"All is broken off between _Johannes_ and me," she tragically replies, and then, turning to the clergyman, she says: "My conscience won't keep it any longer; for four years long I have----"

_Mikko_ and his mother try all they can to prevent her speaking.

But the clergyman, seeing the girl wishes to say something, thrusts them aside and exhorts her to proceed.

"I am a great sinner," says the girl tremulously. A breathless silence seizes every one present as _Anna_ continues, "Four years ago I had a child, in the forest yonder, and, I, poor creature, I killed it."

At this juncture a bailiff, who chanced to be of the company, rises and inquires if her parents knew this at the time.

"No," she answers in her clear and dulcet tones, "they knew nothing."

Turning to her heartbroken parents with great earnestness, she says:

"Father and mother, do not grieve for me! Do not sorrow! I am not in trouble any more. You see how glad I am. Never in my life have I felt so happy."

_Johannes_ (touched). "_Anna Liisa_----!"

_The Father._ "Don't you then consider the disgrace you have brought over our gray hair?"

_Anna Liisa._ "I repent. Forgive me! Oh, that I could once make good what I have done wrong!"

The Mistress of Ristola and other guests express their sympathy with the parents.

_Mikko_ (aside to _Husso_). "There's nothing more to be done. Things must have their course. Let us be off!"

[_Exeunt._

_The Father._ "Oh, that I could get into my grave! That's my only hope."

_Rector._ "Not so, dear friends, not so! You have no reason for sorrow at this moment, but gladness and joy. The Spirit of G.o.d has been working in your daughter and has gained the victory. Do not look upon this matter as the world does, but from a higher standpoint. Until to-day _Anna Liisa_ has erred. Now she has found the right way. Let us thank and praise the Lord of Heaven!"

_Mistress of Ristola._ "Yes, it is truly so. It is a chastis.e.m.e.nt for the flesh, but not to the spirit."

_The Father._ "We are shortsighted, we human beings. We do not always comprehend the purposes of the Almighty."

_The Mother._ "And the earthly mind always seeks to govern."

_Rector._ "Let us strive the more to progress in the life of the Spirit, and by G.o.d's help we can win like _Anna Liisa_ (grasping _Anna Liisa's_ hand). Yes, go in peace, my child. Go where your conscience compels you to go, and the Heavenly Father strengthen you that you may hold out to the end. We did congratulate you on a less important change in external life, but a thousand times more warmly do we congratulate you on the change in your inner life."

_Doctor._ "I agree with the Rector. Good-bye!"

_Anna Liisa_ (embracing first her father and then her mother).

"Good-bye, father! good-bye, mother! good-bye! Good-bye all!"

_Chorus._ "Good-bye, we wish you happiness."

_Johannes._ "_Anna Liisa_, won't you bid me farewell?"

_Anna Liisa._ "Certainly! Good-bye, _Johannes_."

_Johannes._ "The Lord keep you, _Anna Liisa_. But one word more--you are as pure and good in heart as I thought you from the first."

_Anna Liisa._ "Thank you for your kindness.... I have found everlasting life and happiness. Now, Mr. Bailiff, I am ready, give me the severest punishment you can. I am ready to meet it all."

_Rector._ "She is following the everlasting road. Blessed is she."

_Curtain._

The idea of this very strange play has been undoubtedly taken from one of Tolstoi's well-known books, but _Minna Canth_ herself is a great writer. She seizes the subtleties of life, draws character with a strong hand, and appreciates the value of dramatic situations. No wonder the Finlanders admire a woman who writes in their own tongue, and feel proud of her as one of themselves.

Never have I seen an audience weep so much as the audience wept that night at the _Suomalainen Teaatteri_ (Finnish Theatre): they positively sobbed. Was it that they seldom saw a play, or was it that the generally phlegmatic Finn once roused is really intensely emotional?

Possibly if the fact were known, the minds of those spectators were not so actively engaged in criticism, that they could not appreciate healthy enjoyment. But as much cannot be said for a fashionable blase audience, which is too bored to care to be entertained.

