which the Finnish people love best to call their
land.
Elsa’s father and mother—the mother was now drowsing over her
knitting, on the other side of the hearth—were well-to-do peasant
farmer folk. They owned the land, called from their name the “Sveaborg
farm,” and the cottage, which was large of its kind; that is to say, it
had two rooms besides the great living-room and the loft.
One of these extra rooms, however, was set apart for the use of
occasional travelers; for in Finland, through the country, inns of any
kind are very few, and at that time, as now, certain of the better
farm-houses were set apart as places where travelers might be sure of
entertainment for the night at least. As Elsa’s home lay on one of the
main roads, the cottage now and then sheltered one of the few strangers
who sometimes journey through the land.
The other little chamber belonged to Elsa, who was the only child;
but the main business of living was carried on in the great room with
the hearth. It was a quaint place, broad and low; the walls were
covered with a rough plaster, and overhead the rafters showed brown
with smoke; just below these were fastened two slender poles from one
of which hung festoons of dried herbs, while on the other were strung
a great number of large flat brown rings, which were nothing less
than the family bread for the winter. For the Finnish peasants do not
trouble themselves to bake too often, and they like their bread made
into these curious ring-shaped loaves which they thus hang away until
needed; nor do they mind how hard and dry it becomes.
On one side of the cottage walls were several large presses where
cheeses were making; and opposite these were two little doors that
seemed to open into cupboards; cupboards, however, where no Finnish
child would ever think of looking for jam or sweetmeats, for, as is the
custom of the country, behind the doors were fastened in the thick wall
two shelf-like beds, where Elsa’s father and mother slept.
But the chief feature, the heart of all the room, was the great
fireplace; at one side of it was built a huge brick oven, in which
Elsa’s mother baked the queer flat-bread for the family, and sometimes,
when the nights were very, very cold, she would make for Elsa a little
bed on top of the warm bricks, which was always so cozy that the little
girl did not care that it was a trifle hard.
The broad hearth in front of the oven was also of brick, and this
hearth, as in every peasant’s cottage, was the favorite gathering
place. Here through the long winter evenings, and days when the sun
barely peeped above the horizon, they loved to sit and sing over their
quaint old songs and repeat in verse the strange and beautiful stories
that have been handed down in Finland for hundreds, perhaps thousands,
of years.
Indeed, all Finnish peasants have always been wonderfully fond of music
and poetry, and, to this day, as in Elsa’s time—which was nearly a
hundred years ago—in almost every house may be found at least one
of the curious harps of ancient shape, which the people make for
themselves out of bone or wood. There are but few peasants who can not
sing some old story to the music of this instrument which they call
“kantele.”
Elsa’s father was an especially skilful harper, and Elsa herself seemed
to inherit a large part of his passion for music and poetry. He had
made for her a little kantele of her own, and to the soft weird music
she struck from its strings, she sang her little song,
Eery, airy,
Elf and fairy.
These lines, however, were but the beginning of a song intended to
charm and overpower the wicked water-witches; for, as all the world
knows, Finland is the home of all manner of fairy folk, of elves and
gnomes and wizards and witches; at least so all Finnish folk declare;
and innumerable are the charm-songs and incantations and marvelous
tales handed down from generation to generation, telling of the witches
and fairies of Suomi.
Elsa knew a great number of these song-stories and delighted above all
things to learn a new one. But, as she sat by the fire, the warmth at
last made her drowsy; presently the harp fell from her hands, and still
leaning against her father she dropped into a sound sleep.
The next morning was crisp and frosty, but the sun, rising in a strange
slanting ring, tempered the September chill almost to mildness. Indeed
the sun behaves very oddly in Finland; it was then circling round the
sky in its autumn course, never setting, as in our country, but staying
up a little way all night, and all the while weaving its spiral rings
lower and lower down the sky. By and by it would hide altogether and
not show itself for many weeks. So while the light lasted every one was
making the most of it.
Elsa was astir early; breakfast had long been over; she had swept the
house with the broom of birch twigs, and was now outside the cottage
helping her mother churn.
