Collected Works of Johan Ludvig Runeberg

by Johan Ludvig Runeberg

  It will be noted that Johan Wadenstjema does not once speak in this most dramatic scene. There are no words that would not weaken the situation.

  XXXIII. THE BROTHERS.

  You darkly speak a Wadenstjerna’s name?

  You cite a gloomy story, know I rightly:

  How, seeking haven from life’s storm, once came

  His brother, but was quick repulsed with shame,

  Again to take his way mid shadows nightly.

  Sometime to Svansj5n’s strand pursue your way;

  There is a home that birches tall are hiding.

  In coal-black evening, or in sunlit day,

  Within this kindly dwelling you shall stray,

  Where Johan Wadenstjerna is abiding.

  A simple heartiness, an artless trust,

  At once when with him you will conscious gather,

  And feel yourself so glad, so full of rest,

  You seem to linger in your own home blest,

  And by the side of your own loving father.

  But one name mention not; one name alone,

  If e’en forever, from your memory banish!

  Of other strains he calm will hear each tone,

  But “Sveaborg!” — speak not the word! For sown

  Were then a tempest, and repose would vanish.

  All that his heart aforetime could enslave, —

  His folk, his land, its honor and its story,

  That erewhile, to his spirit pinions gave, —

  For him had sunk within that castle’s grave,

  Disowned, dishonored, ravaged of its glory.

  For long years has he been in shudders bound

  At this grave’s name, whenever he must hear it;

  And still within his soul doth burn this wound;

  In wrath his hair is lifted by the sound,

  When “Sveaborg” but jars his ear and spirit.

  It was a winter evening, dark and late;

  The old man, by no painful past o’erpowered,

  Nor dreaded future, lingered by his grate,

  And calmly heard the night-storm palpitate,

  That on the window pane the snow-flakes showered.

  He sat alone; had lately reached his hand

  To all, and bade good-night in true affection, —

  When sudden, roused from dreams’ reposeful strand,

  He saw the door unclose, and snow-clad stand

  A wanderer, who sought his home’s protection!

  He gazed, and gazed; a quaking then did tear

  His heart-strings, as he recognized the stranger.

  Ah, not unknown; it was his brother there,

  Brought up beneath the same parental care,

  Who now had sought his roof, a nightly ranger.

  As in the olden days did he appear,

  When in his father’s home they both were cherished;

  Of brothers, sisters, he had been most dear,

  The last of all remaining to him here, —

  And since they’d met, full nineteen years had perished.

  Yet would no blameless visitor thus wait,

  And on the threshold stand, so long delaying;

  No guest unknown would bow so mute in state,

  Or e’er such doubt and trembling simulate,

  As brother now for brother was betraying.

  No word, no sound! Moment on moment passed.

  As for the dead they followed now each other, —

  Until, as if in silent prayer at last,

  The wanderer at a distance sudden cast

  His outstretched arms entreating toward his brother.

  The message of his heart was quickly known,

  And Johan Wadenstjerna seemed to quiver, —

  But for an instant brief; when this was flown,

  Like steel he turned away, with hand alone

  The offered clasp repelling of the giver.

  Now the disowned one’s voice sounds forth unblest;

  Dark, weird, his words, as from a grave-mound spoken:

  “Oh brother, let the ice melt in thy breast!

  Disdain not one on consolation’s quest,

  Nor break thy staff o’er soul already broken!

  “Yea, I have erred; but fate had so decreed

  I bear the brunt of crime on that day wielded,

  When Finland’s chief surrendered, lest he bleed,

  When Sweden’s castle proud, ere ball could speed

  Against its granite wall, was basely yielded.

  “But should I be the man, would any claim,

  To blast the dikes and grasp the helmsman’s rudder?

  Was I the strong one to move forth aflame?

  Yet, that I did it not, becomes my shame;

  Say that, but crush me not with hate, my brother!”

  He ended; sank his brow; his voice was dead,

  Drowned in a stream of bitter tears entreating;

  Enough unto a brother he had said,

  And now with open arms he stepped ahead,

  And seemed to wait of his embrace the meeting.

  Then violent heaved the aged Johan’s breast;

  Its storm of scorn and woe he could not smother;

  But from the wall, mute answering his guest,

  He seized a pistol, and with aim the best

  Leveled it at the heart of his own brother!

  So runs the uncanny story of the twain,

  Too dark, perchance, for powers of this reciter;

  If you, who hear with shuddering and pain,

  Too harsh have judged the stern one, hear again

  A word of peace, to make your judgment lighter:

  ’Tis said, when out the wanderer hopeless stepped,

  The brother cold his eyes in anguish covered,

  And sat in wild unrest, nor ever slept; —

  Wept through the evening, all the long night wept,

  And child-like o’er his grief at morn yet hovered.

  CANTO THIRTY FOURTH. THE GOVERNOR.

  The Russian General-in-chief, Count Buxhovden, issues a proclamation.

  The noble and mighty reply of Vibelius, Governor over Savolaks and Karelen, silences the General-in-chief, who, clasping the Governor’s hand, departs.

