[Contents]CHAPTER V.CHAPTER V.JUSSI AND UNNAS.There was something so attractive about the monk Ambrose that everybody liked him. The old, white-haired Superior, Gurij, loved him as if he had been his son, and the other monks had a high regard for him. His pale, handsome and manly face not only inspired feelings of confidence, but called forth even warmer feelings. The better he was known, the more certain did it appear that he was a man who might be thoroughly trusted, and would respond to trust in times of peril, when courage and energy were demanded. He very seldom smiled, but, in spite of this, he was invariably cordial, considerate, obliging, and lenient in his judgment of others. He was ever ready to defend the weak, and was generous towards his opponents.All the work-people connected with the monastery were anxious to merit his approval, and to have him with them, whatever their work might be. There were two of the work-people who were specially attached to him: little Unnas, who has been described in the previous chapter, and a Kvaen named Jussi. Unnas Ambrose had rescued from death. With Jussi Ambrose had made acquaintance in quite a different way.He had on a certain occasion come upon Jussi out in the country, as Jussi was in the very act of maltreating a woman. Ambrose spoke sharply to him; and when the Kvaen became insolent, he had lifted him up to throw him aside. Then the Kvaen’s blood boiled over, and he struck at Ambrose. Thereupon a struggle ensued between the two men, both of whom[41]were unusually strong. The Kvaen was one of those strongly-built men belonging to that nation who, if they are provoked, do not shun any peril, and do not give in until they have either lost their life, or have come off victorious. The same characteristic rests upon their ordinary daily work, be it manual labour, navigating or fighting. If the Kvaen has begun anything in earnest, no power on earth can restrain him until he has accomplished what he has taken in hand. In good or in evil, in friendship or in enmity, the Kvaen is persevering and constant. In that respect he is quite different from the Finn, who for a short time can be eager enough; but the energy is only a spurt, and never lasts long. The Kvaen, on the other hand, is tough and true as steel, and can even be cold-blooded and cruel, and as heartlessly ferocious as a wolf.The monk and the Kvaen fought in earnest; but if the Kvaen was as physically strong as Ambrose, the latter was his superior in the expertness with which he administered his blows with the closed fists, and on this occasion no other weapons were employed. Unnas was not present; had he been, he would assuredly have fixed his teeth firmly in the Kvaen’s leg, even at the risk of being kicked to death. A fearful blow on the forehead caused the Kvaen to stumble, and then Ambrose felled him to the ground and knelt upon his chest.‘Do you give in?’‘No, never.’Ambrose took him roughly by the throat, and almost strangled him.‘Well, will you give in, and ask for grace?’‘No,’ the Kvaen hissed out, and struggled to get free.‘Very well, get up again,’ said Ambrose who was now beginning to get angry himself, as the scar in his forehead got red, ‘and I will let you know that I am master.’The Kvaen jumped up, and the fight was continued; but at last he received a stunning blow, and fell backwards on the ground, with Ambrose on top of him.‘Will you now give in, and sue for peace?’The Kvaen made no reply.‘You are a wild creature, Jussi; but I believe that you have good in you, after all, and that you won’t make a bad companion. Now let us two from to-day be friends—friends in life and death—enemies no longer. Will you?’[42]‘Yes,’ groaned the Kvaen softly. He was conquered, and tears fell from his eyes.‘Get up again, then, and shake hands,’ said Ambrose.From that day forward, Jussi was the monk’s friend, and this intercourse gradually produced an ennobling effect upon him, so that he, too, began to realize what it is to be chivalrous. By this means, also, the behaviour of Unnas and Jussi towards each other became better than it had been. Jussi might still strike Unnas for some trick or other which Unnas had played upon him, but it was now with more or less of good-nature and laughter that he treated the little dwarf.The following story will afford a good insight into Jussi’s character, and give some idea of the coarseness and roughness of a Kvaen. I am very reluctant to relate it, for the reader of it will not think the better of Jussi, but rather the worse. Still, I must tell the truth, and show both the good and the bad sides of his nature.Jussi had his own house, and a little bit of land just opposite the monastery. One spring it happened that a wild goose settled on the field close to the houses. It was one of a flock of geese which were making their way to the north, but it had injured one of its wings, and could not fly any further. Jussi’s children, a boy and a girl, caught the goose, and shut it up in a hay-loft. There they gave it food and water to drink, and took such good care of it that in a short time it became quite tame, so that they let it out into the field, where it followed them wherever they went, and would even walk straight into the kitchen to get a few delicacies. It let the children stroke it on the neck and back, and of course they became very fond of it, treating it almost as if it had been their own sister. They even decorated it with a red ribbon, and called it Hanhi or Hanhiseni. It stayed with them the whole winter, and roosted at night on some hay in the loft.The following spring a flight of wild geese again passed over the houses. Hanhi, or the tame goose, was in the yard with the children at the time, and it called out to the other geese. One of them called back again, and the whole flight swooped round the enclosure. Then they came hovering over the houses, and were evidently enticing the tame goose to join them. It responded by trying its wings, which had been unused for so long a time. The trial was successful: the wings carried it, and away[43]it flew with the other geese, to the dismay and grief of both the children, who kept standing there, and shouting in vain, ‘Hanhiseni! Hanhiseni!’ They saw no more of it during the whole of that summer. But late in the autumn, when numbers of migratory birds began to return southwards again, a flight of geese one day passed over the place. They swooped round over the houses, and suddenly, before the children were aware of it, the entire flock settled on a field not far from them. There were eleven of them, and they came walking together towards the enclosures. At the head walked a large goose, with a red band round its neck. It cackled, ‘Kah! kah! kah!’ as if to say, ‘How do you do? Here I am again, and all my children with me;’ and so it waddled with the others following it, straight into the enclosure, and into the little barn. The children rushed in and told Jussi that their beloved Hanhi had at last come back, that it had gone into the barn, and that it had a whole flock with it.‘Leave them alone, leave them alone,’ said Jussi; ‘don’t frighten them.’The goose had told her family, on their way from the North Pole or somewhere in that region, that she knew of a spot on their way where they would do well to alight and rest awhile. They had no reason to be in the least afraid. She knew all the people very well, they were all kind, particularly the children. They would do them no harm, but, on the contrary, give them food, and they would have plenty to eat, and could rest for a night in a barn, where she herself had been sheltered and made comfortable for a whole winter. For the matter of that, any of them who did not care to go over to Africa could remain at that place. None of the young geese had ever seen human beings before, and were not afraid of them, but went on confidently, following their mother.As soon as the last goose had got inside the door, Jussi jumped up and fastened the door, remaining inside himself.And what did he do? Did he fondle them, or stroke the old goose who stood so fearlessly in the centre of the flock, looking up at Jussi as if she expected him to pet her? Instead of that he did something so shameful, so unmercifully brutal, so cruel, that one would rather not tell the story.He set to work to wring their necks, one after the other, and killed all of them, even the old goose with the red band round[44]its neck—Hanhi, the children’s pet. The children, who were standing outside, began to suspect mischief. There was such a screaming inside that they themselves began to scream and cry, and to stamp on the ground, and to shout through a chink in the door, ‘Father, father, don’t kill them! don’t kill Hanhi! Let us have her, let her live! Hanhi is our sister, father!’Presently, with bloody