Made younger in one stock, not in another;
And so he understands its will and power,
And if he sees it waver, darker doth he lower
And sink his brow, as if his shame to smother.
Already Dobeln starts in wrath the march abhorred;
Palmfelt his men for marching brings together,
And Gripenberg has sheathed his triumph-wonted sword.
The time is precious. Storming o’er the ice-clad fjord,
She foeman strives to block our pathway thither.
Yet Adlercreutz unmoved his place retains, —
He has a duty not to be forsaken:
Upon the ice one troop his word disdains;
It will not march when bid, but by its flag remains,
And not a single yielding step has taken!
Its leader has long since grown tired of flight and shame,
The field of combat constant forced to alter;
With him retreats are o’er; and, mute and grave the same,
He stands before his men, resolved to march aflame
Or hold the place whereon he stands, nor falter.
He would not frozen lie in polar snow;
Nay, rather fall with battle-ardor burning,
Nor toss, like chip on waters, to and fro;
Nay, manly would he fight, to manly death then go;
And all the troops he leads for this are yearning.
This is Von Hertzen’s troop. The general knows them
Nor will he leave in need his men alliant; — [well,
For in his homeland’s cottages these warriors dwell;
He calls, commands, entreats, — but they unmoved
They him defy, as though of death defiant! — [rebel; —
A wonder! Does he not in anger storm
That they resist? No! He admires the creatures!
His brow grows clear, his glance is light and warm;
Deep in his heart one sees a fire his soul transform,
Beholding its reflection in his features!
An instant more, and lo! His fire doth all imbue,
And far as sees the eye, extends its warming.
His couriers now fly, each moment sent anew,
And throngs are swung about that late retreating flew,
And Hertzen’s infantry the strand is storming!
Each obstacle to triumph now is gone,
A mighty army in its heart is stricken,
Against which Abo’s troops have swiftly drawn;
And Gripenberg his men of Tavastehus brings on,
With loud hurrahs, and in dense lines they thicken!
Behold these men! Von Essen, brave, sword-wonted
With Heideman and Ramsay both uniting! — [man,
See! How by leaps they rush, the bloody plains to span!
And Lange, Kihlstrom, Bremer, Broijer, Nordensvan,
And thousands more, — say! have they not learned fighting?
Now loosed from hopeless bonds at last are they,
And joyous see the wreaths of glory plaited;
Long had humiliation held its sway, —
But now for them once more awakes a glorious day,
Whose deed for ages shall be celebrated!
A vain resistance now the Russians brave uprear,
Who ne’er before to-day defiance tasted.
Rajevsky’s lightning frightens not; his name severe,
So fair, so lately feared, is doomed to perish here,
Stripped of its magic, of its luster wasted.
Yet one more stroke. His lines give way; but soon
With fresh reserves he to defense is bounding,
While Finland’s warriors now have tardy grown;
But hark! afar, yet ever with a clearer tone,
The March of Bjorneborg is proudly sounding!
Now Dobeln came, who heard his weapon-brother’s
In swiftest march before the time expected. — [call,
At his familiar voice did cries of welcome fall;
Him seeing, Adlercreutz, with god-inspired morale,
His cohort by his side in strife directed.
One moment lit the flames of battle then, —
The next revealed their ardor quenched and ended,
And Siikajoki’s field was ours again;
With blood the shame of flight was washed from valiant
And us our first great victory attended! — [men,
He who upon our barren snow-drifts once had stood,
And yet affection for his land could cherish, —
He who for her had glad outpoured his ardent blood,
He who when hope seemed vain, retained both strength
To march for Finland’s honor, lest it perish, —— [and mood
Reposes now! The strong one rests for aye,
And Sweden’s shielding earth his form now covers,
Where, too, he valiant fought in many a fray;
And no one yet beholds the dawning of the day
When Sweden’s heart less tender o’er him hovers.