  Olof Vibelius (1752-1823) after completing his law studies in Sweden, went to Finland in 1776, and was given a place in the Abo Court of Appeal. Since 1803 he had been Governor over the provinces mentioned. His work had become very laborious. His district was occupied by the enemy. Under the Swedish government’s orders he remained at his post, to protect the rights of the people from hostile interference. How ably and admirably he discharged his duty, the recital of this episode exemplifies. Historically, if is questionable if Buxhovden personally visited Vibelius; but it is maintained that Vibelius’ noble reply to Buxhovden’s representative was sent April 14, 1808, by Vibelius in writing to the Russian General, whom perhaps Vibelius never met, but who was nevertheless deeply moved by its dignity, honor, and lofty spirit. But we must accept the version of the poet, or the story becomes of course impossible. In the autumn of 1808 he left his district with the retreating Swedish army under Sandels.

  After a residence of thirty-two years in Finland, completely destitute as a reward for his nobility and unselfishness, he returned to Sweden, where he had been knighted with the name of Vibeli. The following year he was appointed Governor over the district of Karlstad, but in 1813 was forced through sickness to abandon this office. He died in 1823, sorrowed by all who knew him. He was not only active and upright in public office, but was a warm-hearted, noble man, over the portrayal of whose lofty personality Runeberg has cast the glamor of his magical art.

  Friedrich Wilhelm Buxhovden (1750-1811) was commander over all the Russian troops in Finland.

  XXXIV. THE GOVERNOR.

  Do glorious deeds grow but on battle-ground

  Which valiant warrior moistens with his blood?

  Cannot a strong yet unarmed man be found,

  To show
his doughty mood?

  In deepest Finland hidden, one appeared,

  Who all his days a peaceful life had led;

  In arts of peace grown old, he faithful steered

  His province, as its head.

  Vibelius was his name, of race well known, —

  If not resplendent, yet of honored blood;

  His name’s great honor was, that ’twas his own;

  Hereon his peerage stood.

  He passed the golden epoch of his life

  In tranquil trials; but this time was o’er.

  Now seethed his fatherland in war and strife,

  And he was young no more.

  By armies compassed, harried as a prey,

  By friends and enemies in turn oppressed,

  He must each hour, to please the victor, pay

  The price of peace and rest.

  To guard aright and justly the oppressed,

  He, as his solemn duty, held in sight;

  And therefore was his day devoid of rest,

  And without sleep his night.

  So one time sat he in his office-room,

  And but for his two clerks, he sat alone;

  He now seemed broken, and his lip was dumb,

  And mute his men had grown.

  He craved repose — a moment’s rest of mind; —

  He asked too much; the door was opened wide;

  A warrior there, with full-armed troops behind,

  Within the hall he spied!

  The Russian army’s General-in-chief —

  No lesser person, — was the warrior shown;

  He then stepped forth, and spoke in utterance brief,

  With threat in mien and tone:

  “Sir Ruler, Finland’s warfare now is o’er.

  To us, by right of arms, the land belongs;

  Yet fight the sons of Finland, as before,

  In Sweden’s martial throngs.

  “Well then, here is your pen; sit down, and write

  A summons strong, which as a plea shall come;

  That he shall be secure, his goods and life,

  Who turns and seeks his home;

  “But that, if any guiltily arrays

  Himself against his sovereign’s high command,

  His family shall be driven, without grace,

  Forth from his home and land!

  “If you have understood me, word for word,

  Then write!” He ended in defiant way.

  Then stood Vibelius at his judgment-board,

  Where Sweden’s law-book lay.

  He weighty laid his hand upon the book,

  And, fixed upon it, shone his glances clear:

  “Sir General, upon the shield you look

  Of those you threaten here.

  “Here lies our weaponless security, —

  Our law — our treasure great in joys and needs.

  Your ruler to revere it did agree;

  For his support it pleads.

  “Herein for ages the decree has stood:

  The criminal shall bear his guilt alone;

  No man for crime of wife shall be pursued,

  Nor she for his atone.

  “If ’tis a crime to fight for native land,

  To which all noble hearts reply, “not so,”

  Take vengeance then on men with sword in hand,

  On babes and women, — no!

  “You won. The power belongs to you to-day;

  I am prepared, do with me as you will!

  But law preceded me; when I am clay,

  Twill hold dominion still.”

  These were his words. A thrill of trembling fear

  Came o’er the two youths in the hall apace,

  And then Vibelius turned his glances clear

  Upon the General’s face.

  The stern look vanished from the warrior-guest, —

  His eye upon the old man’s warmly shone;

  His hand he took, with cordial clasp he pressed, —

  He bowed, and then was gone.

  And now, with hands enfolded as in prayer,

  The chief sank to his seat, in care’s release.

  Strife-worn, he valued well his victory fair, —

  A more than earthly peace.

  And those two witnesses, who felt its thrill,

  Have told with glowing spirit, since that day,

  Of a transfiguration, strange and still,

  That on his features lay.

  And that this light was heavenly fair, the same

  Belief was ever potent with the two;

  But whence the beautiful effulgence came,

  Was held in unlike view.