As she pushed the wooden dasher up and down, the wind blew the color
into her cheeks and her hair about her face. She wore a close little
woolen hood, a homespun dress and a long apron embroidered in bright
colors, and on her feet were wooden shoes.
All at once Elsa’s quick ears caught the sound of wheels.
“See, mother!” she exclaimed, “there is Jan of the Ohlsen farm; but
who, thinkest thou, is the stranger beside him?”
Fru Sveaborg shaded her eyes with her hand, and sure enough, saw,
jogging up the road, a pony dragging one of the odd two-wheeled carts
of Finland. As she looked, it turned into the narrow lane of birch
trees leading to the cottage.
Jan drew rein.
“Good morrow, neighbor Sveaborg!” he called out.
Then as the Fru left her churn and came toward them, he said:
“This traveler is Herr Lönnrot, from Helsingfors, who is journeying
through the country. Last night he passed at our farm and to-night he
would spend at thine. He wishes much to speak with peasant Sveaborg
about certain matters he is seeking to learn.” Then catching sight of
Elsa, “Good morrow to thee, Elsa! How comes the churning? It hath made
thy cheeks red as cloud-berries!”
Elsa shyly drew near her mother, as the latter greeted Jan, and,
courtesying to the stranger, assured him of a welcome at their home.
Jan then jumped from the cart to help Herr Lönnrot, who was an old man.
He had a gentle face with kindly blue eyes, and his hair and beard
were gray. He was wrapped in a long traveling cloak, and walked with
a staff. As Fru Sveaborg led the way to the cottage door he coughed
slightly and drew his cloak closer about him.
Within the living-room, the Fru hastened to set before them fresh milk
and bread, and then she and Jan gossiped a while over farm matters,
while the stranger, who seemed weary, went to rest in the little guest
chamber, which was always in readiness for travelers.
In the afternoon, as Elsa sat by the fireplace spinning, Herr Lönnrot
came into the room, and seating himself on the bench, began to talk to
her.
“Art very busy, little one?” he said; “canst thou not sing a song for
an old man? I trow yonder tiny kantele fits thy fingers as if fashioned
for them!”
“Aye, sir,” answered Elsa shyly, “if thou really wishest, I will sing
the little charm-song I have just learned.”
With this she took the kantele, and drawing a wooden stool beside the
bench began to sing. Though her voice rose somewhat timidly at first,
presently she lost herself in the music and poetry, and sang many of
the strange Finnish songs.
As Herr Lönnrot listened to the little girl his eyes brightened and he
smiled with pleasure; and when, by and by, she ceased, he drew her to
his side and stroked her hair.
He then questioned her carefully about the songs that she and her
father knew, and told her that he himself was even then traveling
through Finland for the express purpose of gathering together all the
songs of the peasant folk, though not so much for the music as for the
sake of the words, which he was most anxious to learn. He told her
further, how, for many years, the great scholars of Finland had been
certain that a great and wonderfully beautiful song-story, a story of
heroes and wizards and fairies, had become broken up and scattered
among the people, just as if some beautiful stained-glass window should
come to pieces, and the different fragments fall into the hands of many
different persons, and be scattered about so that no one could make
out the first picture unless all the pieces could be found and fitted
together again.
Now the song-story, Herr Lönnrot said, was made up ages before; long
before people had paper or pens with which to write. So the story had
been handed down from parents to their children, who sang it from year
to year simply from memory; for people had wonderful memories in those
days.
It had begun so very long ago, however, and the whole story was so
long, that the peasant folk had gradually forgotten parts of it; in
some families one part or rune, as the people called it, would be
handed down from generation to generation, and in others, some other
part.
Now Herr Lönnrot was a physician of much learning, and aside from
his work of healing the sick, he had a great fondness for beautiful
stories. He had spent much time among the peasants especially to learn
such parts of the lost song-story as they might happen to know, and was
now devoting his old age to gathering up as many as possible of these
runes.
And then, he told Elsa, he intended to fit them together and write them
down so that none should ever again be forgotten, and so that the
whole world might read this great Finnish story.
“Ah,” said Herr Lönnrot, with kindling eyes, “every one who has love
for old Finland should help save this wonderful song, for ’twill be to
the glory of our nation, even as the songs of Homer have been to the
glory of the Greeks!”