hands, Jussi came out; he had killed every one of them, and the next day he sold them to the monks in the monastery. He would not tell them how he had obtained them, for he was afraid of what Ambrose would say concerning his cruelty.Unnas would not have done such a thing as this. He would, at least, have spared the life of the old goose, either from compassion, or from calculation, hoping that it might at some other time bring him another haul of the same kind.But if Jussi was cruel to helpless animals, he was no coward in front of a bear. He showed his bravery when these three men, Ambrose, Jussi, and Unnas—men as different in appearance and in character as three men could be—were out on an expedition in snow-shoes, and this story I must now narrate:Jussi had a large scar, evidently left from the blow of an axe, on his right hand, between the thumb and forefinger. This was a souvenir of Ambrose. On one of their excursions they suddenly came upon a bear. On seeing them, it raised itself on its hind-legs, and made straight for Ambrose, who had no weapon with him except an axe. Jussi sprang behind the bear, and seized it with his powerful arms by the neck, and squeezed it with all his might against himself, and then, being half throttled, it struck out violently with its fore-paws. Ambrose raised the axe, and endeavoured to hit the bear on the forehead; but either the axe was blunt, or he missed the middle of the forehead, for the axe slid off on to Jussi’s right hand, with which he was squeezing the bear’s neck. Still, Jussi did not let go. He was not a man who in a struggle for life and death would give in readily. Even if his hand itself had been cut off, he would have held fast with the stump. ‘Lyö kirveen tallala!’ (Hit him with the blunt end!), he cried; and he hugged the bear against himself still tighter, shielding his own head behind the bear’s shaggy neck.A heavy blow with the blunt end of the axe from Ambrose’s strong arm stunned the bear, and it sank to the ground; at[45]the same moment Unnas rushed in with his long Finn’s knife, and plunged it in the bear’s side up to the hilt. Another blow on the top of its head finished it; but Jussi ever after bore the frightful scar on his right hand as the result of the first blow of the axe.This encounter united these three men more than ever to one another.As affording a little insight into the character of a Finn, the following incident may be of service. According to the legend, it took place precisely as it is here related:Unnas was an only son. His mother died young, and his father, Andrew, was exceedingly fond of his only son. There was nothing in the world for which he cared except his son. But when Unnas was twenty years old, he had a very serious illness, and it was not thought possible that he could recover from it.Unnas had been baptized by one of the priests of Petschenga Monastery, but his father, Andrew, was still a heathen. He would not consent to be baptized; he declared that he would live and die believing in his old gods. He was not a mere heathen, but was an active sorcerer (a ‘Noide’) or wiseman. He had, therefore, his sorcerer’s or magician’s drum, which he consulted whenever anything of particular importance was to be taken in hand, or to be prevented.When Unnas was taken ill, his father sought at once, by means of sacrifice, to come to terms with one of his chief gods, who, in the form of a weather-worn stone, was standing a long way up by the side of the Kujasuga River, in a birch-wood, and was surrounded by a fence made of reindeer horns. But it was of no avail. His son grew worse and worse. The old man fretted terribly, and began to be afraid that the illness had no natural origin. According to the opinion of the old Finns, dangerous illnesses often proceeded from the fact that one or other of the sick person’s deceased relatives wanted to have his or her help and companionship in the other world. In that world the Finns, according to their notion, lived with their herds of reindeer, much in the same way as they had done upon earth, only, of course, they were free from their worst enemies, the wolves and the husbandmen.Whenever, therefore, anybody was stricken by a serious illness, which had no very distinctive symptoms, it became an[46]urgent question whether by sacrifice a person might reconcile, or come to terms with, the deceased relative, or at least obtain some postponement of the death of the sick person.Andrew consulted the sorcerer’s drum, and tried different sacrifices in order to excite the compassion of the deceased relative, but in vain. His son lay writhing with pain, and wandering in his talk. Then Andrew sent for his brother-in-law, who was a still greater sorcerer than he was himself, so that he might also consult the magic drum, and perhaps discover a conciliatory sacrifice.The brother-in-law came, and different sacrifices were tried, until at last a whole reindeer was offered up; but even that did not succeed. A black cat was purchased—for offerings of black animals were considered the most acceptable—and the cat, too, was sacrificed, but all in vain. The father knelt down beside his son’s bed terrified and in despair, while the brother-in-law lay upon his knees, and beat the sorcerer’s drum; but the movable ring on it insisted on moving to the place which pointed to the Kingdom of Death, and stopped there, however much he struck, and knocked, and made promises of sacrifices. Nothing seemed to be of any avail; neither prayer nor payment sufficed.At last the brother-in-law was compelled to have recourse to the last and most desperate remedy. He must himself cross over to the Kingdom of the Dead, in order to converse with the deceased relative. After a variety of ceremonies and charms, as well as taking some stupefying drink, he fell into a trance, and lay as if dead for half an hour, during which time his spirit was supposed to visit the other world.Andrew watched him with anxiety, and when he again recovered consciousness, he asked him in great fear:‘What does Jabmek, the dead one, demand?’‘He demands either the immediate sacrifice of a horse on this spot, or the surrender of some other man’s life,’ answered the brother-in-law.These were hard terms. To procure a horse at once was impossible; and who was likely to volunteer to give his own life in order to save that of the boy?Then the legend says that the old father determined, out of love for his son, to offer his own life, and to die himself, that his son might live.[47]‘If my son dies,’ he said, ‘then the fire on my hearth goes out. I should have no more pleasure in anything in this world. I am old, and have not many years to live. Therefore let me die, so that these years may be given to my only begotten son, and his life may be long and happy in this world.’When he had taken this resolution, he kissed his son’s forehead, and, with the firm resolution of sacrificing his life, the old man went out in the darkness of the night to the idol, and fell on his face at its feet.And the legend says that, wonderful to relate, the son was better in the morning, and regained his health, but the father lay dead before the altar of the idol. The firm belief in the truth of the brother-in-law’s message, and his own self-sacrificing resolution, had broken his old heart, and probably the message about it caused a change for the better in the son’s illness, and practically saved his life.Unnas sacrificed, as was the custom at that time, a full-grown draught reindeer (a ‘Kjöre-ren’) at his father’s grave. For the Finns, who belong to the Greek Church, have a beautiful belief that every person, man or woman, young or old, even the greatest malefactor, is shown such mercy from our Lord that his soul, after death, is allowed to drive about for seven days with the reindeer which have been sacrificed at his burial. He is thus enabled once again to revisit all the places to which he had travelled during his life. He thus lives again, for a short time, the whole of his previous life. He is reminded of everything (that has happened) from the earliest days of his childhood. He recalls all the sorrows and joys which he has ever known, the love and hatred which he may have nourished, the friendship and enmity and the good and evil (which have made up the experiences of his past life). As a dragon-fly over a pool, his soul flutters from place to place, even to the most distant and hidden by-places, and lingers at each for a moment, so that he can have an opportunity for sorrowing, forgiving, conciliating, making good again, or begging forgiveness for what he has done; and then, when all has been revisited and briefly lived over again, he is set before the judgment-seat of the Most High, and receives his unalterable sentence—guilty or not guilty.[48]
