At the root of the “Kalevala” is song. Not only were the myths and legends that comprise the Finnish national epic preserved and handed down by generations of peasant bards, song plays an important part in the actual narrative.
Everyone sings in this sorcerers’ tale. Objects, weather, and worlds are sung into existence. Duels are fought in song. Punishment is doled out. There is literally magic in song.
Little wonder, then, that this sparsely populated country would produce so many musicians. Every other Finn, it seems, is a conductor. So have Finland’s composers returned to the “Kalevala” as an enduring source of inspiration.
In the dim past of the far north, unlettered poets and songsmiths would entertain their listeners, through harsh weather and long evenings, with recitations of the exploits of steadfast wizard Väinämöinen, eternal blacksmith Ilmarinen, and rowdy and reckless Lemminkäinen.
Thus were these long narrative poems passed down, to be collected and compiled only in the early 19th century by Elias Lönnrot. Lönnrot, motivated by the cultural touchstones of Homer, traveled all over Finland and Karelia and into the northern reaches of Lapland in order to collate the tales from oral tradition. These relate the creation of the Earth, the loves, antagonisms, and retaliations of rival communities, and the forging, gifting, and attempted recovery of a mysterious invention called the Sampo, a machine that serves as both mill and mint.
With its belated publication, the epic resonated in Finland to an extent it may be difficult for foreigners to comprehend. Swedish had been the tongue of the country’s administration and education from time immemorial. Then Tsar Nicholas II attempted to instate Russian as the official language. The “Kalevala” affirmed a sense of Finnish identity. It became a lightning rod for Finnish nationalists, fundamentally formalizing the Finnish language and becoming a source of great national pride for a country that spent centuries under foreign domination. Cresting patriotic fervor led to Finland’s declaration of independence on the heels of the Russian Revolution in 1917.
The Finns hold the “Kalevala” in such high regard that every February 28 (the date on which Lonnrot signed his foreword to the work’s first edition in 1835) is celebrated as a national holiday. It has inspired the naming of cities and businesses and innumerable paintings, books, and pieces of music.
The composer Jean Sibelius was Kalevala-crazy. A significant portion of his output was influenced by this fount of Finnish lore, including “Four Legends from the Kalevala,” “Kullervo,” “Pohjola’s Daughter,” “Tapiola,” “The Origin of Fire,” and “Kyllikki.” Some of the symphonic poems had their roots in a projected opera, “The Building of the Boat,” which was never completed.
It’s interesting, having known this music intimately for so many years, to have finally experienced the source of inspiration in its entirety. I’d read passages of the “Kalevala” before, especially the part about Väinämöinen’s vain attempts to win the hand of Pohjola’s daughter. I have to say, Sibelius really had it down. I could totally feel the vibe, especially up through the first Väinämöinen tales. On the other hand, Sibelius clearly brought a lot of his own to Kullervo, whose story is lent a kind of tragic grandeur in the composer’s rendering that is absent from the matter-of-fact presentation in the original.
I’m also struck by how music makes this world seem so much more expansive and overflowing with adventure as compared to the actual telling, which to me seems more limited, especially as the bulk of the narrative, such that it is, concerns a repetitive cycle of retaliation between the people of the Kaleva District and those North Farm (Pohjola).
I was surprised to learn Pohjola’s daughter, who taunts Väinämöinen from atop her rainbow as he attempts to woo her, ultimately meets a gruesome end after crossing Kullervo! In between, we are made to feel genuine sympathy for her as she weds and leaves home for the first time, uncertain of what hardships await her in her husband’s household.
Of course, Ilmarinen, being an essentially nice guy, mourns her death. Then he attempts to mint a new wife out of gold and silver. He also forges a replacement sun and moon after they are stolen from the heavens and locked into a mountain by Louhi, the hag of North Farm. Come to think of it, Ilmarinen doesn’t have a great track record when it comes to forging things. He does, however, successfully construct a Sampo, a kind of horn of plenty that supplies unlimited food and wealth. So I suppose he’s entitled to a few misses.
In fact, one of the things I find so charming about the epic is that the characters are not infallible. They are heroic and often achieve amazing things, but they are also at times wrongheaded and prone to failure.
Previously, all the tales I’d known of Väinämöinen made him seem like something of a bumbler, always unlucky in love, and frequently unsuccessful in his quests. But frankly he is the most powerful and influential figure this side of the gods.
The other well-known hero is Lemminkäinen, who I always envisioned as a kind of swashbuckler. You can certainly hear it in Sibelius’ music. But what I didn’t realize is what a jerk and an ignoramus he is, often going out of his way to stir up trouble just because he’s bored. If Norway ever ran out of trolls, they surely could call on Lemminkäinen. He’s impetuous to a fault, and I have difficulty understanding his allure. I mean, he’s great in Sibelius, but I guess at this stage of my life, I’m much more of a Väinämöinen kind of guy. Especially as, in a pinch, Väinämöinen can swashbuckle with the best of them.
All the characters have personality, and with their foibles they are certainly memorable. You will also learn more than you will ever need to know about local wedding customs and charms against bears, charms against wizards, and charms against Jack Frost.
I don’t actually speak Finnish so, as is so often the case with these kinds of things, I did a lot of fretting beforehand over my choice of translation and between editorial practices. In this instance, I had two versions going.
One is a strict poetical translation by Keith Bosley for Oxford’s World’s Classics. Despite a noble attempt to closely mirror the original, I don’t think it’s very successful at conjuring the spirit of the piece.
By contrast, the translation by Francis Peabody Magoun, Jr., published by Harvard University Press – and which I’ve had in my possession now for 30 years – while sacrificing something in the way of slavish accuracy, to me much more successfully conveys what the “Kalevala” should be. It feels like a medieval epic, in the best possible sense, preserving the flavor of the original, without ever becoming stilted or sing-song. It’s a satisfying compromise between poetry and prose. And it manages to be quite readable, without being glaringly modern. There’s still some heft to it, which I prefer.
The tales themselves encompass a surprising array of moods: heroic, tragic, melancholy, humorous, bawdy. Realism and hyperbole exist side-by-side, nature and magic are siblings.
There’s no way Tolkien was not familiar with this. Väinämöinen is clearly one of the influences for Gandalf and the presentation has that archaic, song-laden feel of “The Lord of the Rings.” With a few notable lapses, Väinämöinen exudes wisdom and in the end leaves an almost Arthurian impression, as a kind of once and future king.
Väinämöinen is at the center of Sibelius’ symphonic poem “Pohjola’s Daughter” (1906), in which he attempts to woo the Daughter of the North, whom he espies seated atop a rainbow, weaving a cloth of gold. She agrees to marry him only if he is able to complete a series of impossible tasks. My favorite is tying an egg into invisible knots! Unfortunately, Väinämöinen wounds himself grievously with an axe while attempting to construct a boat from fragments of her distaff. You can hear Väinämöinen’s strivings in the work’s epic fanfares and perhaps the Daughter of the North’s mocking laughter in the slashing strings.
Equally evocative is Sibelius’ “Four Legends from the Kalevala” (1895-96, rev. 1897, 1900 & 1939). Its four movements are meant to evoke Lemminkäinen’s frollicking among the maidens of Saari; the “Swan of Tuonela” as it glides through the Realm of the Dead; the resurrection of Lemminkäinen, treacherously slain; and finally, Lemminkäinen’s homeward journey.
Early and epic, tragic-heroic “Kullervo” (1891-92): “Introduction;” “Kullervo’s Youth,” “Kullervo and His Sister;” “Kullervo Goes to War;” and “Kullervo’s Death.”