ON WE JOG
It is difficult for strangers to travel through the heart of Finland,
for every person may not be so lucky as to be passed on from one
charming friend to another equally delightful, as we were; and,
therefore, we would like to suggest the formation of a guides' bureau at
_Helsingfors_, where men and women teachers from the schools--who are
thoroughly well educated and always hold excellent social positions in
Finland--could be engaged as couriers. These teachers speak English,
French, and German, and would probably be glad to improve that knowledge
for a few weeks by acting as friendly guides for a trifling sum in
return for their expenses.
It is only a suggestion, but the schools being closed in June, July, and
August, the teachers are then free, and voyageurs are willing to
explore, though their imperfect knowledge of Finnish prevents their
penetrating far from steamers and trains.
As we drove towards _Lapinlahti_ we were surprised by many things: the
smallness of the sheep, generally black, and very like those of
_Astrakhan_; the hairiness of the pigs, often piebald; the politeness
of the natives, all of whom curtsied or took off their hats; the
delicious smell the sun was drawing out of the pine trees, and, perhaps
more wonderful still, the luxuriance of gorgeously coloured
wild-flowers, which are often as beautiful as in spring-time in
Switzerland or Morocco; the numbers of singing birds, and, above all,
the many delicious wild berries. The wild strawberries of Finland in
July are surprising, great dishes of them appear at every meal. Paris
has learnt to appreciate them, and at all the grand restaurants of Paris
cultivated "wild strawberries" appear. In Finland, the peasant children
slice a foot square of bark from a birch tree, bend it into the shape of
a box without a lid, then sew the sides together with a twig by the aid
of their long native knives, and, having filled the basket, eagerly
accept a penny for its contents. Every one eats strawberries. The
peasants themselves half live on them, and, certainly, the wild berries
of Switzerland are far less numerous, and not more sweet than those of
Finland.
As evening drew on smoke rose from the proximity of the homesteads, and
we wondered what it could be, for there are never any trees near the
houses.
These are the cow-fires, lighted when the animals come to be milked. The
poor creatures are so pestered and tormented by gnats and flies--of
which Finland has more than her share--that fires are kindled towards
evening, a dozen in one field sometimes, where they are to be milked, to
keep the torments away. The cows are wonderfully clever, they know the
value of the fires, and all huddle close up to them, glad of the restful
reprieve, after the worry they have endured all day. Poor patient
beasts, there they stand, chewing the cud, first with one side of their
body turned towards the flames and then the other, the filmy smoke, the
glow of the fire and the rays of the sunlight, hiding and showing
distinctly by turns the girls and their kine. The dairymaids come with
their stools to milk their soft-eyed friends, and on blazing hot summer
evenings they all sit closely huddled round the fires together.
These milkmaids have some strange superstitions still lurking in their
breasts, and the juice of the big birch tree is sometimes given to cows
to make them yield better butter.
_Lapinlahti_ is a typical Finnish village, and had at least one
newspaper of its own, so advanced were the folk, even at the time of my
first visit.
Outside the little post-station we were much amused to read on a board
"528 kilos. to St. Petersburg, 470 kilos. to Uleåborg." But we were more
amazed on our return from a ramble, prepared to grumble that the meal
ordered an hour before was not ready, when the host walked into the
room, and, making a most polite bow, said in excellent English--
"Good day, ladies."
"Do you speak English?" we asked.
"Certainly. I think I ought to after doing so for sixteen years."
We were immensely surprised. Who could have expected to find in the
interior of Finland a peasant landlord who was also an English linguist?
He seemed even more delighted to see us, than we were to have an
opportunity of learning something concerning the country from one
speaking our own tongue so perfectly, for it is a little difficult to
unravel intricate matters when the intermediary is a Swedish-speaking
Finlander, who has to translate what the peasant says into French or
German for your information, you again retranslating it into English for
your own purposes.
Our host spoke English fluently, and it turned out that, having been a
sailor like so many of the Finns, he had spent sixteen years of his life
on board English vessels. He preferred them, he said, as the pay was
twice as good as on the Finnish boats.
He told us that many of his countrymen went away to sea for a few years
and saved money, the wise ones bringing it home and investing it in a
plot of land; "but," he added, "they do not all succeed, for many of
them have become so accustomed to a roving life, and know so little of
farming, that they cannot manage to make it pay. I have worked very hard
myself, and am getting along all right;" and, looking at his
surroundings, we certainly thought he must be doing very well indeed.