[Contents]CHAPTER V.CHAPTER V.JUSSI AND UNNAS.There was something so attractive about the monk Ambrose that everybody liked him. The old, white-haired Superior, Gurij, loved him as if he had been his son, and the other monks had a high regard for him. His pale, handsome and manly face not only inspired feelings of confidence, but called forth even warmer feelings. The better he was known, the more certain did it appear that he was a man who might be thoroughly trusted, and would respond to trust in times of peril, when courage and energy were demanded. He very seldom smiled, but, in spite of this, he was invariably cordial, considerate, obliging, and lenient in his judgment of others. He was ever ready to defend the weak, and was generous towards his opponents.All the work-people connected with the monastery were anxious to merit his approval, and to have him with them, whatever their work might be. There were two of the work-people who were specially attached to him: little Unnas, who has been described in the previous chapter, and a Kvaen named Jussi. Unnas Ambrose had rescued from death. With Jussi Ambrose had made acquaintance in quite a different way.He had on a certain occasion come upon Jussi out in the country, as Jussi was in the very act of maltreating a woman. Ambrose spoke sharply to him; and when the Kvaen became insolent, he had lifted him up to throw him aside. Then the Kvaen’s blood boiled over, and he struck at Ambrose. Thereupon a struggle ensued between the two men, both of whom[41]were unusually strong. The Kvaen was one of those strongly-built men belonging to that nation who, if they are provoked, do not shun any peril, and do not give in until they have either lost their life, or have come off victorious. The same characteristic rests upon their ordinary daily work, be it manual labour, navigating or fighting. If the Kvaen has begun anything in earnest, no power on earth can restrain him until he has accomplished what he has taken in hand. In good or in evil, in friendship or in enmity, the Kvaen is persevering and constant. In that respect he is quite different from the Finn, who for a short time can be eager enough; but the energy is only a spurt, and never lasts long. The Kvaen, on the other hand, is tough and true as steel, and can even be cold-blooded and cruel, and as heartlessly ferocious as a wolf.The monk and the Kvaen fought in earnest; but if the Kvaen was as physically strong as Ambrose, the latter was his superior in the expertness with which he administered his blows with the closed fists, and on this occasion no other weapons were employed. Unnas was not present; had he been, he would assuredly have fixed his teeth firmly in the Kvaen’s leg, even at the risk of being kicked to death. A fearful blow on the forehead caused the Kvaen to stumble, and then Ambrose felled him to the ground and knelt upon his chest.‘Do you give in?’‘No, never.’Ambrose took him roughly by the throat, and almost strangled him.‘Well, will you give in, and ask for grace?’‘No,’ the Kvaen hissed out, and struggled to get free.‘Very well, get up again,’ said Ambrose who was now beginning to get angry himself, as the scar in his forehead got red, ‘and I will let you know that I am master.’The Kvaen jumped up, and the fight was continued; but at last he received a stunning blow, and fell backwards on the ground, with Ambrose on top of him.‘Will you now give in, and sue for peace?’The Kvaen made no reply.‘You are a wild creature, Jussi; but I believe that you have good in you, after all, and that you won’t make a bad companion. Now let us two from to-day be friends—friends in life and death—enemies no longer. Will you?’[42]‘Yes,’ groaned the Kvaen softly. He was conquered, and tears fell from his eyes.‘Get up again, then, and shake hands,’ said Ambrose.From that day forward, Jussi was the monk’s friend, and this intercourse gradually produced an ennobling effect upon him, so that he, too, began to realize what it is to be chivalrous. By this means, also, the behaviour of Unnas and Jussi towards each other became better than it had been. Jussi might still strike Unnas for some trick or other which Unnas had played upon him, but it was now with more or less of good-nature and laughter that he treated the little dwarf.The following story will afford a good insight into Jussi’s character, and give some idea of the coarseness and roughness of a Kvaen. I am very reluctant to relate it, for the reader of it will not think the better of Jussi, but rather the worse. Still, I must tell the truth, and show both the good and the bad sides of his nature.Jussi had his own house, and a little bit of land just opposite the monastery. One spring it happened that a wild goose settled on the field close to the houses. It was one of a flock of geese which were making their way to the north, but it had injured one of its wings, and could not fly any further. Jussi’s children, a boy and a girl, caught the goose, and shut it up in a hay-loft. There they gave it food and water to drink, and took such good care of it that in a short time it became quite tame, so that they let it out into the field, where it followed them wherever they went, and would even walk straight into the kitchen to get a few delicacies. It let the children stroke it on the neck and back, and of course they became very fond of it, treating it almost as if it had been their own sister. They even decorated it with a red ribbon, and called it Hanhi or Hanhiseni. It stayed with them the whole winter, and roosted at night on some hay in the loft.The following spring a flight of wild geese again passed over the houses. Hanhi, or the tame goose, was in the yard with the children at the time, and it called out to the other geese. One of them called back again, and the whole flight swooped round the enclosure. Then they came hovering over the houses, and were evidently enticing the tame goose to join them. It responded by trying its wings, which had been unused for so long a time. The trial was successful: the wings carried it, and away[43]it flew with the other geese, to the dismay and grief of both the children, who kept standing there, and shouting in vain, ‘Hanhiseni! Hanhiseni!’ They saw no more of it during the whole of that summer. But late in the autumn, when numbers of migratory birds began to return southwards again, a flight of geese one day passed over the place. They swooped round over the houses, and suddenly, before the children were aware of it, the entire flock settled on a field not far from them. There were eleven of them, and they came walking together towards the enclosures. At the head walked a large goose, with a red band round its neck. It cackled, ‘Kah! kah! kah!’ as if to say, ‘How do you do? Here I am again, and all my children with me;’ and so it waddled with the others following it, straight into the enclosure, and into the little barn. The children rushed in and told Jussi that their beloved Hanhi had at last come back, that it had gone into the barn, and that it had a whole flock with it.‘Leave them alone, leave them alone,’ said Jussi; ‘don’t frighten them.’The goose had told her family, on their way from the North Pole or somewhere in that region, that she knew of a spot on their way where they would do well to alight and rest awhile. They had no reason to be in the least afraid. She knew all the people very well, they were all kind, particularly the children. They would do them no harm, but, on the contrary, give them food, and they would have plenty to eat, and could rest for a night in a barn, where she herself had been sheltered and made comfortable for a whole winter. For the matter of that, any of them who did not care to go over to Africa could remain at that place. None of the young geese had ever seen human beings before, and were not afraid of them, but went on confidently, following their mother.As soon as the last goose had got inside the door, Jussi jumped up and fastened the door, remaining inside himself.And what did he do? Did he fondle them, or stroke the old goose who stood so fearlessly in the centre of the flock, looking up at Jussi as if she expected him to pet her? Instead of that he did something so shameful, so unmercifully brutal, so cruel, that one would rather not tell the story.He set to work to wring their necks, one after the other, and killed all of them, even the old goose with the red band round[44]its neck—Hanhi, the children’s pet. The children, who were standing outside, began to suspect mischief. There was such a screaming inside that they themselves began to scream and cry, and to stamp on the ground, and to shout through a chink in the door, ‘Father, father, don’t kill them! don’t kill Hanhi! Let us have her, let her live! Hanhi is our sister, father!’Presently, with bloody hands, Jussi came