Tuuri
A translation of Tuuri
Thus sang the gods,
the longbeards chanted
by the shore of Alue lake,
in Tuuri’s new house:
“Blessed is our lot in life
when luck is in favour
and skill is guiding the hand.
Wealth is not consumed by living
nor beer reduced by serving.”
Tuuri the happy,
the skilled peasant,
poured beer into a pitcher
and spoke:
“There is wealth, there is joy,
we have no lack of food,
there is but one sorrow of the heart:
stern Tuoni shall come,
Death shall reap us all.”
As soon as he finished saying that,
bells were heard on the winter road,
jingle bells at the back of the alley;
the host himself listened,
the mighty creators fell silent.
A guest entered the house,
ice on his fur coat, his beard frozen,
his eyebrows frosty;
a candle went out in the room,
Tuuri’s face grew pale.
Uninvited Death spoke:
“Since I hear no greeting,
I shall greet myself.”
Happy Tuuri,
the skilled peasant,
felt his blood chill
and his heart stop
from wordless agony;
yet he spoke courteously:
“Please sit down and join the revels,
I will offer you a pint of beer.”
The cold visitor uttered:
“I did not come here for revels,
I will pour my own pint.”
He walked over to the noble ones,
emptied a foaming pitcher
and said:
“Since no one asks me for news,
I shall ask myself:
the road is ready for this man to travel,
the sleigh is prepared for this hero.”
Tuuri felt feeble and his knees were giving in;
falling to the feet of the gods,
he cried miserably:
“I am not yet ready to part
with my home, with my land,
with my fine wife.
I ask for one day of mercy,
one week, one year.”
Holy heads nodded.
Death smiled strangely:
“No man is carried away by force,
much less a brother of the gods.
I have time to wait.”
Death left the house,
closed the door;
the master let out his breath,
even the guests breathed a sigh of relief.
Happy Tuuri,
the skilled peasant,
felt an intoxication in his blood,
felt his heart swell
from a sudden burst of joy;
he poured beer into a pitcher
and spoke:
“There is wealth, there is joy,
best food on the table,
and it is a great pleasure for a man
to come back from the underworld,
to see Death repelled.”
The feast continued, pints were filled,
filled and at once emptied. –
The skilled Tuuri got drunk.
He woke up in an empty house,
heard the hammer of frost,
looked out the window:
there was a stallion in front of the door
waiting in his harness,
a fat man sat at the back of the sleigh,
the collar of his fur coat pulled high.
Morning stars faded,
a winter’s day dawned.
He thought of yesterday’s merriment
and spoke in jest:
“The house to work, the guest to the road.
Hoy, time to wake up!”
There was no sound.
He started a fire with a tinderbox.
He looked through the rooms and the porch,
then went upstairs
where his bride slept,
and spoke at the end of the stairs:
“Rise and shine, darling,
the morning stars are fading.”
There was no response.
Happy Tuuri,
the skilled peasant,
was feeling strange,
felt tremors in his blood;
returning downstairs,
he went to the fireplace:
the stones were cold.
He looked outside:
the horse stood there like a wall,
the man sat there like steep rapids.
Thinking of his worries from yesterday,
he smiled:
“It is good to be favoured by fortune,
to be a friend of known gods.”
He yawned at length
and lay down on his bed,
thinking to sleep through the day;
he turned his head, shifted his arms,
tried one side, then the other,
yet sleep would not come.
Tuuri sprang to his feet,
swore angrily:
“This party won’t improve
unless some guests leave.”
The frosty coachman spoke:
“Let us be on our way, then.”
Tuuri recognized his visitor,
his heart shook in his chest.
“I was given a year of mercy.”
The rime-beard snorted.
“You must have gotten a hundred –
still not ready to go?”
Tuuri did not remember having lived
any more than on the previous day.
“I had a little boy.”
Gray Death said:
“He is dead and buried,
been lying in the underworld for a generation.”
Happy Tuuri,
the skilled peasant,
now understood the gifts of the gods,
spoke grimly:
“May it never be
that gods feast
with mortal folk!
The feasts of gods are long
while human life is fleeting,
rapid as a turning wheel.
The golden days pass,
precious time is spent
and a man’s back bends
in that long banquet,
the bacchanal of the gods.”
He sat in Death’s sleigh,
bells jingled
in the twilight of the winter morning;
for a while the sound was heard on the road,
until it vanished on the ice of the lake.