The most remarkable rocking-chair we had ever seen in our lives stood in
his sitting-room. The Finlanders love rocking-chairs as dearly as the
Americans do, but it is not often that they are double; our host's,
however, was more than double--it was big enough for two fat Finlanders,
or three ordinary persons to sit in a row at the same time, and it
afforded us some amusement.
As there is hardly a house in Finland without its rocking-chair, so
there is seldom a house which is not decorated somewhere or other with
elk horns. The elk, like deer, shed their horns every year, and as
Finland is crowded with these Arctic beasts, the horns are picked up in
large quantities. They are handsome, but heavy, for the ordinary elk
horn is far more ponderous in shape and weight and equal in width to a
Scotch Royal. The ingenuity of the Finlander is great in making these
handsome horns into hat-stands, umbrella-holders, stools,
newspaper-racks, and portfolio-stands, or interlacing them in such a
manner as to form a frieze round the top of the entrance hall in their
homes. A really good pair will cost as much as twenty-five shillings,
but when less well-grown, or in any way chipped or damaged, they can be
bought for a couple of shillings.
A Finnish hall, besides its elk-horn decorations, is somewhat of a
curiosity. For instance, at one of the Governor's houses where we
chanced to dine, we saw for the first time with surprise what we
repeatedly saw again in Finland. Along either wall was a wooden stand
with rows and rows of pegs upon it for holding hats and coats. There
were two pegs, one below the other, so that the coat might go beneath,
while the hat resting over it did not get hurt. But below each of these
pegs, a few inches from the floor, was a little wooden box with an open
side. They really looked like forty or fifty small nests for hens to lay
their eggs in, and we were very much interested to know what they could
be for. What was our surprise to learn they were for goloshes.
In winter the younger guests arrive on snow-shoes (_skidor_), but
during wet weather or when the road is muddy, during the thaws of
spring, they always wear goloshes, and as it is considered the worst of
taste to enter a room with dirty boots, the goloshes are left behind
with the coat in the hall. This reminded us of Henrik Ibsen's home in
Christiania, where the hall was strewn with goloshes. So much is this
the fashion that we actually saw people walking about in indiarubber
"gummies," as our American friends call them, during almost tropical
weather. Habit becomes second nature.
Whether that meal at _Lapinlahti_, with its English-speaking landlord,
was specially prepared for our honour or whether it was always excellent
at that _majatalo_ we cannot say, but it lingers in remembrance as one
of the most luxurious feasts we had in the wilds of _Suomi_.
The heat was so great that afternoon as we drove towards _Iisalmi_--two
or three inches of dust covering the roadways--that we determined to
drive no more in the daytime, and that our future expeditions should be
at night; a plan which we carried out most successfully. On future
occasions we started at six in the afternoon, drove till midnight,
and perhaps did a couple or three hours more at four or five in the
morning; think of it!
After peeping into some well-arranged Free Schools, looking at a college
for technical education, being invited with true Finnish hospitality to
stay and sleep at every house we entered, we drew up at the next
_majatalo_ to _Lapinlahti_. It was the post-house, and at the same time
a farm; but the first thing that arrested our attention was the
smoke--it really seemed as if we were never to get away from smoke for
forest-burning or cow-milking. This time volumes were ascending from the
_sauna_ or bath-house, for it was Saturday night, and it appeared as if
the population were about to have their weekly cleansing. The _sauna_
door was very small, and the person about to enter had to step up over a
foot of boarding to effect his object, just as we were compelled to do
on Fridtjof Nansen's ship the _Fram_,[E] when she lay in Christiania
dock a week or two before leaving for her ice-drift. In the case of the
_Fram_ the doors were high up and small, to keep out the snow, as they
are likewise in the Finnish peasants' homes, excepting when they arrange
a snow-guard or sort of fore-chamber of loose pine trees, laid wigwam
fashion on the top of one another, to keep back the drifts. We had
hardly settled down to our evening meal--in the bedroom of course,
everything is done in bedrooms in Finland, visitors received,
etc.--before we saw a number of men and women hurrying to the _sauna_,
where, in true native fashion, after undressing _outside_, all
disappeared _en masse_ into that tremendous hot vapour room, where they
beat one another with birch branches dipped in hot water, as described
in the chapter on Finnish baths. In _Kalevala_ we read of these mixed
baths thus--
So he hastened to the bath-house,
Found therein a group of maidens
Working each upon a birch broom.