out; he had killed every one of them, and the next day he sold them to the monks in the monastery. He would not tell them how he had obtained them, for he was afraid of what Ambrose would say concerning his cruelty.Unnas would not have done such a thing as this. He would, at least, have spared the life of the old goose, either from compassion, or from calculation, hoping that it might at some other time bring him another haul of the same kind.But if Jussi was cruel to helpless animals, he was no coward in front of a bear. He showed his bravery when these three men, Ambrose, Jussi, and Unnas—men as different in appearance and in character as three men could be—were out on an expedition in snow-shoes, and this story I must now narrate:Jussi had a large scar, evidently left from the blow of an axe, on his right hand, between the thumb and forefinger. This was a souvenir of Ambrose. On one of their excursions they suddenly came upon a bear. On seeing them, it raised itself on its hind-legs, and made straight for Ambrose, who had no weapon with him except an axe. Jussi sprang behind the bear, and seized it with his powerful arms by the neck, and squeezed it with all his might against himself, and then, being half throttled, it struck out violently with its fore-paws. Ambrose raised the axe, and endeavoured to hit the bear on the forehead; but either the axe was blunt, or he missed the middle of the forehead, for the axe slid off on to Jussi’s right hand, with which he was squeezing the bear’s neck. Still, Jussi did not let go. He was not a man who in a struggle for life and death would give in readily. Even if his hand itself had been cut off, he would have held fast with the stump. ‘Lyö kirveen tallala!’ (Hit him with the blunt end!), he cried; and he hugged the bear against himself still tighter, shielding his own head behind the bear’s shaggy neck.A heavy blow with the blunt end of the axe from Ambrose’s strong arm stunned the bear, and it sank to the ground; at[45]the same moment Unnas rushed in with his long Finn’s knife, and plunged it in the bear’s side up to the hilt. Another blow on the top of its head finished it; but Jussi ever after bore the frightful scar on his right hand as the result of the first blow of the axe.This encounter united these three men more than ever to one another.As affording a little insight into the character of a Finn, the following incident may be of service. According to the legend, it took place precisely as it is here related:Unnas was an only son. His mother died young, and his father, Andrew, was exceedingly fond of his only son. There was nothing in the world for which he cared except his son. But when Unnas was twenty years old, he had a very serious illness, and it was not thought possible that he could recover from it.Unnas had been baptized by one of the priests of Petschenga Monastery, but his father, Andrew, was still a heathen. He would not consent to be baptized; he declared that he would live and die believing in his old gods. He was not a mere heathen, but was an active sorcerer (a ‘Noide’) or wiseman. He had, therefore, his sorcerer’s or magician’s drum, which he consulted whenever anything of particular importance was to be taken in hand, or to be prevented.When Unnas was taken ill, his father sought at once, by means of sacrifice, to come to terms with one of his chief gods, who, in the form of a weather-worn stone, was standing a long way up by the side of the Kujasuga River, in a birch-wood, and was surrounded by a fence made of reindeer horns. But it was of no avail. His son grew worse and worse. The old man fretted terribly, and began to be afraid that the illness had no natural origin. According to the opinion of the old Finns, dangerous illnesses often proceeded from the fact that one or other of the sick person’s deceased relatives wanted to have his or her help and companionship in the other world. In that world the Finns, according to their notion, lived with their herds of reindeer, much in the same way as they had done upon earth, only, of course, they were free from their worst enemies, the wolves and the husbandmen.Whenever, therefore, anybody was stricken by a serious illness, which had no very distinctive symptoms, it became an[46]urgent question whether by sacrifice a person might reconcile, or come to terms with, the deceased relative, or at least obtain some postponement of the death of the sick person.Andrew consulted the sorcerer’s drum, and tried different sacrifices in order to excite the compassion of the deceased relative, but in vain. His son lay writhing with pain, and wandering in his talk. Then Andrew sent for his brother-in-law, who was a still greater sorcerer than he was himself, so that he might also consult the magic drum, and perhaps discover a conciliatory sacrifice.The brother-in-law came, and different sacrifices were tried, until at last a whole reindeer was offered up; but even that did not succeed. A black cat was purchased—for offerings of black animals were considered the most acceptable—and the cat, too, was sacrificed, but all in vain. The father knelt down beside his son’s bed terrified and in despair, while the brother-in-law lay upon his knees, and beat the sorcerer’s drum; but the movable ring on it insisted on moving to the place which pointed to the Kingdom of Death, and stopped there, however much he struck, and knocked, and made promises of sacrifices. Nothing seemed to be of any avail; neither prayer nor payment sufficed.At last the brother-in-law was compelled to have recourse to the last and most desperate remedy. He must himself cross over to the Kingdom of the Dead, in order to converse with the deceased relative. After a variety of ceremonies and charms, as well as taking some stupefying drink, he fell into a trance, and lay as if dead for half an hour, during which time his spirit was supposed to visit the other world.Andrew watched him with anxiety, and when he again recovered consciousness, he asked him in great fear:‘What does Jabmek, the dead one, demand?’‘He demands either the immediate sacrifice of a horse on this spot, or the surrender of some other man’s life,’ answered the brother-in-law.These were hard terms. To procure a horse at once was impossible; and who was likely to volunteer to give his own life in order to save that of the boy?Then the legend says that the old father determined, out of love for his son, to offer his own life, and to die himself, that his son might live.[47]‘If my son dies,’ he said, ‘then the fire on my hearth goes out. I should have no more pleasure in anything in this world. I am old, and have not many years to live. Therefore let me die, so that these years may be given to my only begotten son, and his life may be long and happy in this world.’When he had taken this resolution, he kissed his son’s forehead, and, with the firm resolution of sacrificing his life, the old man went out in the darkness of the night to the idol, and fell on his face at its feet.And the legend says that, wonderful to relate, the son was better in the morning, and regained his health, but the father lay dead before the altar of the idol. The firm belief in the truth of the brother-in-law’s message, and his own self-sacrificing resolution, had broken his old heart, and probably the message about it caused a change for the better in the son’s illness, and practically saved his life.Unnas sacrificed, as was the custom at that time, a full-grown draught reindeer (a ‘Kjöre-ren’) at his father’s grave. For the Finns, who belong to the Greek Church, have a beautiful belief that every person, man or woman, young or old, even the greatest malefactor, is shown such mercy from our Lord that his soul, after death, is allowed to drive about for seven days with the reindeer which have been sacrificed at his burial. He is thus enabled once again to revisit all the places to which he had travelled during his life. He thus lives again, for a short time, the whole of his previous life. He is reminded of everything (that has happened) from the earliest days of his childhood. He recalls all the sorrows and joys which he has ever known, the love and hatred which he may have nourished, the friendship and enmity and the good and evil (which have made up the experiences of his past life). As a dragon-fly over a pool, his soul flutters from place to place, even to the most distant and hidden by-places, and lingers at each for a moment, so that he can have an opportunity for sorrowing, forgiving, conciliating, making good again, or begging forgiveness for what he has done; and then, when all has been revisited and briefly lived over again, he is set before the judgment-seat of the Most High, and receives his unalterable sentence—guilty or not guilty.[48]
CHAPTER V.CHAPTER V.JUSSI AND UNNAS.
