The Story of Kullervo

On ‘The Kalevala’ or Land of Heroes

I am afraid this paper was not originally written for this society, which I hope it will pardon since I produce it mainly to form a stop-gap tonight, to entertain you as far as possible in spite of the sudden collapse of the intended reader.

I hope the society will also forgive besides its second-hand character its quality: which is hardly that of a paper — rather a disconnected soliloquy accompanied by a leisurely patting on the back of a pet volume. If I continually drop into talking as if no one in the room had read these poems before, it is because no one had, when I first read it; and you must also attribute it to the pet attitude. I am very fond of these poems: they are litterature [sic] so very unlike any of the things that are familiar to general readers, or even to those versed in the more curious by paths: they are so un-European and yet could only come from Europe.

Any one who has read this collection of ballads (more especially in the original which is vastly different to any translation) will I think agree to that. Most people are familiar from the age of their earliest books onward with the general mould and type of mythological stories, legends, Romances that come to us from many sources: from Hellas by many channels, from the Celtic peoples Irish and British, and from the Teutonic (I put these in order of increasing appeal to myself); and which achieve forums, with their crowning glory in Stead’s Books for the Bairns: that mine of ancient lore. They have a certain style or savour; a something akin to one another in spite of their vast cleavages that make you feel that whatever the difference of ultimate race of those speakers there is something kindred in the imagination of the speakers of Indo-European languages.

Trickles come in from a vague and alien East of course (it is even reflected in the above beloved pink covers) but alien influence, if felt, is more on the final litterary shapes than on the fundamental stories. Then perhaps you discover the Kalevala, (or to translate it roughly: it is so much easier to say) the Land of Heroes; and you are at once in a new world; and can revel in an amazing new excitement. You feel like Columbus on a new Continent or Thorfinn in Vinland the good. When you first step onto the new land you can if you like immediately begin comparing it with the one you have come from. Mountains, rivers, grass, and so on are probably common features to both. Some plants and animals may seem familiar especially the wild and ferocious human species; but it is more likely to be the often almost indefinable sense of newness and strangeness that will either perturb you or delight you. Trees will group differently on the horizon, the birds will make unfamiliar music; the inhabitants will talk a wild and at first unintelligible lingo. At the worst I hope, however, that after this the country and its manners have become more familiar, and you have got on speaking terms with the natives, you will find it rather jolly to live with this strange people and these new gods awhile, with this race of unhypocritical scandalous heroes and sadly unsentimental lovers: and at the last you may feel you do not want to go back home for a long while if at all.

This is how it was for me when I first read the Kalevala — that is, crossed the gulf between the Indo-European-speaking peoples of Europe into this smaller realm of those who cling in queer corners to the forgotten tongues and memories of an elder day. The newness worried me, sticking in awkward lumps through the clumsiness of a translation which had not at all overcome its peculiar difficulties; it irritated and yet attracted: and each time you read it the more you felt at home and enjoyed yourself. When H. Mods should have been occupying all my forces I once made a wild assault on the stronghold of the original language and was repulsed at first with heavy losses: but it is easy almost to see the reason why the translations are not at all good; it is that we are dealing with a language separated by a quite immeasurable gulf in method and expression from English.

There is however a possible third case which I have not considered: you may be merely antagonistic and desire to catch the next boat back to your familiar country. In that case before you go, which had best be soon, I think it only fair to say that if you feel that heroes of the Kalevala do behave with a singular lack of conventional dignity and with a readiness for tears and dirty dealing, they are no more undignified and not nearly so difficult to get on with as a medieval lover who takes to his bed to weep for the cruelty of his lady, in that she will not have pity on him and condemns him to a melting death; but who is struck with the novelty of the idea when his kindly adviser points out that the poor lady is as yet uninformed in any way of his attachment. The lovers of the Kalevala are forward and take a deal of rebuffing. There is no Troilus to need a Pandarus to do his shy wooing for him: rather here it is the mothers-in-law who do some sound bargaining behind the scenes and give cynical advice to their daughters calculated to shatter the most stout illusions.

