Brother, mark their five strong rangers, —
Only two are we!”
Stål with scornful laugh then tallied:
“You have spoken wise and right;
You would bleed if here we dallied,
Hereto guarded quite.
Go! Their charge alone I’ll parry,
Ere on us they dash;
You, who honor’s medal carry,
Are too good to slash!”
Spoke he; and with saber shaken,
Leaped he forth in proud disdain,
Nor a backward glance had taken
Since his mocking strain.
For the wrath his comrade carried
Little care was shown;
If he followed, if he tarried, —
All to Stål was one.
Stål would battle; eager moving,
Made fierce onset on the horde,
And a dessert’s son was proving
With stained brow his sword;
Death-cries sounding, pistols cracking,
Friends avenged by friends;
Tallest in the throng attacking,
The dragoon contends!
Fortune’s wreath now seems to wither,
Victor conquers not again;
Horse and rider fall together
Headlong on the plain!
Vain his strong arm, unprotected,
Struggles there hard-pressed;
Four bright pikes are now directed
Toward his helpless breast!
Death now threatens, mute and cruel,
And the end of all seems near;
Comes no help in this grim duel?
Wait! For Lod is here!
He has come; the ring is riven
That enclosed his friend;
To the dead no thought is given, —
Strife finds not its end.
Now one foeman death has tasted, —
Ah! A sword has wounded Lod!
Not an instant must be wasted, —
Streamlike flows his blood!
Strength has from his arm departed,
Triumph’s hope is o’er;
Stål is up, — and swift has darted
To the fray once more.
It was brief, but won in glory,
Chronicled in lays of fame;
And to Sandels, runs the story,
Lod at evening came.
Calm, in hand his medal bearing,
Entered the dragoon:
“Give to Stål reward for daring,
Or fake back mine own!”
CANTO THIRTEENTH. OLD MAN HURTIG.
This name belonged to several warriors of 1808, and Runeberg has not indicated which special one among them is meant. The “Old Man Hurtig” and “Karl Hurtig”, are perhaps fictitious personages; but two soldiers bearing these names are spoken of with high honor in the history of the War of 1808-9.
As the army had already retreated many a time — at least, fully as often as was the best policy — the old warrior, wearied past all endurance with this process, herein demonstrates how further retreats may be forever avoided.
Ensign Stål narrates the first stanza and one clause of the second. The aged Hurtig to the end of stanza four comments on the war of the Swedish King Gustaf III against the Czarina Katarina II of Russia, conducted for two years (1788-90) here in Finland, which terminated in the peace at Varala; he comments also on the treacherous murder of the king in 1792; and on the king’s pacifying words to the seditious crowd at Anjala in Nyland, when on August 12, 1788, the famous Anjala League was formed. Then in the final four stanzas, Ensign Stål concludes the narration, describing how the old warrior’s dictum that “The simplest art against retreating is remaining on your ground,” was so easily and speedily exemplified.
Runeberg’s skill in describing by withholding description, is here revealed. He does not tell us that the aged Hurtig died. In T h e Cloud’s Brother the hero is silent. In The Dying Warrior the aged Russian does not speak. In these cases, and in later cantos, the poet’s manipulation of the artifice of silence is felicitous.
This number has a musical setting by K. Collan.
XIII. OLD MAN HURTIG.
At the bivouac silence ne’er was reigning,
If the old man Hurtig was but there;
Often sat he till the night was waning,
War and peace his theme so fair;
To re-light his pipe he constant turned,
And forgot again, although it burned.
Gustaf Third his man was. “Ah, what quarrels
Fought he not with Russia’s haughty queen!
Friends, those times for soldiers held more laurels
Than this later life has seen;
Then the king himself braved smoke and blood,
Now for these a marshal is too good.
“Trust me, had his men not been dissuaded
From where duty, valor, honor trend,
Never had the triumph him evaded;
Their unfaith became his end.
Such are worldly thanks; and deep they spring; —
What a pity, with such glorious king!
“When at Anjala the crowd seditious
He addressed, how gentle was his word!
Corporal Svard then twitched his coat officious:
‘May I train your cannon, lord?’
‘No, my boy,’ the answer came so kind,
‘Let us wait; for time enough we’ll find.’”
Ever on his tongue such tales abounded,
When the old man sat by watch-fire’s glow;
Locks of gray his aged brow surrounded,
Yet his cheeks did color show.
Younger was he yet in Gustaf’s days; —
And he now had come to Oravais.
Night before the great strife was reposing,
And in depths of wildwood, camp was kept;
Few of all the troops their eyes were closing,
But the aged Hurtig slept;
He who erewhile was the last to slumber,
Now was first to sleep, of all the number.
Yet the fore-eve had he sat reclining,
Silent, propped against a fir-tree’s trunk,
Lit his pipe, and then began repining
That each battle-hope had sunk, —
How he now must conjure measures meet,
That should block for all time his retreat.