CHAPTER V.
There was something so attractive about the monk Ambrose that everybody liked him. The old, white-haired Superior, Gurij, loved him as if he had been his son, and the other monks had a high regard for him. His pale, handsome and manly face not only inspired feelings of confidence, but called forth even warmer feelings. The better he was known, the more certain did it appear that he was a man who might be thoroughly trusted, and would respond to trust in times of peril, when courage and energy were demanded. He very seldom smiled, but, in spite of this, he was invariably cordial, considerate, obliging, and lenient in his judgment of others. He was ever ready to defend the weak, and was generous towards his opponents.All the work-people connected with the monastery were anxious to merit his approval, and to have him with them, whatever their work might be. There were two of the work-people who were specially attached to him: little Unnas, who has been described in the previous chapter, and a Kvaen named Jussi. Unnas Ambrose had rescued from death. With Jussi Ambrose had made acquaintance in quite a different way.He had on a certain occasion come upon Jussi out in the country, as Jussi was in the very act of maltreating a woman. Ambrose spoke sharply to him; and when the Kvaen became insolent, he had lifted him up to throw him aside. Then the Kvaen’s blood boiled over, and he struck at Ambrose. Thereupon a struggle ensued between the two men, both of whom[41]were unusually strong. The Kvaen was one of those strongly-built men belonging to that nation who, if they are provoked, do not shun any peril, and do not give in until they have either lost their life, or have come off victorious. The same characteristic rests upon their ordinary daily work, be it manual labour, navigating or fighting. If the Kvaen has begun anything in earnest, no power on earth can restrain him until he has accomplished what he has taken in hand. In good or in evil, in friendship or in enmity, the Kvaen is persevering and constant. In that respect he is quite different from the Finn, who for a short time can be eager enough; but the energy is only a spurt, and never lasts long. The Kvaen, on the other hand, is tough and true as steel, and can even be cold-blooded and cruel, and as heartlessly ferocious as a wolf.The monk and the Kvaen fought in earnest; but if the Kvaen was as physically strong as Ambrose, the latter was his superior in the expertness with which he administered his blows with the closed fists, and on this occasion no other weapons were employed. Unnas was not present; had he been, he would assuredly have fixed his teeth firmly in the Kvaen’s leg, even at the risk of being kicked to death. A fearful blow on the forehead caused the Kvaen to stumble, and then Ambrose felled him to the ground and knelt upon his chest.‘Do you give in?’‘No, never.’Ambrose took him roughly by the throat, and almost strangled him.‘Well, will you give in, and ask for grace?’‘No,’ the Kvaen hissed out, and struggled to get free.‘Very well, get up again,’ said Ambrose who was now beginning to get angry himself, as the scar in his forehead got red, ‘and I will let you know that I am master.’The Kvaen jumped up, and the fight was continued; but at last he received a stunning blow, and fell backwards on the ground, with Ambrose on top of him.‘Will you now give in, and sue for peace?’The Kvaen made no reply.‘You are a wild creature, Jussi; but I believe that you have good in you, after all, and that you won’t make a bad companion. Now let us two from to-day be friends—friends in life and death—enemies no longer. Will you?’[42]‘Yes,’ groaned the Kvaen softly. He was conquered, and tears fell from his eyes.‘Get up again, then, and shake hands,’ said Ambrose.From that day forward, Jussi was the monk’s friend, and this intercourse gradually produced an ennobling effect upon him, so that he, too, began to realize what it is to be chivalrous. By this means, also, the behaviour of Unnas and Jussi towards each other became better than it had been. Jussi might still strike Unnas for some trick or other which Unnas had played upon him, but it was now with more or less of good-nature and laughter that he treated the little dwarf.The following story will afford a good insight into Jussi’s character, and give some idea of the coarseness and roughness of a Kvaen. I am very reluctant to relate it, for the reader of it will not think the better of Jussi, but rather the worse. Still, I must tell the truth, and show both the good and the bad sides of his nature.Jussi had his own house, and a little bit of land just opposite the monastery. One spring it happened that a wild goose settled on the field close to the houses. It was one of a flock of geese which were making their way to the north, but it had injured one of its wings, and could not fly any further. Jussi’s children, a boy and a girl, caught the goose, and shut it up in a hay-loft. There they gave it food and water to drink, and took such good care of it that in a short time it became quite tame, so that they let it out into the field, where it followed them wherever they went, and would even walk straight into the kitchen to get a few delicacies. It let the children stroke it on the neck and back, and of course they became very fond of it, treating it almost as if it had been their own sister. They even decorated it with a red ribbon, and called it Hanhi or Hanhiseni. It stayed with them the whole winter, and roosted at night on some hay in the loft.The following spring a flight of wild geese again passed over the houses. Hanhi, or the tame goose, was in the yard with the children at the time, and it called out to the other geese. One of them called back again, and the whole flight swooped round the enclosure. Then they came hovering over the houses, and were evidently enticing the tame goose to join them. It responded by trying its wings, which had been unused for so long a time. The trial was successful: the wings carried it, and away[43]it flew with the other geese, to the dismay and grief of both the children, who kept standing there, and shouting in vain, ‘Hanhiseni! Hanhiseni!’ They saw no more of it during the whole of that summer. But late in the autumn, when numbers of migratory birds began to return southwards again, a flight of geese one day passed over the place. They swooped round over the houses, and suddenly, before the children were aware of it, the entire flock settled on a field not far from them. There were eleven of them, and they came walking together towards the enclosures. At the head walked a large goose, with a red band round its neck. It cackled, ‘Kah! kah! kah!’ as if to say, ‘How do you do? Here I am again, and all my children with me;’ and so it waddled with the others following it, straight into the enclosure, and into the little barn. The children rushed in and told Jussi that their beloved Hanhi had at last come back, that it had gone into the barn, and that it had a whole flock with it.‘Leave them alone, leave them alone,’ said Jussi; ‘don’t frighten them.’The goose had told her family, on their way from the North Pole or somewhere in that region, that she knew of a spot on their way where they would do well to alight and rest awhile. They had no reason to be in the least afraid. She knew all the people very well, they were all kind, particularly the children. They would do them no harm, but, on the contrary, give them food, and they would have plenty to eat, and could rest for a night in a barn, where she herself had been sheltered and made comfortable for a whole winter. For the matter of that, any of them who did not care to go over to Africa could remain at that place. None of the young geese had ever seen human beings before, and were not afraid of them, but went on confidently, following their mother.As soon as the last goose had got inside the door, Jussi jumped up and fastened the door, remaining inside himself.And what did he do? Did he fondle them, or stroke the old goose who stood so fearlessly in the centre of the flock, looking up at Jussi as if she expected him to pet her? Instead of that he did something so shameful, so unmercifully brutal, so cruel, that one would rather not tell the story.He set to work to wring their necks, one after the other, and killed all of them, even the old goose with the red band round[44]its neck—Hanhi, the children’s pet. The children, who were standing outside, began to suspect mischief. There was such a screaming inside that they themselves began to scream and cry, and to stamp on the ground, and to shout through a chink in the door, ‘Father, father, don’t kill them! don’t kill Hanhi! Let us have her, let her live! Hanhi is our sister, father!’Presently, with bloody hands, Jussi came out; he had killed every one of them, and the next day he sold them to the monks in the monastery. He would not tell them how he had obtained them, for he was afraid of what Ambrose would say concerning his cruelty.Unnas would not have done such a thing as this. He would, at least, have spared the life of the old goose, either from compassion, or from calculation, hoping that it might at some other time bring him another haul of the same kind.But if Jussi was cruel to helpless animals, he was no coward in front of a bear. He showed his bravery when these three men, Ambrose, Jussi, and Unnas—men as different in appearance and in character as three men could be—were out on an expedition in snow-shoes, and this story I must now narrate:Jussi had a large scar, evidently left from the blow of an axe, on his right hand, between the thumb and forefinger. This was a souvenir of Ambrose. On one of their excursions they suddenly came upon a bear. On seeing them, it raised itself on its hind-legs, and made straight for Ambrose, who had no weapon with him except an axe. Jussi sprang behind the bear, and seized it with his powerful arms by the neck, and squeezed it with all his might against himself, and then, being half throttled, it struck out violently with its fore-paws. Ambrose raised the axe, and endeavoured to hit the bear on the forehead; but either the axe was blunt, or he missed the middle of the forehead, for the axe slid off on to Jussi’s right hand, with which he was squeezing the bear’s neck. Still, Jussi did not let go. He was not a man who in a struggle for life and death would give in readily. Even if his hand itself had been cut off, he would have held fast with the stump. ‘Lyö kirveen tallala!’ (Hit him with the blunt end!), he cried; and he hugged the bear against himself still tighter, shielding his own head behind the bear’s shaggy neck.A heavy blow with the blunt end of the axe from Ambrose’s strong arm stunned the bear, and it sank to the ground; at[45]the same moment Unnas rushed in with his long Finn’s knife, and plunged it in the bear’s side up to the hilt. Another blow on the top of its head finished it; but Jussi ever after bore the frightful scar on his right hand as the result of the first blow of the axe.This encounter united these three men more than ever to one another.As affording a little insight into the character of a Finn, the following incident may be of service. According to the legend, it took place precisely as it is here related:Unnas was an only son. His mother died young, and his father, Andrew, was exceedingly fond of his only son. There was nothing in the world for which he cared except his son. But when Unnas was twenty years old, he had a very serious illness, and it was not thought possible that he could recover from it.Unnas had been baptized by one of the priests of Petschenga Monastery, but his father, Andrew, was still a heathen. He would not consent to be baptized; he declared that he would live and die believing in his old gods. He was not a mere heathen, but was an active sorcerer (a ‘Noide’) or wiseman. He had, therefore, his sorcerer’s or magician’s drum, which he consulted whenever anything of particular importance was to be taken in hand, or to be prevented.When Unnas was taken ill, his father sought at once, by means of sacrifice, to come to terms with one of his chief gods, who, in the form of a weather-worn stone, was standing a long way up by the side of the Kujasuga River, in a birch-wood, and was surrounded by a fence made of reindeer horns. But it was of no avail. His son grew worse and worse. The old man fretted terribly, and began to be afraid that the illness had no natural origin. According to the opinion of the old Finns, dangerous illnesses often proceeded from the fact that one or other of the sick person’s deceased relatives wanted to have his or her help and companionship in the other world. In that world the Finns, according to their notion, lived with their herds of reindeer, much in the same way as they had done upon earth, only, of course, they were free from their worst enemies, the wolves and the husbandmen.Whenever, therefore, anybody was stricken by a serious illness, which had no very distinctive symptoms, it became an[46]urgent question whether by sacrifice a person might reconcile, or come to terms with, the deceased relative, or at least obtain some postponement of the death of the sick person.Andrew consulted the sorcerer’s drum, and tried different sacrifices in order to excite the compassion of the deceased relative, but in vain. His son lay writhing with pain, and wandering in his talk. Then Andrew sent for his brother-in-law, who was a still greater sorcerer than he was himself, so that he might also consult the magic drum, and perhaps discover a conciliatory sacrifice.The brother-in-law came, and different sacrifices were tried, until at last a whole reindeer was offered up; but even that did not succeed. A black cat was purchased—for offerings of black animals were considered the most acceptable—and the cat, too, was sacrificed, but all in vain. The father knelt down beside his son’s bed terrified and in despair, while the brother-in-law lay upon his knees, and beat the sorcerer’s drum; but the movable ring on it insisted on moving to the place which pointed to the Kingdom of Death, and stopped there, however much he struck, and knocked, and made promises of sacrifices. Nothing seemed to be of any avail; neither prayer nor payment sufficed.At last the brother-in-law was compelled to have recourse to the last and most desperate remedy. He must himself cross over to the Kingdom of the Dead, in order to converse with the deceased relative. After a variety of ceremonies and charms, as well as taking some stupefying drink, he fell into a trance, and lay as if dead for half an hour, during which time his spirit was supposed to visit the other world.Andrew watched him with anxiety, and when he again recovered consciousness, he asked him in great fear:‘What does Jabmek, the dead one, demand?’‘He demands either the immediate sacrifice of a horse on this spot, or the surrender of some other man’s life,’ answered the brother-in-law.These were hard terms. To procure a horse at once was impossible; and who was likely to volunteer to give his own life in order to save that of the boy?Then the legend says that the old father determined, out of love for his son, to offer his own life, and to die himself, that his son might live.[47]‘If my son dies,’ he said, ‘then the fire on my hearth goes out. I should have no more pleasure in anything in this world. I am old, and have not many years to live. Therefore let me die, so that these years may be given to my only begotten son, and his life may be long and happy in this world.’When he had taken this resolution, he kissed his son’s forehead, and, with the firm resolution of sacrificing his life, the old man went out in the darkness of the night to the idol, and fell on his face at its feet.And the legend says that, wonderful to relate, the son was better in the morning, and regained his health, but the father lay dead before the altar of the idol. The firm belief in the truth of the brother-in-law’s message, and his own self-sacrificing resolution, had broken his old heart, and probably the message about it caused a change for the better in the son’s illness, and practically saved his life.Unnas sacrificed, as was the custom at that time, a full-grown draught reindeer (a ‘Kjöre-ren’) at his father’s grave. For the Finns, who belong to the Greek Church, have a beautiful belief that every person, man or woman, young or old, even the greatest malefactor, is shown such mercy from our Lord that his soul, after death, is allowed to drive about for seven days with the reindeer which have been sacrificed at his burial. He is thus enabled once again to revisit all the places to which he had travelled during his life. He thus lives again, for a short time, the whole of his previous life. He is reminded of everything (that has happened) from the earliest days of his childhood. He recalls all the sorrows and joys which he has ever known, the love and hatred which he may have nourished, the friendship and enmity and the good and evil (which have made up the experiences of his past life). As a dragon-fly over a pool, his soul flutters from place to place, even to the most distant and hidden by-places, and lingers at each for a moment, so that he can have an opportunity for sorrowing, forgiving, conciliating, making good again, or begging forgiveness for what he has done; and then, when all has been revisited and briefly lived over again, he is set before the judgment-seat of the Most High, and receives his unalterable sentence—guilty or not guilty.[48]
There was something so attractive about the monk Ambrose that everybody liked him. The old, white-haired Superior, Gurij, loved him as if he had been his son, and the other monks had a high regard for him. His pale, handsome and manly face not only inspired feelings of confidence, but called forth even warmer feelings. The better he was known, the more certain did it appear that he was a man who might be thoroughly trusted, and would respond to trust in times of peril, when courage and energy were demanded. He very seldom smiled, but, in spite of this, he was invariably cordial, considerate, obliging, and lenient in his judgment of others. He was ever ready to defend the weak, and was generous towards his opponents.