When this performance was over they redressed _outside_, which is a
custom even when the ground is deeply covered with snow.
Our host, a finely-made young fellow, fondly nursing a baby of about two
years old, seeing our interest in everything, was very anxious we should
join the bath party, and begged Baron George to tell us of its charms,
an invitation we politely but firmly refused. He showed his home. When
we reached a room upstairs--for the house actually possessed two
storeys--we stood back amazed. Long poles suspended from ropes hung from
the ceiling, and there in rows, and rows, and rows, we beheld clothing,
mostly under-linen. Some were as coarse as sacking; others were finer;
but there seemed enough for a regiment--something like the linen we once
saw in a harem in Tangier, but Tangier is a hot country where change of
raiment is often necessary, and the owner was a rich man, while Finland
is for most part of the year cold, and our landlord only a farmer. The
mystery was soon explained; the farmer had to provide clothing for all
his labourers--a strange custom of the country--and these garments were
intended for eight or nine servants, as well as a large family.
Moreover, as washing in the winter with ice-covered lakes is a serious
matter, two or three big washes a year are all Finns can manage, the
spring wash being one of the great events in their lives. The finer
linen belonged to the master's family, the coarser to the labourers, and
there must have been hundreds of articles in that loft.
When we left the room he locked the door carefully, and hung up the key
beside it. This is truly Finnish. One arrives at a church; the door is
locked, but one need not turn away, merely glance at the woodwork round
the door, where the key is probably hanging. It is the same
everywhere--in private houses, baths, churches, hotels; even in more
primitive parts one finds the door locked for safety--from what peril we
know not, as honesty is proverbial in Finland--and the key hung up
beside it for convenience.
Why are the northern peoples so honest, the southern peoples such
thieves?
Our night's lodging disclosed another peculiarity;--nothing is more
mysterious than a Finnish bed. In the daytime every bed is shut up. The
two wooden ends are pushed together within three feet of one another,
kaleidoscope fashion, the mattress, pillows, and bedclothes being
doubled between; but more than that, many of the little beds pull also
out into double ones from the sides--altogether the capacities of a
_Suomi_ couch are wondrous and remarkable. Yet, again, the peasants'
homes contain awfully hard straight wooden sofas, terrible-looking
things, and out of the box part comes the bedding, the boards of the
seat forming the _soft_ couch on which weary travellers seek repose, and
often do not find it.
Finnish beds are truly terrible; for wood attracts unpleasant things,
and beds which are not only never aired, but actually packed up, are
scarcely to be recommended in hot weather. One should have the skin of a
rhinoceros and no sense of smell to rest in the peasant homes of _Suomi_
during the hot weather. Seaweed was formerly used for stuffing
mattresses on the coast in England; indeed some such bedding still
remains at Walmer Castle; but the plant in use for that purpose in the
peasant homes of Finland gives off a particularly stuffy odour.
The country and its people are most captivating and well worth studying,
even though the towns are nearly all ugly and uninteresting. Hospitality
is rife; but the peasants must keep their beds in better order and learn
something of sanitation if they hope to attract strangers. As matters
are, everything is painfully primitive, spite of the rooms--beds
excepted--being beautifully clean.
In winter, sportsmen hunt the wild bear of Finland; at all seasons elk
are to be seen, but elk-hunting was legally forbidden until quite
recently. There are long-haired wild-looking pigs roving about that
might do for an impromptu pig-stick. There are feathered fowl in
abundance, and fish for the asking, many kinds of sport and many kinds
of hunts, but, alas, there is a very important one we would all gladly
do without--that provided by the zoological gardens in the peasant's
bed. Possibly the straw mattresses or _luikko_ may be the cause, or the
shut-up wooden frames of the bedstead, or the moss used to keep the
rooms warm and exclude draughts, still the fact remains that, while the
people themselves bathe often and keep their homes clean, their beds are
apt to shock an unhappy traveller who, though he have to part with all
his comforts and luggage on a _kärra_ ride, should, if he value his
life, stick fast to insect powder and ammonia, and the joyful preventive
of lavender oil.
Well we remember a horrible experience. We had driven all day, and were
dead tired when we retired to rest, where big, fat, well-nourished brown
things soon disturbed our peace; and, judging by the number of occupants
that shared our couch, the peasant had let his bed out many times over.
Sitting bolt up, we killed one, two, three, then we turned over and
tried again to sleep; but a few moments and up we had to sit once more.