And in this Herr Lönnrot spoke what is perfectly true: for all wise
persons know that to add a beautiful poem or song or story to the
collection that every nation gradually makes up for itself, is rightly
considered a far more glorious thing than to discover a whole mountain
of gold and diamonds. And so the Herr wished greatly to find and
restore this beautiful scattered story to the poetic wealth of Finland
and of the world.
He then went on to explain to Elsa that the scholars found these songs
to cluster about three ancient heroes, and of these, one, the mighty
wizard Wainamoinen, was the most powerful of all.
Here Elsa, who had been listening attentively, smiled.
“Yes,” she said, “I know many songs of Wainamoinen and the rest.”
“Of that I am sure,” said Herr Lönnrot; “but there is one rune that
tells of the birth of the harp: how Wainamoinen fashioned the first
kantele from the bones of a magic fish, and how he sang with such
marvelous sweetness that all living things drew near to harken to him.
Of this rune I have heard many peasant-singers speak, but have sought
in vain for one who can teach me the whole of it. And I must find it
before I can complete the story!”
Here Herr Lönnrot sighed, and dropping his head upon his breast seemed
lost in thought. Presently a fit of coughing seized him; and then he
continued:
“Dost think, little one, that thy father knows aught of this rune?”
[Illustration]
Elsa thought very hard trying to recall the rune; she was obliged to
answer:
“Nay, sir; in truth he hath taught me many runes about Wainamoinen and
the others, but I know not how the harp was born. But,” she added,
“my father will be home at supper-time; he is helping thatch neighbor
Friedvic’s new barn, and perhaps he can tell thee!”
“Perhaps,” said Herr Lönnrot. “Thy neighbor Jan told me he thought thy
father knew something of this rune I seek.”
Even as they talked, a whistle sounded without, and Elsa clapped her
hands joyously.
“There is my father now!” and bounding to the door she flung it wide
open. As the peasant Sveaborg stepped within, seeing Herr Lönnrot, he
took off his cap and greeted him kindly, for strangers were always
welcome at the Sveaborg farm.
When the Herr told him why he was journeying through the country, and
of the lost rune he was seeking, Elsa’s father grew much interested.
“The birth of the harp! Ah, sir,” said he, “I know not the whole rune
myself, but I know of a peasant who does. I have heard him sing it,
and truly ’tis of marvelous beauty! But he is very aged, and odd,
sir”—here peasant Sveaborg tapped his forehead meaningly “and will
teach it to no one else. Even now, I have been told, he is very ill,
and like to die. I know not if thou canst learn aught from him, but if
thou wishest, I will take thee thither to-morrow.” And while they were
busy arranging the trip for the morrow, Fru Sveaborg came in, and with
Elsa’s help soon set out the evening meal.
As they ate their bowls of _pimea_ or sour milk, which is the chief
part of every Finnish meal, Herr Lönnrot entertained them with
wonderful stories of his travels and news of the outside world,
till all were charmed; and Elsa, especially, thought him the most
delightful traveler their roof had ever sheltered. Her admiration for
him deepened as the evening wore on, for the Herr, though evidently in
feeble health and weary from his journey, yet talked so pleasantly that
all were sorry when by and by he bade them good night.
The next morning at breakfast, Herr Lönnrot did not appear; but the
family did not think it strange, and supposing him still resting, did
not disturb him. Fru Sveaborg placed some breakfast for him in an
earthen dish, which she set in the oven to keep warm. Then she went
about her work.
But as the morning passed on, and still he did not come from his
chamber, she became uneasy, and sent Elsa to tap upon his door. As
Elsa lightly knocked, the door swung open, for there are no locks in
Finland, and there lay Herr Lönnrot, motionless, on the floor of the
room! The aged physician had evidently arisen, and made himself ready
for the day, when, overcome by weakness, he had fallen in a swoon.
Elsa, thoroughly frightened, ran to the living-room, crying out:
“Mother! Mother! Herr Lönnrot is dying!”