All the work-people connected with the monastery were anxious to merit his approval, and to have him with them, whatever their work might be. There were two of the work-people who were specially attached to him: little Unnas, who has been described in the previous chapter, and a Kvaen named Jussi. Unnas Ambrose had rescued from death. With Jussi Ambrose had made acquaintance in quite a different way.
He had on a certain occasion come upon Jussi out in the country, as Jussi was in the very act of maltreating a woman. Ambrose spoke sharply to him; and when the Kvaen became insolent, he had lifted him up to throw him aside. Then the Kvaen’s blood boiled over, and he struck at Ambrose. Thereupon a struggle ensued between the two men, both of whom[41]were unusually strong. The Kvaen was one of those strongly-built men belonging to that nation who, if they are provoked, do not shun any peril, and do not give in until they have either lost their life, or have come off victorious. The same characteristic rests upon their ordinary daily work, be it manual labour, navigating or fighting. If the Kvaen has begun anything in earnest, no power on earth can restrain him until he has accomplished what he has taken in hand. In good or in evil, in friendship or in enmity, the Kvaen is persevering and constant. In that respect he is quite different from the Finn, who for a short time can be eager enough; but the energy is only a spurt, and never lasts long. The Kvaen, on the other hand, is tough and true as steel, and can even be cold-blooded and cruel, and as heartlessly ferocious as a wolf.
The monk and the Kvaen fought in earnest; but if the Kvaen was as physically strong as Ambrose, the latter was his superior in the expertness with which he administered his blows with the closed fists, and on this occasion no other weapons were employed. Unnas was not present; had he been, he would assuredly have fixed his teeth firmly in the Kvaen’s leg, even at the risk of being kicked to death. A fearful blow on the forehead caused the Kvaen to stumble, and then Ambrose felled him to the ground and knelt upon his chest.
‘Do you give in?’
‘No, never.’
Ambrose took him roughly by the throat, and almost strangled him.
‘Well, will you give in, and ask for grace?’
‘No,’ the Kvaen hissed out, and struggled to get free.
‘Very well, get up again,’ said Ambrose who was now beginning to get angry himself, as the scar in his forehead got red, ‘and I will let you know that I am master.’
The Kvaen jumped up, and the fight was continued; but at last he received a stunning blow, and fell backwards on the ground, with Ambrose on top of him.
‘Will you now give in, and sue for peace?’
The Kvaen made no reply.
‘You are a wild creature, Jussi; but I believe that you have good in you, after all, and that you won’t make a bad companion. Now let us two from to-day be friends—friends in life and death—enemies no longer. Will you?’[42]
‘Yes,’ groaned the Kvaen softly. He was conquered, and tears fell from his eyes.
‘Get up again, then, and shake hands,’ said Ambrose.
From that day forward, Jussi was the monk’s friend, and this intercourse gradually produced an ennobling effect upon him, so that he, too, began to realize what it is to be chivalrous. By this means, also, the behaviour of Unnas and Jussi towards each other became better than it had been. Jussi might still strike Unnas for some trick or other which Unnas had played upon him, but it was now with more or less of good-nature and laughter that he treated the little dwarf.
The following story will afford a good insight into Jussi’s character, and give some idea of the coarseness and roughness of a Kvaen. I am very reluctant to relate it, for the reader of it will not think the better of Jussi, but rather the worse. Still, I must tell the truth, and show both the good and the bad sides of his nature.
Jussi had his own house, and a little bit of land just opposite the monastery. One spring it happened that a wild goose settled on the field close to the houses. It was one of a flock of geese which were making their way to the north, but it had injured one of its wings, and could not fly any further. Jussi’s children, a boy and a girl, caught the goose, and shut it up in a hay-loft. There they gave it food and water to drink, and took such good care of it that in a short time it became quite tame, so that they let it out into the field, where it followed them wherever they went, and would even walk straight into the kitchen to get a few delicacies. It let the children stroke it on the neck and back, and of course they became very fond of it, treating it almost as if it had been their own sister. They even decorated it with a red ribbon, and called it Hanhi or Hanhiseni. It stayed with them the whole winter, and roosted at night on some hay in the loft.
The following spring a flight of wild geese again passed over the houses. Hanhi, or the tame goose, was in the yard with the children at the time, and it called out to the other geese. One of them called back again, and the whole flight swooped round the enclosure. Then they came hovering over the houses, and were evidently enticing the tame goose to join them. It responded by trying its wings, which had been unused for so long a time. The trial was successful: the wings carried it, and away[43]it flew with the other geese, to the dismay and grief of both the children, who kept standing there, and shouting in vain, ‘Hanhiseni! Hanhiseni!’ They saw no more of it during the whole of that summer. But late in the autumn, when numbers of migratory birds began to return southwards again, a flight of geese one day passed over the place. They swooped round over the houses, and suddenly, before the children were aware of it, the entire flock settled on a field not far from them. There were eleven of them, and they came walking together towards the enclosures. At the head walked a large goose, with a red band round its neck. It cackled, ‘Kah! kah! kah!’ as if to say, ‘How do you do? Here I am again, and all my children with me;’ and so it waddled with the others following it, straight into the enclosure, and into the little barn. The children rushed in and told Jussi that their beloved Hanhi had at last come back, that it had gone into the barn, and that it had a whole flock with it.
‘Leave them alone, leave them alone,’ said Jussi; ‘don’t frighten them.’
The goose had told her family, on their way from the North Pole or somewhere in that region, that she knew of a spot on their way where they would do well to alight and rest awhile. They had no reason to be in the least afraid. She knew all the people very well, they were all kind, particularly the children. They would do them no harm, but, on the contrary, give them food, and they would have plenty to eat, and could rest for a night in a barn, where she herself had been sheltered and made comfortable for a whole winter. For the matter of that, any of them who did not care to go over to Africa could remain at that place. None of the young geese had ever seen human beings before, and were not afraid of them, but went on confidently, following their mother.
As soon as the last goose had got inside the door, Jussi jumped up and fastened the door, remaining inside himself.
And what did he do? Did he fondle them, or stroke the old goose who stood so fearlessly in the centre of the flock, looking up at Jussi as if she expected him to pet her? Instead of that he did something so shameful, so unmercifully brutal, so cruel, that one would rather not tell the story.
He set to work to wring their necks, one after the other, and killed all of them, even the old goose with the red band round[44]its neck—Hanhi, the children’s pet. The children, who were standing outside, began to suspect mischief. There was such a screaming inside that they themselves began to scream and cry, and to stamp on the ground, and to shout through a chink in the door, ‘Father, father, don’t kill them! don’t kill Hanhi! Let us have her, let her live! Hanhi is our sister, father!’