Thus sang the gods,
the longbeards chanted
by the shore of Alue lake,
in Tuuri’s new house:
“Blessed is our lot in life
when luck is in favour
and skill is guiding the hand.
Wealth is not consumed by living
nor beer reduced by serving.”
Tuuri the happy,
the skilled peasant,
poured beer into a pitcher
and spoke:
“There is wealth, there is joy,
we have no lack of food,
there is but one sorrow of the heart:
stern Tuoni shall come,
Death shall reap us all.”
As soon as he finished saying that,
bells were heard on the winter road,
jingle bells at the back of the alley;
the host himself listened,
the mighty creators fell silent.
A guest entered the house,
ice on his fur coat, his beard frozen,
his eyebrows frosty;
a candle went out in the room,
Tuuri’s face grew pale.
Uninvited Death spoke:
“Since I hear no greeting,
I shall greet myself.”
Happy Tuuri,
the skilled peasant,
felt his blood chill
and his heart stop
from wordless agony;
yet he spoke courteously:
“Please sit down and join the revels,
I will offer you a pint of beer.”
The cold visitor uttered:
“I did not come here for revels,
I will pour my own pint.”
He walked over to the noble ones,
emptied a foaming pitcher
and said:
“Since no one asks me for news,
I shall ask myself:
the road is ready for this man to travel,
the sleigh is prepared for this hero.”
Tuuri felt feeble and his knees were giving in;
falling to the feet of the gods,
he cried miserably:
“I am not yet ready to part
with my home, with my land,
with my fine wife.
I ask for one day of mercy,
one week, one year.”
Holy heads nodded.
Death smiled strangely:
“No man is carried away by force,
much less a brother of the gods.
I have time to wait.”
Death left the house,
closed the door;
the master let out his breath,
even the guests breathed a sigh of relief.
Happy Tuuri,
the skilled peasant,
felt an intoxication in his blood,
felt his heart swell
from a sudden burst of joy;
he poured beer into a pitcher
and spoke:
“There is wealth, there is joy,
best food on the table,
and it is a great pleasure for a man
to come back from the underworld,
to see Death repelled.”
The feast continued, pints were filled,
filled and at once emptied. –
The skilled Tuuri got drunk.
He woke up in an empty house,
heard the hammer of frost,
looked out the window:
there was a stallion in front of the door
waiting in his harness,
a fat man sat at the back of the sleigh,
the collar of his fur coat pulled high.
Morning stars faded,
a winter’s day dawned.
He thought of yesterday’s merriment
and spoke in jest:
“The house to work, the guest to the road.
Hoy, time to wake up!”
There was no sound.
He started a fire with a tinderbox.
He looked through the rooms and the porch,
then went upstairs
where his bride slept,
and spoke at the end of the stairs:
“Rise and shine, darling,
the morning stars are fading.”
There was no response.
Happy Tuuri,
the skilled peasant,
was feeling strange,
felt tremors in his blood;
returning downstairs,
he went to the fireplace:
the stones were cold.
He looked outside:
the horse stood there like a wall,
the man sat there like steep rapids.
Thinking of his worries from yesterday,
he smiled:
“It is good to be favoured by fortune,
to be a friend of known gods.”
He yawned at length
and lay down on his bed,
thinking to sleep through the day;
he turned his head, shifted his arms,
tried one side, then the other,
yet sleep would not come.
Tuuri sprang to his feet,
swore angrily:
“This party won’t improve
unless some guests leave.”
The frosty coachman spoke:
“Let us be on our way, then.”
Tuuri recognized his visitor,
his heart shook in his chest.
“I was given a year of mercy.”
The rime-beard snorted.
“You must have gotten a hundred –
still not ready to go?”
Tuuri did not remember having lived
any more than on the previous day.
“I had a little boy.”
Gray Death said:
“He is dead and buried,
been lying in the underworld for a generation.”
Happy Tuuri,
the skilled peasant,
now understood the gifts of the gods,
spoke grimly:
“May it never be
that gods feast
with mortal folk!
The feasts of gods are long
while human life is fleeting,
rapid as a turning wheel.
The golden days pass,
precious time is spent
and a man’s back bends
in that long banquet,
the bacchanal of the gods.”
He sat in Death’s sleigh,
bells jingled
in the twilight of the winter morning;
for a while the sound was heard on the road,
until it vanished on the ice of the lake.