But should in future years, within that hero-land,
His exploits fade for memories more royal, —
Should at his name a heart no more with fire expand,
And lonely and unsought, with runes all wasted stand
The grave wherein he sleeps, — this Finn so loyal, —
Still were his praise, his glory, not yet dead;
Then should his spirit sweep the sea, unbidden,
Till proud it reached this land, that him had bred;
Here is he ne’er forgot, here for his folk he bled; —
He here shall live, though there his form be hidden.
KING FILIAR
Translated by Eiríkr Magnússon
CONTENTS
PREFACE
KING FILIAR. SONG I
KING FILIAR. SONG II
KING FILIAR. SONG III
KING FILIAR. SONG IV
KING FILIAR. SONG V
TO
MY FRIENDS
MR. AND MRS. JOHN MORGAN RICHARDS STEEPHILL CASTLE, ISLE OF WIGHT I DEDICATE THIS WORK
IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF THE VERY SINCERE INTEREST THEY HAVE BEEN GOOD ENOUGH TO TAKE IN ITS PUBLICATION
EIRIKR MAGNUSSON
PREFACE
THE name of the great Finnish poet, Johan Ludvig Runeberg (1804-78), though less known in this country than on the continent of Europe, is not so unfamiliar to English readers as the poet’s own countrymen complain of. In company with the late Prof. E. W. Palmer, I brought out in 1878 a translation of his collected lyrical poems, idylls and epigrams, prefaced by a short sketch of his life and a brief review of his principal works.
This was supplemented by a highly appreciative account of Runeberg’s poetical merits from the pen of Mr. (now Sir) Edmund Gosse, in his Studies in the Literatures of Northern Europe (1879), where he goes so far as to assert that Runeberg “is the greatest poet that ever used the Swedish language”; an assertion that correctly expresses the views even of most Swedes on the subject.
Of late years some of Runeberg’s lesser epic poems have been done into English both in this country and in America, such as the wonderfully touching story of Nadeschda and the tragic narrative of the Grave in Perrho, etc.
Of all Runeberg’s creations in poetical art, the epic of King Fialar is acknowledged to be the stateliest as to outfit, the loftiest as to aim, and in substance the most solid. Any one tolerably familiar with his works will readily endorse Sir Edmund’s appreciation of it —
“Kung Fialar, in fact, marks the very apex of his powers. Runeberg never exceeded this tragic work in the admirable later creations of his brain. It has an audacity, an originality that raises it to the first order of lyric writing.”
King Fialar occupies the peculiar position among the poetical productions of Runeberg that it is the only one indicating indebtedness for inspiration to Ossianic sources. A certain interest, literary and bibliographical, attaches to th
e fact which may, not improbably, be accounted for in the following manner.
In the year 1842 the able Gaelic scholar, Nils Arfwidsson, a Swede, brought out the first volume of his translation into Swedish of the poems of Ossian, accompanied by a critical dissertation, which even still remains a standard contribution to the Macphersonian controversy. The second and last volume of the work appeared in 1846. Such was the interest evinced in the book in Sweden that it was awarded the “Karl Johan prize” by the Swedish Academy of Letters. The translation preserved the metres of the original; it was couched in a singularly refined and graceful language, and soon became widely known on both sides of the Bothnian Gulf. It is probable enough that Runeberg might have made acquaintance with Ossian before this Swedish translation appeared; but no translator of the Gaelic work could have afforded him at that time anything like so direct and sure an introduction to the spirit of Ossianic poetry as did Arfwidsson. And the probability that his work was really the primary cause of Runeberg’s conceiving the grand idea of King Fialar is strengthened by the facts that Fialar appeared first in 1844, and that Runeberg’s spellings of certain proper names — Finjal for Fingal, Hidjallan for Hidallan, Shelma for Selma — are all peculiar to, and therefore copied from, Arfwidsson.
In Ossianic poetry frequent allusions occur to hostile intercourse between the inhabitants of Lochlin or Scandinavia and those of Caledonia. In these allusions the mighty spirit and form of Lodin (Loduin, or Cru-Loduin), i.e. Odin, looms large, and Scandinavian kings and warriors are prominently dealt with. These facts left Runeberg at liberty to create international relations between the Scandinavian East and the Celtic West at an undefined post-Ossianic period, which, however, he obviously relegates to a time long anterior to the historic Viking age of the North.
