Collected Works of Johan Ludvig Runeberg

by Johan Ludvig Runeberg

  Such is Runeberg’s conception of the relation of Divine providence to the wayward will of man.

  With regard to the English rendering of this poem I may be allowed a few remarks. For metrical arrangement the epic of King Fialar stands quite alone in poetry written in the Swedish or any other language I know. Every song is made up of stanzas, each of which consists of four lines without rhyme; each of the four lines has its own peculiar metre of Celtic or classical origin. Every stanza in each song follows with unvarying exactness the metrical scheme of the first. It is an impossible task to attempt reproducing these metres in readable English; even in readable Swedish they could only be presented by such a master as Runeberg. I therefore chose the English narrative metre of blank verse, as the most suitable to the subject matter itself, and as, on the whole, standing in a nearer rhythmical affinity to, at least, the longer-lined cantos, than any other metrical form I could think of.

  As to the translation of this classical work, it has been my endeavour throughout to let it reflect faithfully the language and the thought of the author. The severe condensation which the metres adopted imposed upon him, in connection with the fact that the Swedish of Finland indulges in certain turns of speech which are foreign to the Swedish of Sweden, renders the task of translating King Fialar one that requires heed and caution. In illustration of this remark I may quote the verse-line (Song I, stanza LV):— “As monument to her this must suffice,” which is merely an attempt at giving some intelligible rendering of the lapidary expression of the original:— “det ar minne nog”=“that is ‘memory,’ or ‘memorial,’ or ‘monument,’ enough.” In deference to Swedish friends whom I have consulted, Dr. Anna Paues of Newnham, Cambridge, Dr. Pahlsson of Lund, Sweden, Mrs. Anna Dutt of Cambridge, to all of whom I am greatly beholden for much kind advice, I have translated “minne,” as if it stood for “graf-minne,” by “monument”; yet I am by no means satisfied that it hits off the sense the poet meant his words to convey.

  Again, in Song II, LVIII, I have translated the line: “alskar stralen af swardets brand,” by: “delightest in the gleam of flaming swords,” taking “brand” in its general sense of “flame,”

  “fire.” But “gleam” (beam) and “flame” seem too tautologous terms for such a master as Runeberg to make use of in describing the effect of the brandishing of a polished sword. But if “brand” should in Finland Swedish have the sense of “sword-blade,” which, apparently, it has not in modern Swedish, though in Old Scandinavian and English it is common enough, I should say the line was incontestably Runebergian. In that case the translation would be: “Lovest the gleaming of the falchion’s blade.” But expressions of dubious sense in the original are really extremely few, and are practically exhausted by these two examples.

  Many friends of mine have given a sympathetic ear to my translation, with the result that my rigid adherence to the original, and close imitation of its simplicity, has had to undergo considerable modification in favour of more idiomatic phrasing, and diction more in harmony with the Ossianic dignity of the poem. Of friends who have thus lent me a helping hand towards this end I may mention Miss Bertha S. Phillpotts of Girton College, and Prof. G. W. Collingwood, who was good enough, after perusal of the poem, to send me copious suggestions, of which I have made a liberal use, and for which I tender him my cordial thanks. But especially I am gratefully beholden to my very kind friends and just, critics, Mr and Mrs. Geo. Ainslie Hight, of Samer, France, under whose kind personal encouragement it was my privilege to apply a searching revision to the whole work.

  Last, but by no means least, is the gratitude I owe to the venerable Vice-Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, Mr. W. Aldis Wright, for having honoured my work with the following recommendation (dated Feb. 21, 1910) —

  E. M.

  “Allowing for the way in which you have imposed restraints upon yourself in following the original so closely, you have produced a version which carries one along with it and gives the impression of overmastering fate.”

  KING FILIAR. SONG I

  Author of happy ordered state, he shall

  Behold a day when, stained with guilt, his race

  Is quenched in shame, his only son embracing

  As bride his sister to a fiery breast.

  I

  THERE sat majestic on his royal throne

  The mighty-hearted Fialar, Gothfolk’s king.

  His glance, that joys of victories had brightened.

  Gleamed young as yet beneath his silver hair.

  II

  Yule-tide was in; men feasted in his burg,

  Midwinter’s mead rose in the foam-topped horn.

  A hundred torches blazed, a hundred warriors

  And more were revelling in their king’s abode.

  III

  Alf, Vesete with Kari and with Rafn,

  Approved in summer-warfare, Ingul bold,

  And Agnar and the slayer of berserks, Hadding,

  Youths all as yet, though famed in minstrels’ songs,

  IV

  Styr of the scars, and Sote with a shield

  By twice twelve arrows smitten and smitten through,

  Drank round their lord. — The names of all his warriors,

  Who can recall, or tell their deeds of fame?

  V

  Yet one let not the bard forget — not thee,

  O Siolf, the year-encumbered slayer of hosts,

  The only one of all the old-time heroes

  Left to King Fialar in his sinking age.

