Autumn 2013

The last lecture of the seminar took place
in the afternoon. Eneken Laanes talked about
Estonian historical novels and memory literature,
and how historical fiction had shaped
Estonians’ views of history. The genre began
with Bornhöhe’s work; the events of St
George’s Uprising could have been largely
invented by the author, but people accepted
everything as real. A great contribution to the
awakening-era historical memory was made
by Kreutzwald’s epic Kalevipoeg and by
Jakobson. The topics of interest at the end of
the 19th century were the crusades, the arrival
of the Lutheran church in Estonia, serfdom and
the awakening era. This was the first era of
the historical novel as a “portable monument”;
the genre was essential in encouraging the
emerging sense of nationality and national
identity. The second era of the Estonian historical
novel arrived during the years of Estonian
independence, in the 1920s and 1930s, when
a need emerged for masculine, successful,
militant figures; the topic of Baltic Germans and
Vikings was in fashion, and this was a time
when historical novels were first illustrated. Still,
like elsewhere in Europe, the historical novel
was not the strongest genre in Estonian
modernism. The historical novel in exile literature
during the Soviet era centred on European
topics, and recent history was treated through
different approaches. The 1970s witnessed
another era, where documentary novels appeared
on the literary scene, along with Jaan
Kross’s novels. It was possible to discuss the
complicated (recent) past only at the end of
the 1980s. New historical prose arrived in the
1990s: historical fiction and alternative voices
in literature. World War II was mostly tackled
by memory literature.
After the lecture, the programme became
quite free. Some tormented Indrek with various
translation problems, while some continued to
talk about The Pilgrimage. A few brave people
decided to have a swim in the sea, and some
preferred a walk in the forest, where swarms
of mosquitoes were happy to see that dinner
was served. Some worked at their laptops,
some braved the sauna, and some, i.e. definitely
one, enjoyed a stretch of solitary seaside,
sharing it with a fairly large fox who had captured
a bird. Another cat appeared in the village,
properly dressed but too shy, so photographs
only captured a blurred image.
On Wednesday we said farewell to
Käsmu, and took the bus to Tallinn. On the
way, we picked up Ott Sandrak, who guided
us through the town, along “the path of
Melchior”. Ott Sandrak’s knowledge of
Tallinn, medieval and otherwise, is astonishing.
He probably knows more about
each brick than the rest of us know about
the entire town. The trip was like a threehour
fairy tale about medieval Tallinn,
although we only walked in the lower town.
We saw St Olaf’s Church, observed the
different stages of construction of the town
wall and saw the oldest house in Tallinn. In
Rataskaevu (wheel well) Street, close to
“Melchior’s house”, we learned why the well
was no longer used there: a dead cat was
found in it. Heaven knows whether the little
creature was suicidal or whether someone
helped it to carry out the project, but its
death was enough to cover up the well. At
the Town Hall, we were told how courts
operated in the Middle Ages and what
clothes the officials wore. We were lucky to
see the rest of St Catherine’s Church and
the Dominican monastery. Finally we ended
up in Kloostri Ait, the former armoury of the
town, and tucked into our lunch of duck
whose days had ended unhappily.
We also visited the Estonian Literature
Centre’s premises on Brokusmägi. Our little
group scattered in the afternoon: catching a
flight, a bus or a train, but we all had
experienced a very successful seminar. The
days in Käsmu were full of useful talks and
encouraging discussions for future work. We
are all grateful to the Estonian Literature
Centre for a fascinating programme.
Nothing of this has found its way into
historical records, as records are no longer
kept. In one way or another, man’s life
blends into the past like fish into water. Even
if it is recorded in the chronicles. Only the
fish remains. Only water.
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