The consequence of this conception was that the scenes of the drama of Fialar must be located partly within Fingal’s ancient realm of Morven in the western Highlands of Scotland; partly within the Scandinavian dominion of the “King of Gothfolk,” presumably West-Gothland (Vest-Gotaland) in Sweden. As a matter of course the actors within the Scandinavian environment bear old Scandinavian names such as are commonly met with in the old sagas, while those of the actors within the Celtic environment are all drawn from the Ossianic poems. The most interesting of these is that of the oceanfoundling, the heroine Oihonna (Gaelic Oighthonna, from oigh = maiden, and tonna=wave). But nothing beyond the mere names is borrowed; the characters themselves, their relationships, actions, ideas and language are all of Runeberg’s own creation.
The story of Fialar is invented in order to bring home to the reader the dogma that the fixed purpose of the calmly victorious Gods is to lead humanity — by chastisement if rebellious — through a perfectly natural course of cause and effect into eternal “atonement” with Themselves.
This idea, that the ultimate goal of life is “at-one-ment” with the Divine Being, was with Runeberg an article of faith. In an essay entitled “Ramido Mari-nesco” (1837) he says: “There is not a being but must yearn for atonement, on the simple ground that such a yearning is the innermost nature of essentiality.”
In one of his “Philosophical Reflections” he gives utterance to a sentiment which may be regarded as the centre point of the conception of the epic of Fialar: “I cannot conceive of discord in life as anything real in itself. Certainly I know that interests by the thousand must succumb every hour to some higher interest; but it is just this higher interest that turns the whole into a state of harmony (proportion), into something in itself beautiful and ordered. Therefore when I write poetry, I do it through a natural instinct in harmony with this conception of life; and I scorn everything in which I do not discern atonement and a merciful order. The poet should create after the fashion of God, the beauty of whose work is enhanced even by the abyss itself.”
The epic of King Fialar is a clear illustration of the principles here enunciated. Fialar is a great personality, but suffering from the worst affliction to which a human being can be subject — the malady of rebellious unbelief. He belongs to that category of Vikings who, from long-continued experience of victory in war, came to abandon all faith save that in their “own might and main.” His aspirations are as hyperbolic as the language by which he describes them is bombastic; he is a terribly self-willed tyrant, but well meaning, and endowed with noble qualities of mind and heart. Surfeited with military glory and accumulation of worldly power, he conceives the idea of making peace the ruling principle of his reign. He embraces this inspiration with all the enthusiasm of his indomitable will. At the sacred midnight hour of Yule-eve, the hour of vows, he announces his new policy to the revelling multitude of his men-at-arms.
He delivers the customary oath of the vow on his own will, neglecting altogether the time-honoured invocation to the Gods. Considering that Fialar was the pontifex maximus of his people, his conduct on this occasion amounted to crimen laesae majestatis divinae.
The gods had their answer ready. By the seer Dargar they had conveyed to Fialar the message that, in consequence of his presumptuous invasion of their own domain, the absolute rule of the empire of life, he must be punished. For he shall see the day when the calamity falls upon his race that his only son (Hialmar) embraces as bride his only sister (Gerda). Tantaene animis coelestibus irae!
Fialar, who does not deny the existence of the Gods, but merely their power to defeat his “indomitable will,” resolves immediately on foiling them by destroying the life of one of his children, a resolve which the humanity of his heart, when the moment comes, renders him unfit to execute himself. In his distraction, however, he leaves the deed — the destruction of the life of his daughter — to be vicariously performed by his cool-headed old counsellor, Siolf, on the specious dynastic ground that Hialmar is destined to be the guardian of the realm when infirmities shall render Fialar unfit for the duty. So Fialar’s daughter is cast into the sea, and the situation, in Fialar’s opinion, is saved.
The sacredness of the hour protects the seer from violent treatment by the offended tyrant; but Dargar has to promise to meet Fialar again, to receive his due for his “lying prophecy” before the king’s hand lies benumbed on his sword. Dargar, it should be noticed, is a mixture of a human being and a sprite (“blending”).