“To avoid a fight,” his words were spoken,
“Well we’ve learned, and learn it o’er and o’er;
Though in recent flight we’ve northward broken
We are on the run once more.
Fly! It is a paltry hope we bear,
Of a stand sometime, God knoweth where.
“Yet at daybreak battle will be given;
At that hour a custom new seems fit.
He who will may suffer to be driven, —
Hurtig can no more submit.
He begins e’en now with shame to glow,
That of flight he tired not long ago.
“Boys, no more shall flight be my defeating;
In my latter days I’ve judgment found:
And the simplest art against retreating
Is, remaining on your ground!
He in whom this law, once learned, shall dwell,
To all falling back can bid farewell!”
When these words were spoken, he was folding
Placidly his arms upon his breast;
Sitting by the tree, his posture holding,
Sank to sleep in deepest rest; —
Slumbered, from all care and trouble free,
Dreaming how he nevermore would flee.
Finland’s troops next eve their strife had ended,
Dealt in vain their final arduous blow;
Failed the strength that had our land defended,
And the time was one of woe;
Crushed like broken wave, and in defeat,
Had begun the army to retreat.
O’er the ear deep lamentation swept;
Though no waking heart repose could borrow,
Yet the aged Hurtig slept;
Where his lines Kamensky cut in twain,
Had the weary gray-haired warrior lain.
And he slept, as if of Gustaf’s glory
Every memory long since had passed; —
Deeper slept, from march and battle’s story,
Than on bivouac field his last; —
Slumbered, from all care and trouble free,
Dreaming how he nevermore would flee.
CANTO FOURTEENTH. KULNEFF.
A sincere tribute to a great Russian warrior.
Jakob Petrovitsch Kulneff, born 1763 in Pskov, is the only Russian officer to whom our poet has devoted a special song.
In early childhood Runeberg had seen him and sat upon his knee, when the warrior had visited the house of the poet’s father in Jakobstad. Though an enemy, yet this genial, magnetic leader of Hussars and Cossacks was personally welcome and socially liked among the Finns themselves; and his shaggy portrait, resembling a rat peeping out of a bunch of flax, was a common decoration on the walls in Finnish homes.
Before the war of 1808 he had fought against Napoleon (1807), and had fought at Siikajoki, Lintulaks, Kuortane, Ruona, Salmi and Oravais; and within a year had advanced from the office of Lieutenant to Major General. In the midwinter of 1809 he commanded the cavalry on the island of Aland, and pursued the flying Swedish army over the frozen sea to Grisslehamn, from which he was suddenly forced to retreat. Later, in the war of 1812 against Napoleon, he again gave proof of his valor. He had taken several hundred prisoners, with baggage-wagons; but as he was continuing his triumph, he fell into an ambuscade. A cannon-ball crushed his leg. Perceiving his end, and exasperated at his fate, he tore to shreds his decorations, and died sword in hand on the spot where he fell, a victim of his reckless daring.
He was deeply mourned by the entire Russian army. Kulneff was tireless and undaunted in bravery; he was feared, but also respected by the Finns, as a noble, manly enemy in war — and a genial, magnetic comrade when out of battle. He admired beautiful women, little children, and good wine. These were his weaknesses.
Was ever a more splendid eulogy pronounced over a warrior than Runeberg has given Kulneff in the final six stanzas of this canto?
Barclay de Tolly, Nikolai Kamenski, and Peter Bagration, were Russian commanders of national fame.
A fine musical setting to this song has been given by G. Ingelius.
XIV. KULNEFF.
And ere the evening takes its flight,
And memory’s joys are not yet dim,
Of Kulneff I would now recite; —
Say, have you heard of him?
He was a model people’s-man,
Who death and life alike could scan, —
Was first mid bayonet and sword,
And first mid wines outpoured.
To battle, battle day and night,
For him was but a pastime strife;
To fall was but a floweret bright
That decked a hero’s life.
What weapon one should handle well,
Was all the same, if he but fell
In martial or in sporting class
With saber or with glass.
And love was e’er his heart’s desire;
‘ Both free and rash his choice withal;
When but returned from battle dire,
He straight would give a ball.
When he had flamed the night-hours through,
He last would take his fair one’s shoe,
And fill it from the nearest bowl, —
Then drink his farewell skoal!
You should have seen his countenance!
On many a cottage wall yet shown
A unique portrait meets your glance,
Which shows a beard alone.
But when the picture you have neared,
A mouth is smiling neath the beard, —
A glance all mild, and warm and free, —
’Tis Kulneff’s face you see.
Yet one must be both brave and seared,
Or else grow pallid at the shock;
If one at all the devil feared,
He here would turn to chalk.