One repeatedly hears the ‘Land of Heroes’ described as the ‘national Finnish Epic’: as if a nation, besides if possible a national bank theatre and government, ought also automatically to possess a national epic. Finland does not. The K[alevala] is certainly not one. It is a mass of conceivably epic material: but, and I think this is the main point, it would lose nearly all that which is its greatest delight if it were ever to be epically handled. The main stories, the bare events, alone could remain; all that underworld, all that rich profusion and luxuriance which clothe them would be stripped away. The ‘L[and] of H[eroes]’ is in fact a collection of that delightful absorbing material which, on the appearance of an epic artist, because of its comparative lowness of emotional pitch, has elsewhere inevitably been cast aside and afterwards overshadowed (far too often) has vanished into disuse and utter oblivion.

It is any case to all that body of myth of queer troglodyte story, of wild jugglings with the sun and moon and the origins of the earth and the shapes of Man that in Homer (for instance) has properly been pruned away: it is to this that the Kalevala may be compared, not to the larger grandeur of the epic theme. Or again it is to the quaint tales, the outrageous ghosts, the sorceries and by-tracks of human imagination and belief that crop out here and there in the usually intensely clear air of the sagas that the ‘L of H’ can be likened, not to the haughty dignity and courage, the nobility of which the greater sagas tell.

But the queer and strange, the unrestrained, the grotesque is not only interesting: it is valuable. It is not always necessary to purge it out altogether in order to attain to the Sublime. You can have your gargoyles on your noble cathedral, but Europe has lost much through too often trying to build Greek Temples.

We have here then a collection of mythological ballads full of that very primitive undergrowth that the litterature of Europe has on the whole been cutting away and reducing for centuries with different and earlier completeness in different peoples. Such a collection would no doubt be the despoil of anthropologists who might luxuriate here awhile. Commentators I know make many notes to their translations, saying ‘Compare this story with the one told in the Andaman Isles’ or ‘Compare that belief with the one shown in the Hausa Folktales’ and so forth: but let us avoid this. It after all only proves that Finns and Andaman Islanders are nearly related animals (which we knew before). Therefore let us rather rejoice that we have come suddenly upon a storehouse of those popular imaginings which we had feared lost, stocked with stories as yet not sophisticated into a sense of proportion; with no thought of the decent limits even of exaggeration, with no sense, or rather not our sense, of the incongruous (except where we suspect incongruity is delighted in). We are taking a holiday from the whole course of progress of the last three Millenniums: and going to be wildly unhellenic and barbarous for a time, like the boy who hoped the future life would provide for half holidays in Hell, away from Eton collars and hymns.

The glorious exaggerations of these ballads, by way of illustration, recall the method of story telling in the Mabinogion, but really their cases are rather different. In the K[alevala] there is no attempt at plausibility, no cunning concealment of the impossible; merely the child’s delight in saying how he has cut down a million trees and slaughtered twenty policemen: which has no thought to take you in but is a primitive hero-story. Of course in the Mab[inogion] there is the same delight in a good story, in a strong swap of imagination but the picture has more technique: its colours are marvellously schemed, its figures grouped. It is not so with L. of H. If a man kills a gigantic elk in one line it may be a she-bear in the next. To elaborate this is unnecessary: but it might be made the occasion of an attempt to say just what I find the atmosphere of the Kalevala to be: which you can correct from your own knowledge, or from the extracts which I would wish to read until your patience was exhausted and you felt the appropriateness of the last remarks of the Kalevala.

‘Een the waterfall when flowing /yields no endless stream of water./ Nor does an accomplished singer /sing till all his knowledge fail him.’

What I feel is — that there is no background of litt[erary] tradition. The M[abinogion] has such a background: a feeling of a great amount of devel[opment] which has resulted in a field of the most excellently harmonised and subtly varied colours against which the figures of the actors of the stories stand out; but they also harmonize with the marvellous surrounding colour-scheme and lose in startlingness if not in clearness. Most similar national legend litt[erature] has something of it. The Kalevala to me feels to have none. The colours, the deeds, the marvels, and the figures of the heroes are all splashed onto a clean bare canvas by a sudden hand: even the legends concerning the origins of the most ancient things seem to come fresh from the singer’s hot imagination of the moment. There are no ultra modernities like trams or guns or aeroplanes in it: the heroes’ weapons it is true are the so-called ‘antique’ bow and spear or sword but at the same time there is a ‘nowness’, a quite unhazy unromantic momentariness and presentness that quite startles you, especially when you discover that you are reading all the time of the earth being made out of a teal’s egg or the sun and moon being shut up in a mountain.

