As Fanrik Stáls Sagner embodies a series of war-songs, war-reminiscences, and portrayals of army life, the possibly fictitious character of Lotta Svard is yet powerfully characteristic. She is a typical sutler, — a canteen woman, or “marketenferska,” — who followed the army, and sold to the soldiers tobacco, coffee, corn-brandy, etc. Her husband had been a soldier, and fallen in the war of 1788-90, and was perhaps the “Corporal Svard” referred to in Old Man Hurtig, Canto Thirteenth; in this war Lotta had accompanied him. As she was then in her “spring-bloom,” — twenty years earlier than the present war, — Runeberg has described as poetically as possible the waning of her youth and beauty, as well as her devotion to truth and duty. Though she is not a heroine of the Ingeborg mold, the poet has pictured so clearly her lofty sense of right, that we can regard her only with respect and honor.
I wonder if Runeberg did not execute a delicate and subtle art-stroke in putting the words “he, Svard” into her devoted allusion to her husband, — in which expression “Svard” appears as an after-thought — an emendation — for the hearer’s ear, while the pronoun “he” in her vocabulary could not, unqualified, ever mean other than the man whom she, leaving all else, had followed into danger and death.
Oravais was a parish in Osterbotten, northeast from Vasa, and southwest from Nykarleby, where was fought September 14, 1808, a bloody battle “where victory itself became defeat.” Upon a rode at the north end of the battle-field is raised an imposing monument without inscription.
Ruona bridge is in the parish of Kuortane, one half mile southeast of Salmi. Here the Finnish army under Adlercreutz, September 1, 1808, speedily achieved a victory over the Russians under Kamenski.
XXII. LOTTA SVARD.
At evening often it happens yet,
When the genial hearth we guard,
That a veteran old from the war is met,
And we chat about Lotta Svard.
Though sullen the man may have been before,
More kindly his face now grows,
And his gray moustache doth a curl come o’er,
And a smile on his visage grows.
He thinks how oft from the battle-plain,
From victory’s field all spent
And wearied, came he a glass to drain,
In Lotta’s rickety tent.
And with pleasure he speaks of the woman then, —
A word in a laughing mood;
But he darker grows when you laugh again,
If your laugh is not glad and good.
For a pearl on the pathway of war was she,
And a pearl all genuine, too:
Though sometimes laughable she might be,
More oft was honor her due.
And did youth and beauty still round her cling?
She reckoned of years a score
Since Third Gustavus was Sweden’s king,
When blossoms her spring-time wore.
Ere that noble monarch in Finland fought,
Became she a warrior’s bride;
When the drum called Svard as a patriot,
She followed it at his side.
She then was pretty. You scarce could find
A lip or a cheek so fair;
And many a warrior had gazed him blind
On her brown eyes’ radiance rare.
But a spring is fleeting, a blooming brief,
Not long lived her vernal prime;
In three transitions it came to grief, —
A third at each single time.
One left with the first of winter’s cold,
Sent early, but long-careered;
The next was the theft of the summer bold,
By withering sun-rays seared.
One part, the third, that till then had stood,
She held but in slight regard;
She let it drown in her tear-drops’ flood,
When he fell in the conflict, Svard.
When the last war broke with its wild alarms,
And again she was midst us shown,
She scarce could recall when decayed her charms,
So long, long ago they had flown.
But beauty yet, though in other ways,
To a warrior’s thought she bore,
And often still she was named with praise,
As in years the most flowery of yore; —
Though her smiles’ headquarters, so fair once known
Now housed of wrinkles a train,
And brown no more was her eye alone,
But her features’ entire domain.
She loved the war, whatsoe’er it brought, —
If weal, woe, trouble or cheer;
And the gray-clad boys had her tenderest thought,
And so she to us was dear.
And had any with Svard by his flag stood brave,
He was sure not to be forgot;
To such one ampler the measure she gave,
And for this became praise her lot.
She followed the army, so brave and true,
Where’er on its march it strayed,
And where shots resounded and bullets flew,
Never far behind she stayed.
And the dear young soldiers’ heroic mood
She loved in its full display,
And thought, howe’er near to the strife she stood,
That she was not nearer than they!
And if one sank weary, in smoke and fire,
Or received an all-glorious wound,
To station her shop, was her sole desire,
Where a “ strengthener” quick was found.
And the old gray tent it revealed to view,
If one to the lappet should look,
That it once had harbored a bullet or two,
And some pride in these patrons she took.
Now listen kindly, and hear my lay,
For ne’er did I see her again:
’Twas ended, — Oravais’ bloody day, —
And we were retreating then.