Presently, with bloody hands, Jussi came out; he had killed every one of them, and the next day he sold them to the monks in the monastery. He would not tell them how he had obtained them, for he was afraid of what Ambrose would say concerning his cruelty.
Unnas would not have done such a thing as this. He would, at least, have spared the life of the old goose, either from compassion, or from calculation, hoping that it might at some other time bring him another haul of the same kind.
But if Jussi was cruel to helpless animals, he was no coward in front of a bear. He showed his bravery when these three men, Ambrose, Jussi, and Unnas—men as different in appearance and in character as three men could be—were out on an expedition in snow-shoes, and this story I must now narrate:
Jussi had a large scar, evidently left from the blow of an axe, on his right hand, between the thumb and forefinger. This was a souvenir of Ambrose. On one of their excursions they suddenly came upon a bear. On seeing them, it raised itself on its hind-legs, and made straight for Ambrose, who had no weapon with him except an axe. Jussi sprang behind the bear, and seized it with his powerful arms by the neck, and squeezed it with all his might against himself, and then, being half throttled, it struck out violently with its fore-paws. Ambrose raised the axe, and endeavoured to hit the bear on the forehead; but either the axe was blunt, or he missed the middle of the forehead, for the axe slid off on to Jussi’s right hand, with which he was squeezing the bear’s neck. Still, Jussi did not let go. He was not a man who in a struggle for life and death would give in readily. Even if his hand itself had been cut off, he would have held fast with the stump. ‘Lyö kirveen tallala!’ (Hit him with the blunt end!), he cried; and he hugged the bear against himself still tighter, shielding his own head behind the bear’s shaggy neck.
A heavy blow with the blunt end of the axe from Ambrose’s strong arm stunned the bear, and it sank to the ground; at[45]the same moment Unnas rushed in with his long Finn’s knife, and plunged it in the bear’s side up to the hilt. Another blow on the top of its head finished it; but Jussi ever after bore the frightful scar on his right hand as the result of the first blow of the axe.
This encounter united these three men more than ever to one another.
As affording a little insight into the character of a Finn, the following incident may be of service. According to the legend, it took place precisely as it is here related:
Unnas was an only son. His mother died young, and his father, Andrew, was exceedingly fond of his only son. There was nothing in the world for which he cared except his son. But when Unnas was twenty years old, he had a very serious illness, and it was not thought possible that he could recover from it.
Unnas had been baptized by one of the priests of Petschenga Monastery, but his father, Andrew, was still a heathen. He would not consent to be baptized; he declared that he would live and die believing in his old gods. He was not a mere heathen, but was an active sorcerer (a ‘Noide’) or wiseman. He had, therefore, his sorcerer’s or magician’s drum, which he consulted whenever anything of particular importance was to be taken in hand, or to be prevented.
When Unnas was taken ill, his father sought at once, by means of sacrifice, to come to terms with one of his chief gods, who, in the form of a weather-worn stone, was standing a long way up by the side of the Kujasuga River, in a birch-wood, and was surrounded by a fence made of reindeer horns. But it was of no avail. His son grew worse and worse. The old man fretted terribly, and began to be afraid that the illness had no natural origin. According to the opinion of the old Finns, dangerous illnesses often proceeded from the fact that one or other of the sick person’s deceased relatives wanted to have his or her help and companionship in the other world. In that world the Finns, according to their notion, lived with their herds of reindeer, much in the same way as they had done upon earth, only, of course, they were free from their worst enemies, the wolves and the husbandmen.
Whenever, therefore, anybody was stricken by a serious illness, which had no very distinctive symptoms, it became an[46]urgent question whether by sacrifice a person might reconcile, or come to terms with, the deceased relative, or at least obtain some postponement of the death of the sick person.
Andrew consulted the sorcerer’s drum, and tried different sacrifices in order to excite the compassion of the deceased relative, but in vain. His son lay writhing with pain, and wandering in his talk. Then Andrew sent for his brother-in-law, who was a still greater sorcerer than he was himself, so that he might also consult the magic drum, and perhaps discover a conciliatory sacrifice.
The brother-in-law came, and different sacrifices were tried, until at last a whole reindeer was offered up; but even that did not succeed. A black cat was purchased—for offerings of black animals were considered the most acceptable—and the cat, too, was sacrificed, but all in vain. The father knelt down beside his son’s bed terrified and in despair, while the brother-in-law lay upon his knees, and beat the sorcerer’s drum; but the movable ring on it insisted on moving to the place which pointed to the Kingdom of Death, and stopped there, however much he struck, and knocked, and made promises of sacrifices. Nothing seemed to be of any avail; neither prayer nor payment sufficed.
At last the brother-in-law was compelled to have recourse to the last and most desperate remedy. He must himself cross over to the Kingdom of the Dead, in order to converse with the deceased relative. After a variety of ceremonies and charms, as well as taking some stupefying drink, he fell into a trance, and lay as if dead for half an hour, during which time his spirit was supposed to visit the other world.
Andrew watched him with anxiety, and when he again recovered consciousness, he asked him in great fear:
‘What does Jabmek, the dead one, demand?’
‘He demands either the immediate sacrifice of a horse on this spot, or the surrender of some other man’s life,’ answered the brother-in-law.
These were hard terms. To procure a horse at once was impossible; and who was likely to volunteer to give his own life in order to save that of the boy?
Then the legend says that the old father determined, out of love for his son, to offer his own life, and to die himself, that his son might live.[47]
‘If my son dies,’ he said, ‘then the fire on my hearth goes out. I should have no more pleasure in anything in this world. I am old, and have not many years to live. Therefore let me die, so that these years may be given to my only begotten son, and his life may be long and happy in this world.’
When he had taken this resolution, he kissed his son’s forehead, and, with the firm resolution of sacrificing his life, the old man went out in the darkness of the night to the idol, and fell on his face at its feet.
And the legend says that, wonderful to relate, the son was better in the morning, and regained his health, but the father lay dead before the altar of the idol. The firm belief in the truth of the brother-in-law’s message, and his own self-sacrificing resolution, had broken his old heart, and probably the message about it caused a change for the better in the son’s illness, and practically saved his life.
Unnas sacrificed, as was the custom at that time, a full-grown draught reindeer (a ‘Kjöre-ren’) at his father’s grave. For the Finns, who belong to the Greek Church, have a beautiful belief that every person, man or woman, young or old, even the greatest malefactor, is shown such mercy from our Lord that his soul, after death, is allowed to drive about for seven days with the reindeer which have been sacrificed at his burial. He is thus enabled once again to revisit all the places to which he had travelled during his life. He thus lives again, for a short time, the whole of his previous life. He is reminded of everything (that has happened) from the earliest days of his childhood. He recalls all the sorrows and joys which he has ever known, the love and hatred which he may have nourished, the friendship and enmity and the good and evil (which have made up the experiences of his past life). As a dragon-fly over a pool, his soul flutters from place to place, even to the most distant and hidden by-places, and lingers at each for a moment, so that he can have an opportunity for sorrowing, forgiving, conciliating, making good again, or begging forgiveness for what he has done; and then, when all has been revisited and briefly lived over again, he is set before the judgment-seat of the Most High, and receives his unalterable sentence—guilty or not guilty.[48]