CHAPTER I.

A MAN FROM THE PEASANTS' WAR.

Beyond the fertile plains of Germany a wild sea extends itself towards the north, whose shores are annually covered with the ice of winter, and whose straits have sometimes borne entire armies on their ice-bridges. For ages the surrounding nations have fought for the possession of this sea; but at the time of our story the greatest power in the north triumphed over nine-tenths of its wide shores, the Baltic had almost become a Swedish lake; stretching its mighty blue arms north and east, it folded in its embrace a daughter of the sea, a land which had arisen from its bosom, and elevated its granite rocks high above its mother's heart. _Finland_ is the most favoured child of the Baltic; she empties her treasures into the lap of her mother, and the great sea does not disdain the offering, but withdraws lovingly and tenderly like an indulgent mother, that her daughter may develop, and every season clothes the shores with grass and flowers. Fortunate the land which lulls to sleep in its bosom the waters of a thousand lakes, and stretches one hundred and forty Swedish miles along the shore. The sea bears power, freedom, and enlightenment; the ocean is an active civilising element in the world; and a sea communicating nation can never stagnate in need and under oppression except by its own fault.

Far away in the north of Finland a region exists which more than any other is the fostered child of the sea, for from time unknown it has risen with a gentle slope from the waters. Numerous green isles rise along this coast. "In my youth," says the grey-haired old salt, "fine ships floated where now the water is quite shallow, and in a few years the cattle will graze on the former sea-bottom. The playing child launches its little boat from the beach; look around you, little one, and see well the point where the waters trace their edges; when you become a man, you will look in vain for your present strand--beyond the green fields you will hear their distant murmur; and when you are an old man, a village may appear on the spot once occupied by the waves." A strange region, where the towns built hard by deep sounds and tributaries, are twelve miles from the waters in two hundred years, while the keels and anchors of vessels are drawn up from the bogs fifty miles inland.

This region is East Bothnia; greater than many kingdoms, and extending to the verge of Lapland in the north, where the sun never sets at midsummer, and never rises during the Christmas darkness.

Nature is awake for three months of the year in an unbroken day, and then at midnight you can read the finest print; three months of night, but a night of moonlight and glittering snow--clear, cold, and solemn. The flower's beauty perishes sooner there than human joy; for seven months the plains are covered with snow and the lakes with solid ice; but never is spring more delightful than such a winter; still a melancholy mingles with this joy, which the heart well understands.

Two races live on the coasts of this land, unmixed and unlike; a variegated picture of national and local peculiarities of language and habits; one parish sharply contrasting with another. Certain common traits exist, however, which all present. It is not a historical accident that the greatest and bloodiest battles of Finland have been fought on the soil of East Bothnia.

Twenty-five miles east of Vasa, on the banks of Kyro River, is the rich Storkyro parish--the granary of East Bothnia. Here grows the well-known rye-seed, which is exported in large quantities to Sweden. The parish presents a plain of waving grain-fields, from which arose the saying, "that Storkyro fields and Limingo meadows have no equals in length and breadth." The people are Finns, of Tavastlandish origin in remote times. Their old church, built in 1304, is one of the oldest in the country.

We now ask our reader to follow us there. At the time of our story this region was badly cultivated, compared with later times. The ravages of the Peasants' War had retarded its growth, so that for a generation traces of this disastrous struggle were visible, whilst other wars, with heavy conscriptions, prevented time from healing these wounds. Hence, in the summer of 1632, many farmhouses still stood empty; the grain-fields did not spread far from the river banks, and unhealthy fogs covered the country when the nights were cool. The forests, then already thinned, still yielded fuel for the tar pits; part of the peasantry fished among the Michel Islands, and the worthy pastor, Herr Georgius Thomoe Patur, had not then, like his present successor, a yearly income of 4,000 silver roubles. Therefore the eye lingered with delight on Bertila's farmhouse close to the church, finer and better built than any of the others, and surrounded by the most fertile fields.

The summer had advanced to the middle of August, and the harvesting had just begun. More than sixty persons, men, women, and children--for the East Bothnian peasant women work the whole summer out of doors--were busily cutting the golden rye, which they gathered into sheaves and placed with skilful hands in high, handsome ricks. The day was hot, and the stooping posture of the work wearisome; so it often happened that the petted boys amongst the reapers threw longing glances at the soft grass round the edge of the field, which evidently seemed intended for a resting-place. At the same time they did not forget to look for the overseer, an old man in a loose, grey homespun jacket. Whenever anyone stopped, he heard his neighbour whisper, "Larsson is coming!" which had an instantaneous effect, like the stroke of a whip.

But Larsson, a small man, between whose bushy head and eyebrows a good-hearted look glanced forth, was now concerned with one of the women, who, on account of the heat and work, had sunk to the ground.