Keating had failed utterly--Finnish bed-fiends smile at Keating--four,
five, six--there they were like an advancing army. At last we could
stand it no longer, and passed the night in our deck-chairs. Those
folding deck-chairs were a constant joy. In the morning we peeped at the
nice linen sheets; sprinkled on the beds were brown-red patches, here
and there as numerous as plums in a pudding, each telling the horrible
tale of murders committed by English women.
We had to rough it while travelling from _Kuopio_ to _Uleåborg_. Often
eggs, milk, and black bread with good butter were the only reliable
forms of food procurable, and the jolting of the carts was rather
trying; but the clothes of the party suffered even more than
ourselves--one shoe gradually began to part company with its sole, one
straw hat gradually divided its brim from its crown, one of the men's
coats nearly parted company from its sleeve, and the lining inside tore
and hung down outside. We had not time to stop and mend such things as
we might have mended, so we gradually grew to look worse and worse, our
hair turning gray with dust, and our faces growing copper-coloured with
the sun. We hardly looked up to West End style, and our beauty, if we
ever possessed any, was no longer delicate and ethereal, but ruddy and
robust. We were in the best of health and spirits, chaffing and laughing
all day long, for what is the use of grumbling and growling over
discomforts that cannot be helped--and half the joy of _compagnons de
voyage_ is to laugh away disagreeables at the time, or to chat over
curious reminiscences afterwards.
_Never less alone than when alone_ is a true maxim; but not for
travelling; a pleasant companion adds a hundredfold to the pleasures of
the journey, especially when the friendship is strong enough to stand
the occasional strains on the temper which must occur along wild
untrodden paths.
On that memorable drive through _Savolax_ in Northern Finland, we paid a
somewhat amusing and typical visit to a _Pappi_ (clergyman) at a
_Pappila_, or rectory. These country _Luthersk Kyrka_ (Lutheran
churches) are few and far between, a minister's district often extending
eight or ten miles in every direction, and his parishioners therefore
numbering about six or eight thousand, many of whom come ten miles or
more to church, as they do in the Highlands of Scotland, where the Free
Kirk is almost identical with the Lutheran Church of Finland. In both
cases the post of minister is advertised as vacant, applicants send in
names, which are "sifted," after which process the most suitable are
asked to come and perform a service, and finally the _Pappi_ of Finland,
or minister of Scotland, is chosen by the people.
There is seldom an organ in the Finnish country churches, and, until
Andrew Carnegie gave some, hardly ever in the Scotch Highlands--each
religion has, however, its precentor or _Lukkari_, who leads the
singing; both churches are very simple and plain--merely
whitewashed--perhaps one picture over the altar--otherwise no
ornamentation of any kind.
On one of our long drives we came to a village proudly possessing a
church and a minister all to itself, and, being armed with an
introduction to the _Pappi_, we arranged to call at the _Pappila_.
"Yes," replied a small boy with flaxen locks, "the _Pappi_ is at home."
Hearing which good news in we went. It was a large house for Finland,
where a pastor is a great person. There were stables and cow-sheds, a
granary, and quite a nice-sized one-storeyed wooden house. We marched
into the salon--a specimen of every other drawing-room one meets; the
wooden floor was painted ochre, and polished, before each window stood
large indiarubber plants, and between the double windows was a layer
of Iceland moss to keep out the draughts of winter, although at the time
of our visit in July the thermometer stood somewhere about 90° Fahr., as
it often does in Finland during summer, when the heat is sometimes
intense. Before the middle window was the everlasting high-backed prim
sofa of honour, on which the stranger or distinguished guest is always
placed; before it the accustomed small table, with its white mat lying
diamond fashion over the stuff cloth cover, all stiff and neat; also at
other corners of the room were other tables surrounded by half a dozen
similarly uncomfortable chairs, and in the corner was that rocking-chair
which is never absent from any home. Poor Finlanders! they do not even
know the luxury of a real English armchair, or a Chesterfield sofa, but
always have to sit straight up as if waiting to eat their dinner--very
healthy, no doubt, but rather trying to those accustomed to less formal
drawing-room arrangements. But then it must be remembered that
everything is done to encourage general conversation in Finland, and the
rooms seem specially set out with that object.