Over Vidar’s Rock, a headland in the immediate proximity to Fialar’s kingly burg, the child was precipitated into a storm-tossed sea. That same night the outlawed pirate Darg, a fair game, had sought a “shelter dread” under this very precipice. The shelter was “dread” not only on account of the stress of the weather, but equally, or even more so, by reason of its close neighbourhood to that terror of evil-doers, the ever-watchful Fialar. Darg’s situation demanded a heedful night-watch being kept on board. And by this situation the salvation of Gerda’s life, as afterwards told by the pirate himself to King Morannal, becomes an occurrence that might happen quite naturally without any crude or capricious intervention by fate or miracle-working Providence.
As told in the Fourth Song of the poem, Darg’s foundling passes under the fostering care of Morannal, King of Morven; at the castle of Selma she grows up to woman’s estate, under the name of Oihonna = Maiden of the Waves (see above), dearly beloved by her blind foster-father. Bewitchingly beautiful, an enthusiastic huntress, proud, self-willed, and passionately devoted to heroic minstrelsy, ancient as well as contemporary, she is wooed by the desperately love-stricken three sons of Morannal, each of whom in turn she refuses her hand. To the last of them, Clesamor, however, she confesses to being in love with a youth whom she has never seen in the flesh, only in dreams, and who, without a word of warning, will one day swoop suddenly upon the astonished realm of Morven.
This youth of her dreams is the young Prince Hialmar, son of the mighty ruler in Lochlin, Fialar; the saga of the young prince, drawn from contemporary minstrelsy, Oihonna relates in the Third Song. According to that saga, this ever-victorious youthful Viking was the most ideal type of fearless courage, chivalrous modesty and filia
l obedience known to minstrelsy of any time.
Prince Hialmar, “faring about the world as fares the storm,” between “lands smiling in the sun, and the winter’s ice-encumbered homes,” hears everywhere celebrated, “in song and saga lore,” the beauty and the imperious qualities of Oihonna, “daughter” of Morannal, King of Morven. He learns with indignation how she rejects with lofty disdain one after another the high-born princes that sue for her hand. In Viking fashion he makes a vow to take the haughty maiden for his bride himself, and for that purpose makes war on the King of Morven, having no idea that he himself is already the chosen one of Oihonna’s heart. He wins a hard-fought battle. The royal race of Morven is extinct. He takes as prize of his victory Oihonna, and marries her, in accordance with Viking law and custom, on foam-bemantled sea.
Soon after the marriage (Song V) the secret comes to light that Oihonna is Hialmar’s sister. She at once demands and obtains death at his hands, while he himself hurries home to his father to impart the news to him, and to take his own life with the same sword that had ended the life of Oihonna. To the accident of the marriage of the children of Fialar, utterly ignorant of their blood-relationship, there attaches not the faintest shadow of moral defect. On the contrary, their resolve not to endure life so disgraced, though without any fault of their own, shows in how pure an ethical atmosphere their breath of life was breathed.
At the disclosures of Hialmar’s tragic story and by his death, the castles that Fialar’s overweening vanity had so long been busy at building in the air crumbled into a heap of ruins. The power to “direct the course of life “ was not his, after all; it was the prerogative of the immortal Gods. What he had regarded as the crowning victory of his life — the foiling of the purpose of the Gods — had resulted only in a crowning disaster for himself. He reflects. He repents. He wants only atonement with the Gods he has so persistently offended. And with a sigh, heaved from the depths of a sincerely contrite heart, he utters the cry of yearning: “To You I go!”
The purpose of the Gods is effected. A noble but misguided soul has been redeemed from the errors of its ways at a cost commensurate with its obduracy, which nothing less than a sacrifice of two dear and innocent lives would ever have overcome. Thus the immortal Gods, in their inscrutable wisdom, lead humanity, if need be, even by a punishment of incomprehensible severity, into an everlasting “at-one-ment” with Themselves.
Collected Works of Johan Ludvig Runeberg Page 19