Judging from her features this woman was no longer young; perhaps about thirty-six; but to look at her slender figure, and the mild sympathetic expression of her blue eyes, she seemed no more than twenty. She exhibited a rare but prematurely faded beauty, with much suffering and resignation. She wore a fine white flannel jacket, which being thrown aside on account of the sun, showed sleeves of the finest linen, a red bodice, like the peasantry wore, with a short striped woollen skirt, and a little plaid handkerchief tied around her head, to support her long flaxen hair. She had worked hard, but her strength was insufficient; she had fallen with her scythe in her hand, and those nearest to her, with respect and love, had carried her to the soft turf, and tried with fresh water from the spring to bring her back to life.

"There now, Meri!" said old Larsson with fatherly sympathy, as he held the fainting woman's head on his knees and bathed her forehead with cold water; "there, my child, don't be foolish enough to die and leave your old friend; what joy would he then have on earth? ... She cannot hear me, poor child! Who ever had such a father as hers? To compel this delicate thing to work in such heat! ... Drink a little--that's right ... it is very good of you; now open your lovely eyes once more. Do not trouble, Meri; we will go to the house, and you shall not work any more to-day."

The pale and delicate creature endeavoured to rise and seize her sickle.

"Thank you, Larsson," she said in a low but melodious voice, "I am better now. I will work; father washes it."

"Father wishes it!" exclaimed the old man testily. "You see, I do not; I forbid you to work. Even if your father turned me out of doors, and I had to beg my bread, you should not work any more to-day. Well, well, my child, don't take it so hard; your father is not so foolish. He knows that you are not strong; you are like your dead mother, who was a lady by birth, and from your education in Stockholm ... There, there; let us go home; don't be obstinate now, Meri!"

"Let me go, Larsson; see, he comes himself!" cried Meri, tearing herself free and grasping the scythe, with which she again tried to mow the golden rye. But as she stooped down, it grew dark before her eyes, and for the second time she sank fainting between the waving stalks.

At that instant the efforts of all the workers redoubled; he approached in person, the severe and dreaded owner of Bertila farm. Like a gloomy shadow he came slowly along the path--a tall old man of seventy, but little bent by age. His costume was the same as that of the peasants in summer: wide shirt-sleeves, a long red-striped vest, short linen pantaloons, blue stockings, and bark-shoes. He wore a high pointed cap of red yarn on his white head, which made his tall figure still more imposing. In spite of his simple costume, his whole bearing was commanding. The decided carriage, sharp penetrating look, resolute expression, love of authority around the tightly drawn upper lip, indicated the former political leader and the rich and powerful land-owner, accustomed to rule over many hundreds of subordinates. Seeing this old man, one understood why he was known in many neighbouring parishes as the _Peasant King_.

Cold and calm, old Aron Bertila approached the spot where his only daughter lay in a dead faint.

"Put her in the hay-wagon and take her up to the house," he said. "In two hours she will be back to her work."

"But, Bertila!" exclaimed Larsson excitedly.

Bertila looked round with a glance before which the other quailed; then he stalked on through the field as if nothing had occurred, observing with a keen eye the labours of the reapers; here and there breaking off an ear and closely examining the number and weight of the seeds. From the barn the whole harvest-field was visible; it was new, and more than a hundred acres in extent. The old man looked with great pride on the waving sea of golden ears; his carriage became more erect, his breast expanded, as he beckoned Larsson to him.

"Do you remember this tract thirty-four years ago, when Fleming's cavalry scoured the country like savages, the village lay in ruins, and the fields were trampled down by the horses' hoofs. Here, close to the village, was the desert; naked, charred stumps stood between mud puddles and quagmires; no road or path led here, and even the forest wolves avoided the desolate spot."

"I remember it well," said Larsson in a monotonous tone.

"Look now around, old friend, and say. Who rebuilt this village, more lovely than ever before? Who tilled this wilderness, made roads and paths, measured the land, drained the morass, ploughed this fertile soil, and sowed this great field which now waves in the breeze, and will soon supply hundreds of human beings with its harvest? Say, Larsson, who is the man who did this mighty work?" and the old man's eyes flamed with enthusiasm.

But the little, plump person at his side seemed to be possessed with quite another feeling. He humbly took off his old hat, clasped his hands, and earnestly said,

"Nothing is he who sows; nothing is he who waters; God alone gives the growth!"

Bertila, absorbed in thought, heeded him not, and continued,

"Yes, by God! I have seen evil times, days of want, misery, and despair, which the sword brought upon earth, and I have myself drawn the weapon to destroy my enemies. I have had victory and defeat, both to my injury. Hence I can rejoice in the work of peace. I know the fruit of the sword, and what the plough produces. In the sword lurks a spirit of evil, which revels in blood and tears; the sword kills and destroys, but the plough gives life and happiness. You see, Larsson, the plough has made this field. Over at Korsholm is the Finnish coat of arms, a lion with a naked sword. Were I king, I would say, Away with the sword and take the plough. The latter is the true weapon of Finland; if we possess bread we have plenty of arms; with arms we can drive our enemies from our homes. But without bread, Larsson, what use is steel and powder to us?"