As to what is known of the origin of the Kalevala: ever since the coming of Väinämöinen and his making of the great harp, his Kantele fashioned of pike-bone, from what we know of the Finns they have always been fond of ballads; and those ballads have been handed on and sung day after day with unending zest from father to son and son to grandson down to the present day when, as the ballads now bewail: ‘The songs are songs of bygone ages/ hidden words of ancient wisdom/, songs which all the children sing not/ all beyond men’s comprehension/ in these ages of unfortune/ when the race is near its ending.’ The Shadow of Sweden and then of Russia has been over the country for many centuries. Petrograd is in Finland. But the remarkable and delightful thing is that these ‘songs of bygone ages’ have not been tinkered with.

Sweden finally in [the] 12th cent[ury] conq[uered] Finland (after contin. warfare combined with some intercourse that stretches back beyond the beg[inning] of our era in which too our own ancestors in Holstein had a good part). Christianity then began slowly to be introduced — in other words the Finns were one of the last acknowledged pagan peoples in Med[ieval] Eur[ope]. The Ka[levala] today is pract[ically] untouched: and except at the end and in a few references to Ukko God of Heaven even hints at the existence of Christianity are almost entirely absent. These largely account for its interest and ‘undergrowth’ character, though also for its minor emot[ional] key: its narrow and parochial view (things in themselves not without delight).

For another seven cen[turies] the ballads were handed on in spite of Sweden, in spite of Russia and were not written down until Elias Lönnrot in 1835 made a selection of them. These were all collected in Eastern Finland and are consequently in a dialect diff[erent] to that of modern litterary Finnish. This dial[ect] has become a kind of poetic convention. Lönnrot was not the only collector, but it was to him that it occurred to string a selection into loosely connected form — as it would seem from the result with no small skill. He called it the Land of Heroes, Kalevala from Kaleva the mythological ancestor of all the heroes. It consisted of twenty-five Runos (or Cantos): this was enlarged with new collected material to double, and published again in 1849, and almost immediately appeared in translation in other lang[uages].

It is interesting to realize however that this ballad-singing, nevertheless, still goes on: that those ballads here by chance crystallized for us are capable of and still undergo a thousand variations. The Kalevala, too, is by no means all the ballad litt[erature] of Finland and is not even the whole of the collected ballads even of Lönnrot, who published as well a whole volume of them under the name ‘Kanteletar’ or the ‘Daughter of the Harp’. The Kalevala is only different in this that it is connected and so more readable, and covers most of the field of Finnish mythology from the Genesis of Earth and Sky to the depart[ure] of Väinämöinen. The lateness of its collection is apt to make those with a prob[ably] unwholesome modern thirst for the ‘authentically primitive’ feel doubtful. It is however very likely the real reason why the treasure house remained unrifled: it was not redecorated or upholstered, whitewashed or otherwise spoilt: it was left to the care of chance; to the genius of the fire-side and escaped the pedant and the instructive person.

[Jumala, whose name translates God in the Bible, is still in the Kalevala the God of clouds and rain, the old man of the sky, the guardian of the many Daughters of Creation] — It is very parallel to the interest of Icelandic Bishops in the adventures [of] Thórr and Óðinn; it is hardly an instance as I have heard claimed, of the still-struggling presence of paganism in Modern Eur[ope] under layers of Christianity or later of Hebraic biblicality. Even when collected and at last suffering the fate of reproduction in print these poems by luck escaped being handled roughly or moralistically: it is a startling litterature to be so popular among that now most law-abiding and most Lutheran of Europe’s peoples.

The language of these poems, Finnish, makes a strong bid for the place of most difficult in Europe: though it is anything but ugly, in fact it suffers like many lang[uages] of its type from an excess of euphony: so much so that the music of language is apt to be expended automatically and leave no excess with which to heighten the emotion of a lyric passage. Where vowel harmony and the softening of cons[onants] is an integral part of ordinary speech, there is less chance for sudden unexpected sweetnesses. It is a language practically isolated in Europe except for the related and neighbouring Estonia whose stories and whose tongue are very closely akin. (I am told it bears relation to tribal speeches in Russia, to Magyar, to Turkish in the far distance.) It bears no relation to either of its neighbours except in process of borrowing: it is too a language of a type altogether more primitive than most in Europe. It still partakes of a flexible fluid unfixed state inconceivable in English. In the poetry meaningless syllables and even meaningless words that just sound jolly are freely inserted. In such lines as

or

are possible where pänkerelle merely echoes Penkerelle, and Ihveniä and Tuimenia are merely invented to set off ahvenia and taimenia.