If back you moved, his face then brought
More fright than either lance or shot;
His sword-stroke one would sooner dare
Than see his coal-black hair!
Thus he appeared when forth he sped,
With lifted sword, and war-impelled;
And such was he, the story said,
When peace betimes he held, —
When in his short fur coat arrayed,
From home to home his way he made,
Delaying as a friend and guest
Where’er he thought it best.
Yet many a mother doth proclaim
Her fright, when, form and leave o’erstepped,
Straight to the cradle Kulneff came
Wherein her darling slept.
“But,” she declares, “My little child
He only kissed, and kindly smiled,
As here now smiles his portrait bland,
If one but nearer stand.”
’Tis true that in his proper light
Old Kulneff was as good as gold;
Though some complained he oft got “tight,”
’Twas lest his heart grow cold!
And this same heart he always brought
When peace he held, or when he fought; —
Gave kisses or a death-stroke’s dole
With this same ardent soul.
‘Mong Russian troops was oft a name
Inscribed upon historic page,
Borne hither in the arms of fame,
Long ere the war’s first stage, —
Barclay, Kamensky, Bagration,
Well known to every Finnish son;
And conflicts sharp were rightly feared,
Where’er these men appeared.
But none had heard of Kulneff’s fame
Before the flame of warfare shone;
Then like an ocean-storm he came,
Scarce heralded till known.
Then lightning-like he burst in view,
So mighty, and withal so new, —
Forgotten not, but known full well
E’er since his first stroke fell: —
’Twas fought till day its course had run,
Fatigue o’er Finn and Russian crept;
’Twas glad believed the strife was done,
And all in calmness slept;
When we in dreams were just enrolled,
Beholding groves of green and gold,
“To arms!” shrieked out a sentry keen,
And then was Kulneff seen.
Our transport led a sauntering line,
Far from the Russian army drawn.
We ate, and drank the best of wine,
And drank and ate anon;
But sudden, mid our gladness thrust,
Where mounted up a cloud of dust,
Would Kulneff, guest unbid, appear;
And gleamed his lances clear.
When firm on horse the fight we braved,
And boldly met the old man’s game,
He left our feast as cleanly shaved
As shaggy there he came;
But if our faces grew benign,
Then it was he who drank our wine,
And bid us to collect the loan
Upon the strands of Don.
If it was warm, if it was cold,
In rain, in snow, by night or day,
You’d Kulneff everywhere behold
His pranks on pranks display.
Were armies ‘gainst each other placed,
His presence there was plainly traced, —
The open desert’s brave hussar,
Our comrade from afar!
&n
bsp; Yet ne’er had Finland’s army here
A soldier who could truly say
He did not hold old Kulneff dear,
As partner in the fray.
Saw he but Kulneff’s countenance,
Then smiled, — with glad and grateful glance
Upon the bear from Cossack-land, —
His kin from Saimen’s strand.
And he could look without annoy
On paws whose grasp was on him laid;
If he attacked, it was with joy,
As if for pains repaid.
It was a sight your eye should win,
When Kulneff battled with the Finn;
They well were matched in bravery,
The strong ones, they and he.
His arm repose for long has known;
He fell in strife, with sword in hand;
His glory yet remains alone,
Illumining his land.
And where his name sounds o’er and o’er,
You hear “the valiant” placed before;
The valiant! Ah, what glorious word,
From grateful homeland heard!
His sword on us was drawn, his lance, —
His wounds so deep we oft have known;
And yet we love his radiance,
As if he’d been our own.
For what is far the mightiest band
Of standard or of fatherland,
That doth in war all men unite,
Is, equal power to fight.
Hurrah for Kulneff’s valiant mood!
He scarce was equaled in the fight;
And more, — if he yet spilled our blood,
Such was his battle-right.
He was our enemy; well then,
We were his enemies again;
That he in joy should charge as we, —
What crime therein could be?
The coward only wins disdain,
To him belongs but shame and scorn;
But hail each man on battle plain
Whom valor doth adorn!
A glad hurrah, a loud hurrah!
For each who battles brave, huzza!
Whatever path was his to wend, —
Our enemy or friend!
CANTO FIFTEENTH. THE KING.
This canto is a caustic and denunciatory satire.
Gustavus IV, son of Gustavus III, was born in 1778, and being but 14 years old when his father died, his uncle, Duke Charles, became regent during his minority; — the same Duke Charles who was elected to the crown in 1809 after Gustavus IV was dethroned.
Sweden suffered much through his obstinacy and irrationality. It lost this war to Russia, which took over Finland; it suffered invasion by the Danes in the southern provinces; the English allies abandoned him to his fate. The army officers conspired against him, and he lost the crown, spending his latter days wandering abroad, and dying in poverty at St Gall in 1837.
Collected Works of Johan Ludvig Runeberg Page 9