CHAPTER II.

ASHAMED OF A PEASANT'S NAME.

The log-house of the East Bothnian peasant is now always more roomy, lighter, and more pretentious in its whole appearance than in any other part of Finland. It sometimes consists of two storeys, or has at least a garret; the windows are of good size; it it almost always painted red or yellow, with white corners, and occasionally possesses window shutters. The whole bears evidence of mechanical skill and comfort. The East Bothnian never builds such large and fine villages as the Tavastlander and the Abo peasants do, but in cases of necessity constructs good solitary farmhouses. At the time of our story the smoke-huts were in use by nearly the whole Finnish population; only peasants of Swedish origin used fire-places and regular chimneys. But even then one could see in East Bothnia, close to the coast, some buildings constructed in a more modern style, copied from their Swedish neighbours.

The newly settled towns had attracted the country people to the coast, and they had already begun to be accustomed to greater comfort; and the wealthier the peasant, the quicker his house and person assumed a more civilised aspect. It is true that the luxury, against which the laws of the sixteenth century so severely protested, was found only on the estates of the nobility and among the wealthy Abo burghers--but the home-brewed ale foamed over in the tankards of the peasants, and the Holland spices were produced from his cupboards for festive occasions.

Since the fires of the Peasants' War had destroyed the huts of Storkyro village, one could often see the Swedish and Finnish styles of building side by side. Bertila's farm was the largest and the richest in the village, and was built in the new style, with steps and a small verandah, and two small chambers beside the large room; one for the master of the family and one for his daughter. The rest of the people on the farm lived together in the large room, but in summertime the younger ones slept out of doors in the sheds and some in the lofts.

At this time one would not see the large clock, with its red and blue painted cover, which to-day is the chief ornament in every peasant's cottage. The long plain table with its high seat for the master, stood surrounded by benches on the sides towards the door. It was close to dinner-time, and in the big fire-place the porridge-kettle was boiling. The room was nearly empty, only a large cat purred on a bench, and a girl of fourteen stirred the porridge; and Meri was sitting by the fire with her work. Poor Meri had just recovered from her fainting attack, but she was still very pale. Her long golden hair fell down over her almost bare shoulders; her eyes were often shyly turned towards the door, as if she feared the sudden entrance of her father. She was knitting a girdle of the most beautiful colours, and sang at the same time an old Swedish song.

"This girdle with roses fair Shall only my loved one wear, When he from the perils of war Returns to us from afar."

It has been said that Meri was no longer young. The traces which suffering had left on her finely formed features told of many a year of sorrow and pain; but at this moment as she watched the girdle, her face assumed an almost childish expression of delight. One could see that her work was a joy to her, and that she sang of someone much beloved and far away.

Her life with her severe father was full of hardship, and when she looked at the girdle she semed to read in its bright-coloured loops of a future full of joy and peace. In this girdle she lived, it was the same to her as the thought of her only joy--her idolized son.

Again she sang:

"I weave in beads so fine For this dear beloved of mine, And no king upon his throne Shall the like of this girdle own."

Just then Bertila, her father, entered, followed by Larsson and all the rest of the working people. Old Bertila's looks were dark; he could not deny to himself that Larsson's predictions were only too likely to be true. His son a nobleman. This possibility was in his eyes a disgrace, and up to this time had not troubled his mind.

The last words of Meri's song had just died away. At her father's entrance she quickly concealed the girdle under her apron; but the suspicious eyes of the old man fathomed her secret.

"You are again sitting with your dreams, lazy thing, instead of serving out the porridge," he said in a sharp tone. "What have you underneath your apron? Out with it."

And Meri was obliged in the presence of them all to reveal the unfinished girdle--her dearest secret. Her father snatched it from her, looked at it for a moment with contempt, then tore it in two, and threw the pieces behind the oven.

"I have told you many a time," he said severely, "that an honest peasant woman has nothing to do with fancy work. Let us say grace."

The old man then clasped his hands in the usual way, and the rest followed suit. But before the prayer could be uttered, Larsson stepped to the middle of the floor, his naturally good-humoured face purple with rage.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Bertila," he said, "to insult your own daughter in front of all the people! She works like a slave night and day, more than anyone of us, yet you call her a lazy thing! I tell you this straight in the face, that although you are my master, and I eat your bread, and without you I have nothing but the beggar's staff, that such an unrighteous father does not deserve to have such a good daughter; and rather than see this misery day after day, I will beg my bread. But you will have to answer before the Almighty for your children. And may you now say your grace, and let the food taste well to you if you can. Farewell, Bertila, I cannot stand this life any longer."

"Cast out the rascal who dares to speak against the master of the house," said Bertila with more than usual violence. No one moved. For the first time the peasant king saw his orders disobeyed.