Its metre is roughly the same as that of the translation though much freer: octosyllabic lines with about four stresses (two main ones usually two subordinate). It is of course the unrhymed trochaic metre of ‘Hiawatha’. This was pirated as was the idea of the poem and much of the incident (though none of its spirit at all) by Longfellow — a fact which I merely mention because it is usually kept dark in biographical notices of that poet. ‘Hiawatha’ is not a genuine storehouse of Indian folklore, but a mild and gentle bowdlerising of the Kalevala coloured I imagine with disconnected bits of Indian lore and perhaps a few genuine names. L[ongfellow]’s names are often too good to be inventions. It was either L[ongfellow]’s second or third journey to Europe (the one whose object was the acquiring of Dan[ish] and Swed[ish]) that connected with the Kal[evala]’s first rush into translations in Scandinavian and German. The pathos, I think, only of the Kalevala finds anything like an equal reflection in its imitator (a gentle mild and rather dull American don the author of Evangeline) ‘who the London Daily News (I am now quoting an American appreciation) admitted had produced one of the most marvellous lines in all English: ‘Chanting the Hundredth Psalm that Grand old Puritan Anthem.’’

This metre, monotonous and thin as it can be, is indeed if well handled capable of the most poignant pathos (if not of more majestic things): I do not mean the ‘Death of Minnehaha’ but in the Kalevala the ‘Fate of Aino’ and the ‘Death of Kullervo’, where it is enhanced, not hindered, by the to us humorous naïveté of the unsophisticated mythological surroundings. Pathos is common in the Kalevala — often very true and keen. One of the favourite subjects — not a majestic one but very well handled — is the other side to a wedding which the ‘happy ever after’ style of litt[erature] usually avoids: — the lament and heartsinking even of a willing bride on leaving her father’s house and the familiar things of home. This in the state of society reflected in the ‘Land of Heroes’ was evidently near to tragedy, where mothers-in-law were worse than anywhere in litterature, and where families dwelt in ancestral homes for generations — sons and their wives all under the iron hand of the Matriarch.

If you are bored of the sing-song character of this metre, as you may well be, it is only well to remember that these are only accidentally as it were written things; they are in essence sing-songs chanted to the harp as the singers swayed backwards and forwards in time. There are many allusions to this custom: as for instance at the beginning:

The Religion of these poems is a luxuriant animism — it can hardly be separated from the purely mythological: this means that in the Kalevala every stock and stone, every tree, the birds, waves, hills, air, the tables, swords and the beer even have well defined personalities which it is one of the quaint merits of the poems to bring out with singular skill and aptness in numerous ‘speeches in part’: The most remarkable of these is the speech of the sword to Kullervo before he throws himself upon its point. If a sword had a character you feel it would be just such as is pictured there: a cruel and cynical ruffian; see Runo 36/330. There is also the mention of a few other cases, the lament of the Birch Tree; or the passage (reminiscent of ‘Hiawatha’ but better) where Väinämöinen seeks a tree to give him timber for his boat (Runo XVI); or where Lemminkainen’s mother seeking for her lost son (R XV) asks all things that she meets for news, the moon, the trees, even the pathway and they answer in characterized parts. This is one of the most essential features of the whole poem: even ale talks on occasion — as in a passage I hope to have time to read, the story of the Origin of Beer (Runo XX 522/546).

The Kalevaläic idea of Beer is often enthusiastically expressed but the oft-repeated ‘The Ale is of the finest, best of Drinks for prudent people’ implies (as also the rest of the poems do) a certain moderation. The joys of Teutonic drunkenness do not seem to have appealed so much as other vices; though drink’s value in setting free the imagination (and the tongue) was often praised (Runo 21. 260):

But beyond this there is a wealth of mythology; every tree wave and hill again has its nymph and spirit (distinct from the character app[arentl]y of each individual object). There is the nymph of blood and the veins: the spirit of the rudder: there is Moon and his children, the Sun and his (they are both masculine). There is a dim and awesome figure (the nearest approach to regal dignity) Tapio God of the Forest and his spouse Mielikki, with their fairylike son and daughter ‘Tellervo little maiden of the Forest clad in soft and beauteous garments’ and her brother Nyyrikki with his red cap and blue coat; there is Jumala or Ukko in the heavens and Tuoni in the earth or rather in some vague dismal region beside a river of strange things.