And she was there, barely saved her part
From battle, her only store, —
Her tent, her measure, her bucket and cart,
And her gray horse spavined and sore.
We halted. Her stock did Lotta disclose,
Kept bar on her wonted line;
Her tent discarding, the roof she chose
Was now but a lofty pine.
And she was downcast, although full oft
With a laugh she dissembled yet;
She mourned for the brave boys’ woe, and she laughed,
But her dark-brown cheek it was wet.
Then came, approaching her, where she stood,
An arrogant young dragoon;
His glance revealed a presumptuous mood,
And of self resounded his tone:
“Pour out!” he ordered, “Nor fearful blink!
To-night I will pay the bill;
For I have silver, you hear it clink,
And friends I can touch at will!”
A glance of disdain at the snob she sent:
“Very well, I’ve measured your way;
For a needy mother to war you went,
But how much have you fought this day?
“In my tent faint-hearted you sat, and weak,
Complained of a wound to-day;
You now have color, then pale your cheek,
And where does the wound lie, pray?
“Say not that your mother the grave doth hold,
That not for her have you fought;
For lo, this land is your mother old, —
And fraud to this mother you’ve brought.
“And had you of treasures your knapsack full,
And could draw them from seas o’errun,
Despite your gold not a drop I’d pull,
By God, for so base a son!”
And at her side she but clenched her fist,
In her wonted manner so queer;
And the rich young stormer did not persist
I
n trying to come more near.
But by the roadside, not far away,
A youth was sitting alone;
On him did her pitying glances stray
Like the mildest of starlight known.
It seemed, if upon him you looked again,
Where his gun to support him stood,
That our hastening march he had followed in pain,
And his coat was imbrued with blood.
Upon him turned she her eyes anon,
So mother-like, warm and kind,
As if every glass for a customer drawn
Were only for him designed.
But when gradual sank he lower and lower
In the mournful visions that came,
She seemed to grow weary of waiting more,
And she murmured the young man’s name.
“Come,” thus she spoke with a broken voice,
“Here yet is a drop, indeed!
Come here, my boy, in a draught rejoice;
It is solace we all now need.
“You shrink? What more then! Full well I know
That you have in your knapsack no gold; —
You have come from forest to meet the foe,
And gold not here could you mold.
“But no coward, you, when required was your blood, —
This saw I on Lappo’s plain;
At Ruona first on the bridge you stood,
When ’twas stormed, — can you see it again?
“Regret it not, if a glass you claim;
May a recompense in it swim;
One glass for Lappo, in gratitude’s name,
For Ruona, two to the brim!
“And stood he, Svard, and his gun yet bore,
With his kind and valorous soul,
And saw to-day how you gave once more
Your body and blood as toll, —
“Then standing beside him would you be found
As a son by the side of his sire,
And as sure as I live, through the world around,
No pair would be more to admire!”
The soldier came, and her glass she filled
For the brave, to the uppermost brim;
And chance for good measure she also distilled
Two tear-drops therein for him.
It is long ago since I saw her face,
Yet doth she in my memory dwell;
And the woman’s story I gladly retrace,
And all she has merited well.
For a pearl on the pathway of war was she,
And a pearl all genuine, too;
Though sometimes laughable she might be,
More oft was honor her due.
CANTO TWENTY THIRD. THE AGED LODE.
Inspired with the justice of his cause, one may pray and slay in successive moments.
Karl Leonard Lode (1752-1816) was a veteran from the first Finnish war, was Lieutenant-colonel of Savolaks’ infantry regiment, and bravely fought in many battles of 1808. On the field of Lappo he was so severely wounded as to be unable to fight longer in the war. In May 1810 he received a Lieutenant’s discharge.
This admirable and deeply religious man, distinguished for his extreme calm and valor, died at his own home near Kuopio in 1816.
After all the battles of life are over, how fitting to return in peace to one’s old home, — to repose in quietude on one’s own couch, — to sink to infinite sleep in one’s own chamber!
Age never dampened the ardor of Lode. The spark of youth, never in him extinguished, always at the hour of strife quickly ignited into flame. There is no such thing as growing old to spirit. Except when the defection of the body fetters the wings of the mind, a man has no consciousness of age, however many years of earth-life he may have passed. I have propounded this question to numberless aged men and women who were in at least approximately perfect physical health, and the answer has been in all cases the same: “I feel no older now than I did in childhood.” Until I had received many such testimonies, this seemed to me incredible. If only disease of body hurts the soul, should not the latter be perfect when freed from the body?
In citizen’s garb the aged Lode was ever young. Compelled festal garb alone made him old, dull and frosty.