At this the Fru hastened in, and with Elsa’s help, raised the frail old
man and placed him on a bench; and while her mother did what she could
to make him comfortable, Elsa hurried to the fields to send her father
for the village doctor.
As it was a long journey to the village it was almost nightfall before
the peasant Sveaborg reached home.
Meantime Herr Lönnrot had passed from the swoon into a high fever, and
all day his mind had wandered, and he had talked strangely; sometimes
of his home and his journey, but more often of the lost rune of the
magic harp, which seemed to trouble him sorely.
At last the doctor came, and after examining his patient, said that he
was suffering from the effects of a serious cold, and that he must be
kept quiet and well cared for.
Then as Herr Lönnrot continued to toss and murmur, the doctor asked
Fru Sveaborg if she knew of aught that troubled him. As the Fru looked
perplexed, Elsa spoke.
“The rune, mother! Hark! even now he is speaking of it!”
And as they listened, the poor Herr, who had not the least notion of
what he was saying, exclaimed:
“The harp! Ah, yes, I must go seek it! the magic harp”—and here he
broke off into low, unintelligible words.
At this the doctor looked grave, and said that it was a pity that
anything seemed to be on the patient’s mind, as it might make the fever
harder to overcome. He then measured out some medicines, and took his
leave, after giving Fru Sveaborg directions for caring for the aged
patient.
The next day, under the faithful nursing of Elsa’s mother, Herr Lönnrot
seemed better, though still very weak, and when the doctor again saw
him, he said that with continued good care he thought all would go
well, but that the Herr must not think of going on with his journey for
a week, at least. After this visit from the doctor, Elsa’s father, who
had been waiting at home in case he should be needed, told Fru Sveaborg
that he must go to finish the work he was doing at a neighboring farm,
and as it would take him a day or two, he would stop on the way and
send the Fru’s sister to help her care for the sick stranger.
When her father was gone, and her mother busy about her work, Elsa drew
out her wheel, and as she sat alone spinning as hard as she could, she
yet found time to think of a great many things. She thought of the
lost rune of the birth of the harp, and of good Herr Lönnrot, lying on
his bed and chafing and worrying with every hour that his journey was
delayed. Then she thought of the peasant Ulricborg, and of what her
father had told of his reported illness.
“Ah”, said she to herself, “what if he die before Herr Lönnrot can
travel thither! Then the rune may be lost forever, and dear Herr
Lönnrot can never, never finish the beautiful song-story!” The more she
thought about it, the more Elsa became convinced that something should
be done, and that without delay.
She turned over in her mind a great many plans, and presently an idea
occurred to her that made her smile happily; and, jumping up, she ran
out to where Fru Sveaborg was arranging her milk-pans in the sun.
“Mother,” said Elsa, “mother, I wish to go to the peasant Ulricborg!”
“Why, child,” exclaimed her mother in amazement, “what dost thou wish
with the peasant Ulricborg?”
“I wish to learn from him the lost rune, so that Herr Lönnrot can
finish the beautiful song-story! He may die before the Herr can see
him!”
“But,” protested her mother, “thou canst not go alone, and thy father
is too busy to go with thee now.”
“But, mother,” said Elsa, “’tis no such great journey; thou knowest I
went thither once with father in the sleigh two years ago, and truly it
seemed not far!” Elsa did not realize how swiftly a sleigh will speed
over many, many miles. “I shall meet carts on the way, and I can stop
at the Ringstrom farm to-night.”
Now Fru Sveaborg was a simple soul who had never been far beyond her
own home, and as the child pleaded so earnestly to go, at last she
consented, although somewhat against her will.
Elsa was overjoyed, and at once made her little preparations to start.
She got a small basket of birch bark and in it her mother placed some
black bread and cheese, a few herrings and a bottle of milk. Then
putting on her thick woolen cloak and hood, and taking her kantele in
one hand and the basket in the other, off she started.
Fru Sveaborg bade her good by. “Be careful, child!” she said; “keep to
the highroad, and be sure to stay to-night at the Ringstrom farm!”
“Good by, mother!” Elsa called back, “and do not fear for me; I know
the way!”