CHAPTER VI

"KALEVALA," AN EPIC POEM

Many strange customs still linger in East Finland, probably because the inhabitants, far removed from civilisation, cling tenaciously to the traditions and usages of their forefathers. As a fitting ending therefore to the _Sordavala_ Festival, an accurate representation of a native wedding of a hundred years ago was given, perhaps for the reason that the performers were thus naturally enabled to introduce many of the bridal songs contained in their great epic poem, _Kalevala_, and their collection of lyric poems called _Kanteletar_.

The open-air stage was cleverly arranged, and the performance proved really a dramatic representation of music we had heard the delightful _Runo_ singers chanting for days. They were old _Runo_ bards, however, and as it was feared their voices would not reach the eight or ten thousand people a.s.sembled in the open-air arena, younger and stronger folk had been taught the different roles by them.

The wedding festivities were unlike anything to which we are accustomed.

They began with a formal betrothal. In a log hut sat the bride's family, the mother spinning at one of the wooden erections so closely resembling an oar. The father and his friends were meantime gathered round a table drinking small beer (_Kalja_) from large wooden pots, or rather buckets, called _haarikka_. Each man helped himself out of the _haarikka_ by dipping into that vessel the usual wooden spoon and sipping its contents, after which performance he replaced the spoon in the bucket.

Thus happily occupied sat the family till the bridegroom and his friends arrived.

It is not considered proper for an intending bridegroom ever to propose in person, consequently a spokesman has always to be employed, who expatiates on the many excellent qualities possessed by the modest lover.

Even the spokesman, however, deems it strict etiquette at first to prevaricate concerning the real nature of his errand, and consequently the actor told a c.o.c.k-and-bull story about the purchase of a horse; rather a transparent bit of make-believe considering the matter had been quietly arranged previously.

At last, after some ridiculous talk about that imaginary horse, a formal request was made for the daughter's hand, and finally the bride herself appeared, solemnly led in as if a prisoner.

Silent and alone, with head bent sadly down, she stood in the middle of the room till asked if she were willing "To marry this man?" when, without looking up, she answered "Yes."

Then the "weeping woman" who is hired for such occasions--just as in days, happily gone by, English families used to hire mutes for funerals--put her arm round the bride's waist, and, with bowed head, swinging her body to and fro the while, began in a most melancholy voice to sing "The Bride's Lament to her Home." The paid professional chants the words of the _Kalevala_, which are supposed to embody every bride's sentiments, implores her parents not to hurry her away. She begs her brother to keep her, not to let the breach between them be so large as the _Ladoga_ lake; might she remain even so long in her father's house as it will take to catch the fish and cook them.

After that she was placed in a chair, and her mother, with pomp and gravity, undid her "maiden plait," her loosened hair denoting that she could no longer be regarded as a maiden. All her relations came and pulled at her hair, which fell over her shoulders, to a.s.sure themselves the plait was really undone. Then the _weeping woman_, swaying to and fro as before, sang another dirge over her--a most melancholy form of betrothal, we thought--and finally put a white linen cap on the bride's head, trimmed with lace, which completely concealed her face. Thus covered, the bride and the weeping woman sat side by side on chairs, when, still swaying their bodies as if in unutterable grief, they recited more bridal songs, all of the same dreary character. Finally, the bride had a verse sung for her by the weeping woman addressed to her parents, to each of whom she clung in turn. Her father, mother, brothers, sisters, etc., were singly poetically addressed after the following doleful but remarkable fashion:--

O the anguish of the parting, O the pain of separation, From these walls renowned and ancient, From this village of the Northland, From these scenes of peace and plenty, Where my faithful mother taught me, Where my father gave instruction To me in my happy childhood, When my years were few and tender!

As a child I did not fancy, Never thought of separation From the confines of this cottage, From these dear old hills and mountains; But, alas! I now must journey, Since I now cannot escape it; Empty is the bowl of parting, All the fare-well beer is taken, And my husband's sledge is waiting, With the break-board looking southward, Looking from my father's dwelling.

How shall I give compensation, How repay, on my departure, All the kindness of my mother, All the counsel of my father, All the friendship of my brother, All my sister's warm affection?

Grat.i.tude to thee, dear father, For my father life and blessings, For the comforts of thy table, For the pleasures of my childhood!