To Aminoff, one of the heroes of Revolaks and Lappo, we are indebted, according to Yngve von Schmidten, for the account of Lode’s characteristics, on which Runeberg has based this most beautiful, poetic, and charming description.
XXIII. THE AGED LODE.
Always when to battle fated,
Ere to storm he gave the sign,
Mute the aged Lode waited,
Hat removed, before his line;
Silver-haired, in calm unbroken,
He would stand awhile in prayer;
Prayers from early childhood spoken
Still his aged lips would bear.
Hats through all the ranks were lifted;
Sacred stillness, peace profound;
Frequent bullets thither drifted,
Striking midst them and around.
Many a man the grass was biting;
Hold! Let no attack be made,
Till “Our Father” first reciting,
For a blessing he has prayed.
But the instant he has ended,
Loud and glad his Amen said,
He to strife his thought has bended,
Clapped his hat upon hish ead.
“Now let come hell’s very rangers
To engage us on our way;
God is here, we fear no dangers;
Boys, hurrah! Advance, — away!”
Then he spreads his martial pinions,
With his God and with his troop;
And no powers and no dominions
Shake his courage and his hope.
Bent, but with strong arm, he presses,
Gay alternately and grave,
Fire in bosom, snow in tresses, —
So moves aged Lode brave.
“Fire and flame!” Cry out the soldiers,
“Grows the old man young again!
Zeal of youthful lord ne’er smoulders,
Dwells within him now as then;
Valor’s torch his glances lighten,
Leading us to victory fair;
Him the devil cannot frighten,
Since he’s prayed his mother’s prayer!”
Ended was a combat gory,
Many a triumph was our score;
Turned the troops to rest and glory
After prayer and song were o’er.
Warriors weary, yet undaunted,
Slumbered in their tents again;
Lode? No! The field he haunted
Like a ghost mid dying men.
For the most part walked he lonely,
Without clamor, without show,
And a few, — his bravest only, —
Were allowed with him to go.
Where to fiercest combat driven
Through the long and weary day,
There were all his thoughts now given,
Thither now he steered his way.
Could not lust of war be banished?
Were its scenes a memory good?
Though the carnage-hour had vanished,
Was he not yet cloyed with blood?
Would he seek o’er death to ponder,
Gladdened by its victims slain?
No! He sought the suffering yonder, —
He would ease his comrades’ pain.
Where a spark of life was glowing,
Where a beating pulse was found,
There the old man stayed, bestowing
Anxious care on every wound.
None dare fail in care who tended,
None might choose the known and dear
Friend and foe alike lay blended,
All were stricken brothers here.
Many a champion, wont to ponder
On this life but as Time’s loan,
Mute, could watch the old man wander,
At a
distance and alone, —
Could forget the bivouac’s pleasures
For the pleasure of a smile, —
But a smile that honor measures, —
O’er his wondrous tour awhile.
“Cut and strike!” The warriors quoted,
“Was his cry in combat’s roar;
Now he seeks to mend, devoted,
What he late asunder tore.
’Twas not Lode, old in glory,
Broke the lines and carved his path;
Not the kind old man now hoary, —
’Twas the boy, who fought in wrath!”
Boy he was, and yet with honor
Boyhood to his spirit clung;
Childhood s faith, with childhood’s manner,
Kept its dwelling warm and young.
Though his face now seemed severer,
Should his glance yet on you roll,
It reflected, like a mirror,
All the joy of childhood’s soul.
Simple garb and honor bearing
Was his joy, the whole campaign;
Then came peace. He must be wearing
Bands and stars betimes again.
But by pomp and state seemed frosted
All his spring, to autumn chilled;
And his boy-soul, grief-exhausted,
Seemed within his breast congealed.
If for drill he came before them,
Dull and sullen, festal-dressed,
Sudden wonder then stood o’er them,
As if roused from sleep and rest.
No maneuver went with pleasure,
Not a turn could skill display,
Till “good day” in briefest measure
Bade he them, and rode away.
Yet such scene was rare projected,
Save at great parade or show;
But when he the drill directed,
He was clad as long ago.
Then before his soldiers riding,
Ha! He crushed all drowsy mood!
Man and coat, both age-abiding, —
These his men well understood.
Life and strength each drill reflected,
Zeal and joy beneath his hand,
Greater all than he expected,
Never less than his demand.
Light the work of this old father,
So his men he chaffed and cheered,
Pinched the ear of some poor brother,
Pulled in sport another’s beard.
And “Behold!” declared they ever,
“Lode’s spring does not depart!
For the young lord’s blood has never
Changed within the old man’s heart.
On his brow time’s snow is piling,
Bent his frame, by cares and years,
Collected Works of Johan Ludvig Runeberg Page 13