"Dear master," began the oldest of the labourers, "we all think the same----"

A terrible blow from the master struck the speaker to the ground before he finished his remarks. In vain Larsson offered to go of his own accord; in vain Meri tried to mediate between the disputants. So strong were the principles of right in these people, that without consulting anything but their own convictions, they arrayed themselves as one man against the master's tyranny. Fourteen muscular men stood erect and resolute before the enraged Bertila, whose tall figure stood threateningly in the midst of the throng. One more blow, and they would all have left his service, and perhaps shut him up in his own little chamber until his anger had subsided; for the farther towards the north one goes, the more sensitive is the Finnish peasant to blows. Bertila, however, knew his people, and saw as a wise man that his anger had led him too far. He sought a means of getting out of the dilemma without too great a humiliation.

"What is it you want?" he asked with regained self-possession.

The workers looked at each other in silence for a moment.

"You are wrong, master," said one of the boldest at last. "You have insulted Meri for nothing. You wished to turn Larsson out of the house, and struck Simeon; you have done wrong."

"Meri, come here."

She did so.

"You are no longer a child, Meri. If you cannot endure to live with your aged father, then you are at liberty to stay on my farm at Ilmola. You are free--go, my child."

Bertila knew his daughter. These few words, "go, my child," pronounced in a milder tone than she was accustomed to hear, were sufficient to melt his daughter's heart.

"Do not reject me, father," she said, "I will never desert you."

These words made her defenders waver, and the old man saw his opportunity.

"Bring hither the catechism," he said in a commanding voice.

The fourteen-year-old Greta stepped forward as was the custom on sacred days, and read aloud:

"Ye servants obey your temporal masters with fear and trembling, in the simplicity of your hearts! Ye servants be submissive to your masters in all fear, not only the mild and good, but also the unworthy!"

These words, thus uttered at the right time, did not fail in their effect.

In these times the power and authority of father and master were at their zenith, and were not only by word, but in deed, a power by "God's mercy." The words of obedience heard from childhood, the old man's commanding tone, and Meri's example of ready submission to her father's authority, all combined to tone down the hot tempers of the rebels. They took their places at the table without another word. Only old Larsson stood sad and hesitating with his hand on the door-latch.

Suddenly the door was opened, and a stranger entered.

The new-comer was a soldier, in a broad-brimmed hat, decorated with a gracefully fastened eagle's plume. He wore a waistcoat of yellow wool, short top-boots, bore a cudgel in his hand, and a long sword hung at his side.

"By St. Lucifer," he said joyfully, "I have come at the right time. God's peace, peasants, make room at the table; I am as hungry as a monk during mass, and I am not able to go to the vicarage on this damned heath. Have you any ale?"

The old man in the high seat, who had not yet quite overcome his temper, although he appeared to be calm, rose from his chair, but at once sat down again.

"Sit down, countryman," said the old man softly; "Aron Bertila has room at his table for self-invited guests also."

"Very well," continued the new-comer, helping himself freely to the food, which seemed to be a familiar habit with him. "You are Bertila, then. I am glad to hear it, comrade. Confidence for confidence, I will now tell you that I am Bengt Kristerson, from Limingo, sergeant in his Majesty's brave East Bothnians. I am sent here to look after the conscripts. Some more ale in the tankard, peasants ... well, do not be afraid, girls, I will not bite you. Bertila," added the soldier with his mouth full, "what the deuce is this? Are you Lieutenant Bertel's father, peasant?"

"I do not know that name," replied the old man, who was nettled by the soldier's impudent remarks.

"Are you mad, old man? You do not know Gustaf Bertel, who six months ago called himself Bertila?"

"My son! my son!" cried the old man in a voice of anguish. "I am an unfortunate father! He is ashamed of a peasant's name!"

"Peasant's name," said the soldier laughing, and striking the table violently, so that the tankards and dishes jumped. "Do ye peasants also have names? I think I will go without mine. You are a fine fellow, old man; tell me what the d----l you want with a name?"

He then looked at his host with such an air of naïve impudence, that the insulting words were somewhat modified in effect.

Old Bertila, however, scarcely honoured him with a glance.

"Fool that I was! I sent out a beardless boy and thought that I sent a man," he gloomily said to himself.

But the sergeant, who had indulged in many drinks before, and had now seen the bottom of the jug, did not seem inclined to drop the subject.

"Do not look so fierce, old boy," he said in the same aggravating tone. "You peasants associate so much with oxen and sheep, that you become just like them yourselves. If you were a bit civil you would send a pretty girl to fill my jug. It is now empty, you see; as empty as your cranium. But you turnip-peelers do not appreciate the honour which is conferred upon you, of having a royal sergeant for guest. You see, old fellow, a soldier in these times is everything; he has a name that rings because he has a sword that rings. But you, old ploughshare, have nothing but porridge in your head and a turnip in your breast; fill your mug, old fellow; here's to Lieutenant Bertel's success! So you refuse to drink the health of an honest cavalier? Out upon you, peasant."

And the sergeant, in the consciousness of his dignity, struck the table with his fist, so that the wooden bowls jumped and seemed disposed to make for the floor with all their contents.