  VI

  Thou stoodst beside him when within the veins

  Of both was rushing young the stream of life;

  Bidding the might of years and death defiance,

  With him thy cooler blood thou still couldst shed.

  VII

  Give heed! The king now riseth to his feet,

  His hand hath clasped the foaming horn around.

  The lord desires to speak now, he is minded

  To take his oath; this is the hour of vows.

  VIII

  “Up,” thus he speaks, “harken to me, ye men,

  The old oak’s swelling summer-foliage, grown

  Freshly around the hoary stem that tempests

  Of war so many a time have raged against!

  IX

  “Which of your company was old enough

  To chase the butterfly on flowery meads,

  When, far away on Morven’s strand, my falchion

  Bit wan Duncomar with a bloody tooth?

  X

  “Ships I had nine; with warriors out of each

  Well nigh a hundred told I went ashore;

  With twice that muster Morven faced me, gleaming

  Proudly against the streak of dawning day.

  XI

  “Two, I and Siolf, were left upon the strand,

  When in the western sky the evening cloud

  Swam pale, and on the sword’s abundant harvest

  The full-orbed moon cast down her glance of peace.

  XII

  “Such was the feat achieved by us in youth.

  The cheek grew bearded, we grew into men,

  And harried lands that winter never harried,

  And fared still farther than the summer fares.

  XIII

  “I took a maiden then first when my locks

  Were turning grey, but made the goodly one

  My queen. A son she bore me and a daughter.

  Both play with flowers still on their mother’s grave.

  XIV

  “I’ve had enough of mighty deeds and war.

  Illustrious princes pay me dues, my name

  Has tired the lips of bards, the harp possesses

  No fresh tones more for further triumphs left.

  XV

  “’Tis now my will to take my rest at last,

  My life’s tempestuous day is at its eve;

  The winds blow softer; seas and lands subjected

  Must learn the tidings of my ev
ening’s calm!”

  XVI

  So spake he. Siolf, the veteran, listening stood.

  The bosom of the hoary warrior swelled

  With indignation unrestrained, and darkness

  Was spread in furrows o’er his lowering brow.

  XVII

  “What! did my ear betray me?” he exclaimed.

  “Was it King Fialar’s voice that sounded ‘ rest’?

  Has hunting tired the eagle out already?

  Loves he the radiant realm of fame no more?

  XVIII

  “Still Erin boldly reareth up her head,

  Though twice subdued she still defies thy sword;

  The prowling Biarms make red with blood the oceans;

  Wilt thou await them here on thine own shore?

  XIX

  “The cairn alone affordeth us repose;

  Above it none may rest, and least the weak.

  The sports of life are sports for hardy players;

  Woe for thy strength untimely broken, King!”

  XX

  There gathered proudly, at the old man’s word,

  Round Fialar’s lip a smile. He gave the horn

  Unto the page again, and from the pillar

  Bedecked with weapons calmly took his bow.

  XXI

  The bow-string cried aloud. A lightning flash

  Shot through the hall. Vibrating rang a shield

  Struck on the farthest wall, while deep behind it

  The arrow quivered in the pine-wood’s heart.

  XXII

  A shot like this, the warriors then agreed,

  Had not been witnessed in the North before.

  The king took calmly back the horn, and mighty

  His voice was heard throughout the hall anew —

  XXIII

  “Peace,” he declared; “my will ’tis to preserve.

  Hark, Gothfolk’s sons, unto your monarch’s oath!

  Extended huts, and guarded groves, and acres

  Of golden ears shall be my triumphs now.

  XXIV

  “Within my country, fenced about, shall grow

  What sweet and soft was sown in human breast,

  And weakness blossom safe, while strength, by sparing

  The sword, shall but in mercy take delight.

  XXV

  “In my own will I heretofore believed,

  In that same will I still believe; in war

  It ruled the course of death, indomitable

  It shall, in peace, direct the course of life.

  XXVI

  “Should violence rear a threatening arm, or vice

  Go safe, should law be broken in my realm,

  Or decent, hallowed order be dishonoured —

  Let Fialar sink forgot and Fialar’s oath!”

  XXVII

  He paused. His voice was felt resounding still

  Within the warriors’ breasts. But to his lips

  Himself the drinking-horn he lifted slowly,

  And in a single draught he drank it out.

  XXVIII

  So now the king resumed his seat in peace.

  And in there stepped a guest up to his throne;

  His entry none had heeded, blank amazement

  Followed his quiet, gloom-enshadowed gait.

  XXIX

  He looked, at first, a man of stooping guise,

  An utter stranger, bowed by want and years;

  But with each step his stature grew the taller,

  And giant-like he stood before the king.

  XXX

  His cloak he opened, and with awe was seen

  The soothsayer Dargar, Fate’s interpreter,

  Who with his spirit’s vision had the power

  To pierce the dim abyss of times to come.

  XXXI

  Though seen on northern fells these hundred years,

  To happy people he but seldom showed;

  And threat’ning dismal thunder from the distance

  Feared whosoever heard his quiet voice.

