He hung the horsehairs in their places, he stretched them tight, he gave to each its proper length and tension. “Ha! ha!” he laughed. “Who now will say that nothing can be made of fish-bones? Here is something that will breathe forth music sweeter than a minstrel’s song. It will delight the young, the old, the rich, the poor—all sorts of people—with its rare and matchless melodies. Call it the kantele, call it the harp of the North, and let minstrels never fail to play upon it.”
The news of his invention spread quickly. The youths, the maidens came crowding round him. From the fields and the fishermen’s boats the men came running. From the huts and the washing pools the women came dancing. Half-grown boys and little girls pushed shyly forward—all curious to gaze on the wonderful kantele, all anxious to hear its sweet music. [[318]]And Wainamoinen passed it from hand to hand, saying, “Look at it, let your fingers play upon it, let its melodies rejoice your hearts.”
Wistfully the little girls, the maidens, the older women, all held the harp in their hands and with their tender fingers swept the harp strings. Boldly, confidently, the half-grown boys, the young men, the old fishermen, all grasped the wonderful instrument and tried to play upon it. But the tones which they drew from it were harsh, unpleasant, unmusical.
“It is not thus the kantele is played,” said Wainamoinen. “Not one of you can draw cheerful music from it, and yet the melodies are there; they lie hidden in the strings of horsehair, in the jawbone of the pike.”
“I can play it,” said the nimble Ahti. “With my long arms I can call forth the melodies that now lie slumbering within it. Let me try what I can do.”
Wainamoinen put the harp of fish-bone in his gnarly hands; he rested it upon his knees; very eagerly the little fellow swept the harp strings with the tips of his long fingers. But the sound which came forth was not music—it was a noise, discordant, grating, painful to the ears. [[319]]
“It is always thus,” said the Minstrel, growing impatient at last. “The poorest doers are the biggest boasters. The music of the kantele lies still beneath its bridge, beneath the jawbone of the pike. Not one of you has the skill to coax it forth from its lurking-place. Let us all go now to the village, to the roomy dwelling of Dame Louhi. Perhaps the Mistress of the land, the old, the grim, the gray, the Wise Woman of the North, will be able to touch the harp strings aright—perhaps she will know how to play the kantele and bring sweet melodies from its heart.”
And all the young men shouted, “To Dame Louhi’s dwelling! Let us see what the Wise Woman can do. Yes, lead us to Dame Louhi’s dwelling.” [[320]]