"Bertila," said Larsson, "you are a singular man. You hate war, but that I understand; in war they burnt your farm, and drove your first wife and her little children into the woods to perish. You yourself have fought at the head of the peasantry, and barely escaped _the blood bath on Ilmola's ice_. Such things are not easily forgotten; but what I cannot comprehend is, that you, a friend of the peasants, a soldier hater, first took me, an old starving soldier, as overseer on your farm, then equipped my Lasse--God bless the boy--for the war, and finally sent your own grandson, Meri's child, little Gösta,* yet beardless, to the field among the king's cavalry."

* From Gustaf.

Old Bertila's look darkened. Some sensitive chord had been touched, and he glanced around as if he feared a listener behind the barn walls.

"Who dares to speak to me of Meri's child?" he said in a low tone. "I know none other than my son Gösta, born of my second wife during the journey to Stockholm; and God be merciful unto you if ever ... Let us forget that matter. Why I took you? Why I sent your boy into the field? H'm! it does not concern anyone."

"Well, keep it to yourself; I know too much already."

"Tell me, if you can, Larsson, what constituents are required for an honest Christian Government?"

Larsson looked at him with surprise.

"I will tell you. The sword has two parts, the blade and the handle. Two forces are likewise necessary for the plough: one that draws and one that drives. And two forces united form a Christian Government, namely, the people and the king. But that which comes between brings discord and ruin; it arrogates to itself the king's power and the people's property. It is a monster."

"I know you hate the nobles."

"And therefore," Bertila laid an emphasis on his words, and uttered them with an almost ironical smile, which seemed to turn his meaning into a jest, "you see, _my_ son must either be _peasant or king_; nothing more or less!"

Larsson looked at him with dismay. He had not imagined the depth of ambition which had hitherto glowed concealed in the old peasant's heart. He thought it the extreme of crazy presumption.

"You can certainly never hope," he timidly said, "that Meri's son, with his birth----"

The old man's eyes flashed, but the words were inaudible that came from his lips, as if he tried to struggle against an inner impulse, to express for the first and perhaps for the last time, the bold idea which had already for many years grown in his tempestuous soul.

"King Gustaf Adolf has only a daughter," he said finally, with a peculiar look.

"Princess Christina ... Yes."

"But the kingdom at war with half the world, after his death, needs a man upon the throne."

"Bertila, what do you mean?"

"I mean that in my childhood I heard King Erik's son, in spite of his peasant wife, Karin, declared the successor to the crown."

"Are you in your senses?"

Again an ironical smile played around the old man's lips.

"Do you not understand," he coldly said, "how it is possible to hate soldiers and aristocrats, and yet send one's son to war as the nearest road to distinction, under a king's eyes?"

"I beg of you, Bertila, put aside such wild fancies; you are a reasonable man when the demon of pride does not get possession of your restless mind. Your plan will fail; it must fail."

"It cannot fail."

"What! Not fail!"

"No! Have I not told you that Gösta must be either king or peasant? Either. I do not care. If he wishes to remain a peasant, so be it."

"But if he will not remain a peasant? Supposing he wishes to fight for a coat of arms, and becomes a nobleman? Remember, you have started him on the right road for that end; as an officer he is already an equal of the nobility."

Bertila seemed to be cogitating.

"No!" he cried, "it is impossible. His blood ... his education ... my will."

"His blood! Then you no longer remember that nobility is in it from both sides? His education! and you sent him to Stockholm at twelve, and allowed him to grow up amongst young aristocrats, whom he has constantly heard express themselves with contempt about the peasantry. Your will! foolish father to think that you can bend a youth's desires from the direction given to them by such powerful influences."

The old man remained silent for a time, then he said, coldly,

"Larsson, you are a credulous fool; I joke, and you take it seriously. I will answer for the youth. Let us say no more about it; but take care, not a word of what has passed! Do you understand?"

"I am your old friend, Bertila. Since the time when I, a horseman with Svidje Klas, helped you to escape from Ilmola, you have repaid me the service many times over; I shall never betray you. But, you see, I love your children as my own, and cannot bear to see you make the boy unhappy; and Meri ... are you a father, Bertila? How do you treat your child, your only daughter, who attends to your lightest wish, and does everything to atone for the fault of her youth? You treat her worse than any of your servants; you allow her frail and weak body to perform the hardest work; she sinks to the ground, and you do not raise her. You are cruel, Bertila; you are an inhuman father."

"You do not understand the matter," answered the morose old man. "You are too tender-hearted to comprehend what it means to go straight ahead without compunction. Meri, like her mother, has the fine lady in her, and that must be uprooted. She cannot become a queen; well, then, she shall be a thorough peasant. I have said what I think about the intermediate class, and now you know the reason for my actions. Come, let us return to the labourers."

"And Meri ... spare her to-day, at least."

"She shall work with the rest this afternoon."