Ahti and his wife Vellamo dwell in the waters and there are a thousand new and quaint characters for acquaintance [ — ] Pakkanen the frost, Lempo the god of evil, Kankahatar the goddess of weaving — but a catalogue does not I am afraid inspire the unintroduced and bores the others. The division between the offspring of nymphs and sprites — you cannot really call them gods it is much too Olympic — and the human characters is hardly clearly drawn at all. Väinämöinen, most human of liars, most versatile and hardy of patriarchs, who is the central figure, is the son of the Wind and of Ilmatar (daughter of the Air). Kullervo most tragic of peasant boys is but two generations from a swan.

I give you just this jumble of gods great and small to give some impression of the delightful atmosphere into which you plunge in the Kalevala — in case some have never plunged. If you are not of this temperament — or think you are not designed for getting on well with these divine personages, I assure you they behave most charmingly, and all obey the great Rule of the Game in the Kalevala which is to tell at least three lies before imparting any accurate information however trivial. It had become I think a kind of formula of polite behaviour, for no one seems to believe you until your fourth statement (which you modestly preface with ‘all the truth I now will tell you, though at first I lied a little’[)].

So much for religion, if you can call it such, and the imaginary background. The real scenery of the poems, the place of most of its action is Suomi the Marshland: Finnland [sic] as we call it or as the Finns often call it the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes. Short of going there I imagine one could scarcely get a better picture of the land than the Kalevala gives (of the land a century ago at any rate, if not of modern progress): it is instinct with love of it: of its bogs and wide marshes in which stand kind of islands formed by rising ground as by hills topped with trees perhaps. The bogs are always before you or beside you and a worsted or outwitted hero is always thrown into one. One sees the lakes and reed-fenced flats with slow rivers: the perpetual fishing: the pile-built houses — and then in winter the land covered with sleighs and men faring over quick and firm alike on snow-shoes.

Juniper, Pine, Fir, aspen, birch, scarce the oak, seldom any other tree, are continually mentioned; and whatever they be nowadays in Finland the bear and wolf are persons of great importance in the ‘Kalevala’ and many sub-arctic animals besides which we do not know in Britain.

The customs are all strange and the colours: the pleasures and the dangers different: Cold on the whole is regarded with the greatest horror, and perpetual steaming hot baths are one of the greatest daily features. The Sauna or bath-house (a quite separate and elaborate building affixed to all respectable homesteads) has I believe from time immemorial been a charact[eristic] of Finnish dwellings. They take these hot and often.

Society is composed of prosperous households and scattered villages; the poems deal with the highest life but that is only with the life of the richer farmers separated a little from the village. Nothing causes more violent anger to any of the heroes than for his wife to demean herself by going to talk ‘down in the village’. It reflects a quiet and moderately contented people but shorn of all the higher and more majestic aspects of national life or tradition: they are governed from above by an alien power. Rarely does such a word as king come in: there is no courtly grandeur, no castles (where they are mentioned it is often mere bad translation).

Patriarchs, stout yeomen with white beards are the most majestic figures to be seen (when their wife is not there). The power of mothers is the most arresting characteristic. Even old Väinämöinen consults his mother on most occasions of difficulty: this tying to the apron-strings goes on even after death; and instructions are issued occasionally from the grave. The housewife’s opinion is universally put first. The feelings towards mothers and sisters are far the most genuine and deep and powerful throughout. A confirmed villain of loose morals and wife-beating propensities as the lively Lemminkainen (as he is always called) shows only his best most and affectionate feelings for his mother. The great tragedy of Kullervo (the reckless peasant boy) is one of brother and sister.

Beyond Finland we are often carried in sleighs or boats, or by more swift and magic means, to Pohja, a mirky misty northland country, sometimes evidently thought of as Lappland, more often it is no one seems clear where, whence magic comes and all manner of marvels; where Luohi [sic] dwells who hid the Sun and moon. Sweden, the Lapps, Estonia are often mentioned: Saxony (which is our present enemy) rarely and distantly. Russia our ally not often and usually unpleasantly; of a heartless virago of a wife it is said ‘all estranged is now thy brother and his wife is like a Russian’; and of the most desperate and miserable life it is said to be ‘as a prisoner lives in Russia only that the jail is wanting’.