With this she tripped down the lane of birch trees and turned into the
road to the east. By and by she was overtaken by a little Finland pony
trundling along a two-wheeled cart. As the driver of the cart happened
to be a young boy she knew, she was glad to climb in beside him.
They rode thus for a number of miles till they reached a cross-road
where Elsa’s friend told her he must turn off; so she jumped out, and
thanking him for her ride, bade him good by and trudged on along the
highway.
Presently she began to feel hungry, for it was long past noon, and
looking about, she saw a pretty tuft of green moss under a tall birch
tree; and sitting down, she opened her basket and ate some of the
contents. She thought she would rest a little while before going on, so
she wrapped her cloak close about her and leaned back against the birch
tree,—till—by and by—her eyes began to blink and blink, and before
she knew it the little girl was sound asleep.
She did not know how long she slept, but at length, just in the midst
of a beautiful dream about magic fishes and harps and wizards, she gave
a shiver and waked up.
She rubbed her eyes for a minute, and involuntarily drew her cloak
closer, for it had grown chilly.
At first, as Elsa gazed around, she thought she must still be asleep
and dreaming of cloudland! But presently she realized that she was not
in the clouds, but in the midst of a dense fog, such as often comes
up in Finland without warning, and covers up the fields and woods as
completely as any cloud might do.
Now, being a Finnish child, Elsa’s first thought was of the hobgoblins
and prankish fairies of the fog who, as every Finlander knows, float
about in their mantles of mist seeking to do mischief to unwary
travelers.
So Elsa at once began to sing in a high, clear voice a little
charm-song; not the one she had sung in the farm house to Herr Lönnrot,
but a song intended especially to ward off the wicked fairies of the
fog. It began like this:
Fogs of Finland,
Floating inland,
From the fairy-haunted sea,
Have a care now,
See ye bear now
No unfriendly folk to me!
As Elsa sang she cautiously stepped along, she knew not where; till,
faintly through the thick shrouding mist, there came the soft tinkle,
tinkle of a little bell. Listening, she knew at once that it must be
fastened to the collar of some cow, for such bells in Finland are very
sweet-toned and clear.
Sure enough, in a little while she heard the trampling of hoofs, and
the whole herd, drawn by the sound of her voice, was thronging about
her.
But Elsa was used to the herds on her father’s farm, and was really
glad to feel the warm breath of the gentle little Finnish cows. As the
leader came close to her she put up her hand and patted its nose; then
slipping her fingers through the narrow leathern strap from which the
bell hung, she walked along beside the cow.
This proved to be the very best thing she could have done; for the herd
was going home, and the cows seemed to know their way instinctively,
even in spite of the white fog.
They walked thus a long way, till after a while the fog began to lift
somewhat; and though it was growing dusk Elsa could distinguish the
outline of a comfortable-looking farmhouse. It was not the Ringstrom
farm, where she had expected to pass the night, but a strange place
that she had never before seen. The usual lane of birch trees led up to
the house, and behind it was a long, low barn, whither the cows seemed
to be directing their way.
As she walked along beside them she was thinking of what she had best
do, and she found herself very much perplexed. In truth she had set
out upon a very difficult errand for a little girl, and had good Fru
Sveaborg had the least idea of the distance or possible dangers of the
journey she never would have given her consent; while had Elsa’s father
been at home,—but then it is useless thinking things might have been
managed differently. Meanwhile there was Elsa trudging along in the
midst of the herd, wondering much who were the dwellers at the farm,
and, on the whole, not a little frightened.
By this time she had a pretty definite idea that she had started on a
rather reckless undertaking, and she fancied that perhaps the people at
the farm might think so too, and would not allow her to go farther; and
as she was determined at any risk to reach the peasant Ulricborg and
save the rune, she decided at last that she would not go to the house.
So she kept with the herd, and when the cows reached the door of
the great barn, she slipped in between them, unseen in the fog and
gathering dusk; for though the sun would not quite disappear, it hung
low and dim on the horizon and shed but faint light through the misty
air. Within, the barn was arranged much like the one at her home,
though on a far larger scale. In one corner was a large pile of soft
sweet-smelling hay, and going to this Elsa set down her basket and
kantele, and curled herself up for the night.