  The one declared it the reflected beam

  Of day-tide’s sun, so clear and genial strown;

  The other said: “Twas of the inner gleam,

  That from his conscience shone!”

  CANTO THIRTY FIFTH. ADLERCREUTZ.

  General Adlercreutz was a distinguished warrior and man, — frank, friendly, unpretending, faithful, resolute, loved by high and low. He is also mentioned in other Cantos of this Cycle: — The Veteran, The Field Marshal, Dobeln at Juutas, The Ensign at the Fair, Von Tome, Munter, Wilhelm von Schwerin. After the close of the war, he passed his remaining days in the Swedish service. He took part in the deposing of Gustaf IV Adolf in 1809, became a General and a Count, and served in the campaigns of 1813 and 1814.

  Siikajoki is situated in Osterbotten, on a stream of the same name, which falls into the Gulf of Bothnia between UleSborg and Brahestad. Klingspor, departing for Brahestad, had left Adlercreutz in command, and of course had given orders for a retreat. The troops had drawn back, pursued by the foe, till at noon they had reached the frozen Siikajoki. Dobeln, leading the first division had begun to retreat; Colonel Palmfelt had assembled his men for retreat; General Gripenberg of the yd Brigade, had sheathed the sword. It is 6:00 P.M., April 18, 1809. The Russians rush forward on the frozen river. But now Adlercreutz perceives a weak point in the enemy’s center, and decides to attack. The fire of his soul inspires the entire army. Major von Hertzen’s infantry storms the enemy on the ice; Gripenberg brings on his men of Tavastehus; the cannons roar; Von Essen, the valiant, unites with Heideman and Ramsay; the March of Bjorneborg sounds proudly; Dobeln comes in swiftest march; Tutschkoff’s resistance is vain; — and soon Siikajoki’s field belongs to the Finns — their first great victory! And here, in Finland, shall Adlercreutz ever live in praise and glory, though his form be hidden in Sweden, his native land. The eulogy pronounced over him in the final two stanzas is characterized with pathos and devotion.

  Adlercreutz has not spoken in this poem; no one speaks in Our Land; The Cloud’s Brother uttered never a word; The Dying Warrior was speechless; The Aged Hurtig taught by eternal silence and slumber; Sveaborg’s traitor is ever shrouded in silence; in The Stranger’s Vision, the mother’s lips are sealed; in The Brothers, Johan Wadenstjerna speaks no word in answer to his visitor; and all these silences are powerful.

  XXXV. ADLERCREUTZ.

  Who is that lofty man upon the river’s strand,

  Who thoughtful over fjord and meadow gazes?

  His manner, garb, defiant lips, his eye’s command,

  His steel-bright sword unsheathed, within his manly

  All — all — the man to hero-warrior raises. — [hand, —

  He stands alone, with none about him there,

  Except anon when comes and goes another,

  Some soldier young, a message sent to bear;

  The hosts before, behind him, would the combat dare,

  With blood and death now menacing each other.

  Before his eye is Siikajoki’s province spread,

  All winter-drear, as corpse on bier is lying;

  And to his thought more dreary yet lies Finland bled,

  With infamous retreats, with battle-glory fled,

  And Russian troops behind in triumph crying.

  Thence comes the gloom upon his forehead pale,

  The
cloud that o’er his noble face has brooded,

  And overshadowed with its sorrow-veil;

  He sees his land, a poor and shieldless mother, fail, —

  A sacrifice, in sons’ brave mood deluded.

  Though he this scene surveys, so desert-like and torn,

  To shun his duty’s call is not his manner;

  No truer man has any country ever borne,

  For he has perils proved, and conquered, combat-worn,

  Since earliest time of youth, neath glory’s banner.

  You see a conscience broken not, nor bent

  In joy or woe, by lofty or by lowly;

  You see a spirit not by tempests rent; —

  ’Tis Adlercreutz, most valiant with the valiant blent;

  His soul and eye retain these pictures wholly.

  And yet just now ’twas he, e’en he, did once more call

  His army to resume the play of anguish, —

  A hopeless march, devoid of rest or halt withal,

  A losing, step by step, of homeland, glory, — all,

  O’er which a dead heart only would not languish.

  A tool but for another he must play; —

  Not fight, but flight, the bid he must deliver;

  His faithful men were lined up for the fray,

  But no! They must not fight, they must retreat to-day,

  As they had done the day before, and ever!

  He sees its erstwhile serried ranks now broken up,

  In fragments scattered, — battle-lines now banished;

  He knows the soldiers well in each brigade, each troop,

  Has lived with them their life, and with them hoped their

  Not just to-day, but through the times long vanished, [hope,

  He knows this army does not march with zest

  The path of shame where his command has driven, —

  That keen resentment marks each step oppressed;

  He knows a sore is festering in every breast,

  More painful than if Death’s own hand had given.

  Those soldiers! He had proved their strength and valiant

  In better days that long ago were ended; —— [mood

  How glad before the glance of Gustaf Third they stood,

  And marched to carnage forth, and clearly traced with

  Their pathway through the ranks of foemen rended. [blood

  Yea, ’tis the self-same troop he leads this hour,