The first proper Finnish novel was not written until late in the 19th century. Appearing in 1870, “Seven Brothers,” by Aleksis Kivi, was eventually translated into many languages, but perhaps none of them were as unique or as isolated as Finnish itself. Even today we hear almost nothing of literature from Finland — “The Parson’s Widow” (Dalkey Archive Press, 280 pages, $13.95) by Marja-Liisa Vartio, first published in 1967 and newly translated by Aili and Austin Flint, is the first Finnish novel I have read.

Even a thorough acquaintance with Finnish literature might do little to prepare the reader for “The Parson’s Widow,” however. Ms. Vartio’s bleak novel could take place in any small town at any time in the modern age. Yet the state of play between her characters is so intimate, and so oddly developed, that even Finnish critics found this, her last novel, strange and surprising. “There is a glow of great laughter and bubbling madness in it,” wrote one critic. But it was also her most acclaimed novel, and is her first to appear in English.

Adele, an aging widow, lives alone with Alma, her 30-year-old maid. Among Alma’s many duties is the maintenance of dozens of stuffed birds, the legacy of Adele’s late husband, the parson. Adele insists that the birds are worth the trouble — “Can’t you see they’ve become immortal?” she asks, in a not-unusual flight of fancy. Adele is crazy, but for various reasons Alma takes her seriously — one of Ms. Vartio’s great triumphs is that she never lets us learn how many parts loyalty, and how many resentment, make up Alma’s service.

She and Adele live in constant disagreement, daring each other, almost, with new tedium. When Alma opens a window and a wad of insulation escapes over the sill, she goes to pick it up — but Adele tells her to forget about it, and criticizes Alma for caring.

When the distractions of household maintenance run dry — Adele cuts chores short systematically, cruelly — they turn to rehashing the stories of their lives. They are like retired pundits, working without any reference material, trying to reconstruct events down to the last contentious detail. Adele loves to interrupt Alma: “You’re forgetting about the cat, you used to say there was a cat.”

By the novel’s end, Alma has worked for Adele for 20 years. Adele’s sisters-in-law want Alma to testify, to a doctor, so that they can get Adele institutionalized — except that they don’t want to pay for an institution, and Alma doesn’t want to lose her job. Moreover, Alma has a lot in common with her superstitious mistress. Occasionally, she flashes out herself: “A grown-up human being wasn’t created just to peer at birds.” But Alma has a life story to rival Adele’s, and both women are prone to excitement. “Don’t get started,” they say to each other; and each has learned to recognize the beginning of a mood, a mood that usually comes with a long spool of talk and a sleepless night. Their only refuge is “medicine” — cognac that Alma has to beg from Adele’s brother-in-law, the pharmacist.

As superficially polite but poisonous “country people,” Ms. Vartio’s women recall Flannery O’Connor’s — and like that author, Ms. Vartio seems largely untainted by the nastiness of her characters. Her book itself feels clean and straightforward, despite the mean, insinuating characters. And Adele’s stuffed birds, though an eccentric symbol à la Ibsen’s wild duck, ultimately convince, and feel as plausible as O’Connor’s own peacocks.

“The Parson’s Widow” succeeds on the strength of Adele, a seemingly cartoonish character who, on the page, possesses dignity and whose emotions, though narcissistic and tyrannical, bear the seasoning of 50 crazy years. Alma marvels at her mistress’s cunning: “She can even read my thoughts. She stops in the middle of a room, cocks her head as if she’s listening, as to some nonexistent telephone receiver.” And the pharmacist, a drunk, delivers a speech at the book’s end that feels like it should be acted, it’s so rich. He seems to think Adele is a very rare bird: “Do you see, Alma? Have you ever seen eyes brighter than the widow’s? Take a good look.” Though she would seem to be nothing but a bottomless self-deception, Adele never seems like an empty character.

Ms. Vartio’s book is ultimately a study in what’s sacred — the birds, which Adele literally worships, are flimsy, but Adele’s need to believe has an irresistible urgency. “How could she tell them she had sat all evening worshipping the setting sun?” she worries, when finally confronted by the pharmacist’s wife, who has her own view of things, incorrect in its own, more normal way. The quality of these angles on reality, the misunderstandings, the variety and the consistent plausibility of everyone’s theories, and the way the adumbrated plot, as a substrate for the novel, stays just barely believable while it grows these marvelous theories and hatreds, is a testament to Ms. Vartio’s considerable talents, available to us now for the first time.

blytal@nysun.com