  XXXII

  He spake: “O King, thine oath was great, yet one

  Still greater Dargar heard, where silent he

  Sat on a crag’s top, in the still air, listening

  To sounds descending from a night-cloud’s fringe.

  XXXIII

  “He heard the words: ‘King Fialar has forgot

  That Gods dispense the lot of man, and proud

  He trusts the laws of his own will, presuming

  To sway the future with his power of dust.

  XXXIV

  “‘Yet shall his eye see, ere the barrow’s night

  Holds in her keep his fleeting greatness, how

  Eternal powers will play with man’s defiant

  And scornful vows, of but a bubble’s weight.

  XXXV

  “‘Author of happy ordered state, he shall

  Behold a day when, stained with guilt, his race

  Is quenched in shame, his only son embracing

  As bride his sister to a fiery breast.’”

  XXXVI

  The hall was hushed; the eye beheld a sight

  Such as is witnessed when a storm of hail

  Has swept along, and calm, again returning,

  Sinks chilly down upon a whitened land.

  XXXVII

  There, on his throne of lordship, pale of face,

  Sat Fialar, with a hueless, quivering lip;

  Hard was the strife within the hero’s bosom,

  Until, with grief subdued, he raised his voice —

  XXXVIII

  “Go ye,” he said, “and bring my Hjalmar here,

  Bring hither Gerda, too, the tender babe;

  I must behold them both, my choice between them

  I am resolved to make, and one shall die.

  XXXIX

  “Know Fialar, seer, know his defiant mind,

  And greet the Cloud-gods, ask if e’er they learnt

  How to renounce all things, until accustomed

  They were, as he, in all things to prevail.

  XL

  “Now tramp thy nightly path. But when, one day,

  With spear-point Fialar marks himself for death,

  Come, ere his hand rests on the sword benumbed,

  And for thy dark lie thou shalt have thy due.”

  XLI

  “King,” answered Dargar, “not in vain thy word

  Has challenged me; right surely I shall come.

  The hours of life are reckoned out, and even

  For us they fill their tale one day. Farewell.”

  XLII

  The seer departed calmly on his way.

  A maiden brought the children of the king,

  Approached the monarch’s throne, and lifted softly

  In silence both upon their father’s knees.

  XLIII

  No more were heard the warriors’ merry shouts,

  Nor went the foaming horn’s delight its round.

  Hushed was the hall, as is a crypt, and only

  Hushed, awe-struck looks round Fialar showed alive.

  XLIV

  His choice must be declared. At Hialmar first

  He looked, looked long; the night upon his face

  Then cleared, and for farewell his eye seemed calmly

  To rest upon his daughter now alone.

  XLV

  She met his gaze, and smiling leaned her cheek

  Confidingly against the father’s breast;

  Again King Fialar shook; the god-defier

  Sat trembling now before a helpless child.

  XLVI

  From her his glance then fled away and fell

  On Hialmar, passed away from him and quick

  As lightning flew from one babe to the other,

  And paused at last, an upward rigid stare.

  XLVII

  Then Siolf arose. There rolled a glistening tear

  Upon his pallid, hoary-bearded cheek.


  And drawing nearer to his ancient comrade,

  He lifted up in quivering words his voice —

  XLVIII

  “When, King, thou restest with enfeebled arm,

  One day, must Hialmar bear thy sword and guard

  Thy land, and wake the memory of Fialar

  Afar, where else it might incline to sleep.

  XLIX

  “Delay no longer then to make thy choice.

  Sheer on the fore-shore stands the precipice,

  Beneath it waits the chilly wave in silence,

  There, like a spark, thy daughter’s life goes out.”

  L

  Thus he was heard to speak. He took away

  The smiling victim from her father’s knee;

  The portal opened, and the night enfolded

  Soon in her silent gloom the old man’s way.

  LI

  Where he had sat sat Fialar quiet still;

  Only his hand, that lately for support

  Was clasped around his daughter, now seemed lying

  As struck with palsy on his empty knee.

  LII

  At length he raised his look. He scanned the hall

  Inquiring, fierce, and dark. Men, wont to laugh

  At death, appeared to tremble at the lightning

  That in the dark night of his eye was born.

  LIII

  Silence he broke once more. His voice was deep

  As din of rolling thunders far away.

  “Ye witnesses,” he said, “to Fialar’s sorrow,

  The war’s declared; hark to your king’s behest —

  LIV

  “Woe unto him who hides not in the grave

  Of silence things now seen. In shame his life

  Shall be enwrapped, and my revenge shall track him

  Though storms should hurl him to earth’s farthest bounds.

  LV

  “No tongue shall name the name my daughter bore.

  Within her father’s bosom, here, she owns

  Her life’s short tale; leave me alone its guardian.

  As monument to her this must suffice.

  LVI

  “Then, when, at last, I have attained my goal,

  When high the mound o’ervaults my resting-place,

  When human voices reach my ear no longer,

  Let lips divulge my triumph’s heavy cost.”

  LVII