The first effect of this martial joke was to induce six or seven of the men to rise from their benches, with the object of giving the uninvited guest a salutary lesson in politeness. But old Bertila stopped them. He rose composedly from his seat, approached the rowdy sergeant with a firm step, and without saying a word, grasped him by the neck with his left hand, and with his right on his back, he lifted the soldier from the bench, carried him to the door and threw him out on a heap of chips outside the steps. The funny sergeant was so surprised at this unexpected attack, that he did not move a muscle to defend himself. If he had, it was not likely that the seventy-year-old man would have gained the victory in the struggle.

"Go," cried Bertila after him, "and keep your treatment as a remembrance of the peasants in Storkyro."

Nothing impresses the multitude so much as resolute courage combined with a strong arm. When the old man entered the room again he was surrounded by his people, who now greatly admired him; and this feat destroyed the difference which had existed a few moments before between them.

The conflict between the sword and the plough is as old as the world. The Peasants' War was based on this rivalry, and served to keep it fresh and alive in the minds of all. These independent peasants had not been subjected to the tyranny of the landed proprietors. They witnessed with delight their honour defended against the soldier's outrageous insults; they forgot at the moment that they might shortly be compelled themselves to don the soldier's jacket, and fight for their country. Even the old peasant chief, elated at his exploit, had surmounted his bad temper.

For the first time in a long while they saw a smile on his lips; and when the meal was over, he began to relate to them some of his former adventures.

"Never shall I forget how we cudgelled the rascal Abraham Melchiorson, the man who, here in Kyro, seized our best peasants, and had them broken on the wheel like malefactors. With fifty men he had gone up north. It was winter time. He was a fine gentleman, muffled up from the cold, and rode so grandly in a splendid wolf-skin cloak. But when he approached Karleby church we placed ourselves in ambush, and rushing upon him like Jehu, beat twenty-two of his men to death, and pommelled him black and blue; but every time he expected a rap he drew the wolf-skin cloak over his ears, so that no club could disable the traitor. 'Wait,' said Hans Krank, from Limingo, who led us on that wolf hunt, 'we will whip him out of his skin yet'; with this he drubbed Abraham so soundly that he was obliged to let go of his fine fur. Krank had nothing on but a jacket, and it was cold enough, God knows; he thought the fur cloak a good thing, and drew it unobserved over his own shoulders. But, as all this occurred in the twilight, we others did not notice who was now in the wolf-skin, and we kept on belabouring the cloak; it is very certain that Krank had a very warm time of it that evening. But Abraham Melchiorson became so light and nimble after getting rid of his cloak, that he ran off to Huso farm; but there he was taken by Saka Jacob from Karleby, and the rascal was taken to Stockholm; but he did not get much time to mourn over the loss of his cloak, for the duke soon made him a head shorter."

"Yes," said Larsson, who always tried to defend Fleming and his people, "that time you had the best of it. Eleven soldiers remained alive, but seeming to be dead, you took all their clothes. And at midnight they crept half dead with cold to the vicarage, and were there taken in; but in the morning you wanted to put them in the water underneath the ice, alive, as you had done in Lappfjard's River. You were wolves and not human beings. The water was so low in the river that you had to push the men down with poles to keep them there; and when they tried to get up, the women knocked them on their heads with buckets."

"Keep quiet, Larsson, you do not know all that Svidje Klas did," said Bertila angrily; "I say nothing about all the men that he and his people have killed and broken on the wheel. Do you remember Severin Sigfridson at Sorsankoski? He surrounded the peasants, and ordered his subaltern to behead them one by one; but he was not able to kill more than twenty-four, and asked the nobleman to finish the rest himself. The gentleman got angry, and ordered the peasants to cut the subaltern into five parts, and then do the same to each other as long as one remained alive."

"But what did you do, you mad brutes, on Peter Gumse's farm? Your men destroyed the place, broke the windows, slaughtered all the cattle, and set their severed heads with wide open mouths in the windows as a scare. Then the beams of the house were cut three parts through, so that when the folk came home it would fall upon their heads; and when you caught a horseman you used him as a target for your arrows."

"It is not worth while, Larsson, to try to take Svidje Klas' part. Do you remember when Axel Kurk's men came and killed a woman's children before her eyes? The poor mother could not stand this, she and her half-grown daughter seized the brute by the waist, hit him on the head with a pole, and pushed him fainting in the water. Svidje Klas then came and had that same woman cut in two."

"Loose talk, which has never been proven," replied Larsson gruffly.

"The dead keep silent like good children. The 5,000 killed at Ilmola do not speak."

"Instead of molesting the sergeant, you should have asked him for news about your son and mine," said Larsson, to get away from their usual contentious subject--the fatal Peasant War.

"Yes, you are right. I must hear more about the boys and the war. I am going to Vasa to-morrow."

"Will he soon return?" asked Meri in a shy voice.

"Gösta. He will take his own time," said the father angrily. "He has now became a nobleman; he is ashamed of his old father .... he blushes for a peasant's name."