I have now tried to suggest without any detailing of plot or retailing of tit-bits to hint at the style and quality of the Kalevala, the Land of Heroes. Its style of course largely depends on all these beliefs and social characteristics I have talked of: there are however some very curious tricks[?] of a more accidental and individual character which so colour the whole that they seem worth mentioning before I cease from my meandering discourse.

There is the curious thing I should like to call ‘super-adding’ by which often a comparison as even after a statement the next line contains a great enlargement of it, often with reckless alteration of detail or of fact: colours, metals, names are piled up not for their distinct representation of ideas so much as just for the emotional effect. There is a strange and often effectively lavish use of the words gold and silver, and honey, which are strewn up and down the lines. Colours are rarer; rather do we get gold and silver, moonlight and sunlight, an intense delight in both of which is frequently breaking forth.

There are many such details as these; the incantations, or prayers of deprecation are more essential; they perpetually recur in the presence of any evil or evil feared, and vary from five lines to five hundred, which is the length of the splendid ‘Kine-song’ of Ilmarinen’s wife; while most delightful too are ‘songs of origin’ — you have only got to know the accurate detailed history of the origin birth and ancestry of anyone (I don’t say any thing because there is practically no such distinction for the Kalevala) to have the power to stop the evil and cure the damage he has done or otherwise deal with him. The songs of the ‘Origin of Iron’ and the ‘Origin of Beer’ are the most delightful.

To conclude — although it is clear that to our artificial rather over-selfconscious modern taste, a lot of cheap smiles can be got out of these poems (above all out of a bad or mediocre translation) — yet that is not the attitude in which I wish to put them before you. There is a certain humour (in conversation between characters and so forth) which it is justifiable to smile at, but it is really to incur laughter for [our] own weakness, our own dulled vision, as of old age, if we laugh too loftily at the simplicity of the balder passages of the Land of Heroes: unless indeed we laugh for pleasure at the finding of something so fresh and delightful.

But there are passages which are not only entertaining stories of magic and adventure, quaint myths, or legend; but which are truly lyrical and delightful even in translation, and this high poetical feeling is continually occurring in lines, or couplets, or numbers of lines up and down the Runos but so unlevel as to make purple passage quot[ation] useless. The episodes too and situations are by no means inferior (often vastly superior) to the ballads of much more famous countries than Finland. We are dealing with a popular poetry: overburdened with no technique; unconscious and uneven.

But the delight of Earth, the wonder of it; the essential feeling as of the necessity for magic; that juggling with the golden moon and silver sun (such are they) that is man’s universal pastime: these are the things to seek in the Kalevala. All the world to wheel about in, the Great Bear to play with and Orion and the Seven Stars all dangling magically in the branches of a silver birch enchanted by Väinämöinen; the splendid sorcerous scandalous villains of old to tell of when you have bathed in the ‘Sauna’ after binding the kine at close of day into pastures of little Suomi in the Marshes.

[The formal text apparently ends here, but the following page is clearly sequential and contains an introduction and notes for passages to be read aloud.]

The translation I am going to use is that of the ‘Everyman’ series (2 vols) W.H. Kirby: who sometimes seems to plump unnecessarily for the prosy and verbally preposterous, though the great difficulty of course, of the original style is hard to exaggerate. As far as I can see he seems to have tried as nearly as possible the task of making each line correspond to each line of the original which hasn’t improved things: but occasionally he is very good indeed.

If anyone does not know the story (and there is time) I can scarcely do better than read the bald summary in the preface to this edition.

Passages:

The favourites among the Finns are the episodes of ‘Aino’ and ‘Kullervo’

1) Aino R. III 530 (circa) to end: R. IV (140–190) 190–470

2) Kullervo R. 31:. 1–200 34 1–80 35 (170) 190–290 36 (60–180) 280–end

3) The ‘Kine-Song’ (cp. above page) 32 60–160 210–310

(This includes the classic example of ‘wheedling’: the bear of course is the most hated of all animals to the farmer’s wife: this is how she addresses him. 32 310–370;. 390–430;. 450–470)

4) Origin of Iron IX 20–260

5) Origin of Beer XX 140–250:. 340–390

6) Forging of Sampo X 260–430

7) Great Ox XX 1–80

8) Joukahainen III 270–490

9) Tormenting of the Bride XXII 20–120; (130–190) (290–400)