In a moment one of the three double doors opened, and a lady of middle
age, wearing a cotton gown, entered, and bade us welcome. She could only
speak Finnish, so although we all smiled graciously, conversation came
to an untimely end, for Finnish is as unlike English, French, German, or
even Swedish, as Gaelic is to Greek. Happily the _Pappi_ soon appeared;
a fine-looking man with a beard and a kindly face. He spoke Swedish, and
could understand a few German words; so he spoke Swedish, we spoke
German very slowly, and the conversation, although, as may be imagined,
not animated, was quite successful, particularly as it was helped
occasionally by a translation from our cicerone, who could talk French
fluently. We were particularly struck by a splendid old clock,
wondrously painted, which stood in a corner of the room. A grandfather's
clock is a very common piece of furniture in Finland, and in many of the
farmhouses we visited we saw the queer old wooden cases we love so well
in England, painted with true native art. Just as the Norwegians love
ornamenting their woodwork with strange designs, so the Finns are
partial to geometrical drawings of all descriptions; therefore corner
cupboards, old bureaus, and grandfather clocks often come in for this
form of decoration. Another favourite idea is to have a small cup of
shot on the writing-table, into which the pen is dug when not in
use--and sand is still used in many places instead of blotting-paper.
While the _Pappi_ was explaining many things, his wife had slipped away,
as good wives in _Suomi_ always do, to order or make the coffee, because
no matter at what time one pays a visit, coffee and cakes invariably
appear in about half an hour; it is absolute rudeness to leave before
they come, and it is good taste to drink two cups, although not such an
offence to omit doing so as it is to leave a Moorish home without
swallowing three cups of sweet mint-flavoured tea.
We were getting on nicely with our languages, endlessly repeating
_Voi_, _Voi_, which seems to be as useful in Finnish as _so_ in German,
helped by a good deal of polite smiling, when a door opened and mamma
returned, followed by a boy of seventeen, who was introduced as "our
son." We got up and shook hands. He seized our finger, and bowed his
head with a little jerk over it--that was not all, however, for, as if
desirous of dislocating his neck, he repeated the performance with a
second handshake. This was extra politeness on his part--two handshakes,
two jerky bows; all so friendly and so homely.
By the time he had finished, we realised that another boy, a little
younger, was standing behind ready to continue the entertainment.
Then came a girl, and seven small children, all brushed up and made
beautiful for the occasion, marched in in a row to make acquaintance
with the _Englantilaiset_, each, after he or she had greeted us, quietly
sitting down at one of the other tables, where they all remained
placidly staring during the rest of the visit. A circle is considered
the right thing in Finland, and the old people alone talk--the young
folk listening, and, let us hope, improving their minds. Coffee came at
last; a funny little maid, with her hair in a long plait, brought in a
tray, with a pretty embroidered cloth, a magnificent plated coffee-pot,
luscious cream, and most appetising cakes, something like shortbread,
and baked at home. We ate and we drank, we smiled upon the homely kind
hostess, we shook hands with her, and all the children in a row on
leaving, and the pastor, with a huge bunch of keys, accompanied us to
see his church, which, funnily enough, we could only reach by the help
of a small boat--all very well in the summer when boats can go, or in
the winter when there is ice to cross, but rather disheartening at the
mid-seasons, when crossing becomes a serious business and requires great
skill. There was a "church boat" lying near by, a great huge cumbersome
sort of concern that twelve people could row at a time, and two or three
times as many more stand or sit in, and on Sundays this boat plied to
and fro with the congregation. The church boats are quite an institution
in Finland. They will sometimes hold as many as a hundred persons--like
the old pilgrim boats--some twenty or thirty taking the oars at once. It
is etiquette for every one to take a turn at rowing, and, as the church
is often far away from the parishioners, it is no unusual thing for the
church boat to start on Saturday night, when the Sabbath is really
supposed to begin, and it is quite a feature in the life of _Suomi_ to
see the peasants arriving on Saturday evening straight from their work
at the waterside, at the appointed time for starting to their devotions,
with their little bundles of best clothes. They are all very friendly,
and as they row to the church they generally sing, for there is no
occasion on which a number of Finns meet together that they do not burst
into song. This weekly meeting is much valued.
Arrived at the church, they put up for the night at the homesteads round
about, for be it understood the church is often some distance even from
a village; or, if balmy summer, they lie down beneath the trees and,
under the brilliant canopy of heaven, take their rest.
When morning comes the women don their black frocks, the black or white
head-scarves, take their Bibles--neatly folded up in white
handkerchiefs--from their pockets, and generally prepare themselves for
the great event of the week. When the church service, which lasts some
hours, is over, they either turn up their skirts, or more often than not
take off their best things and, putting them back into the little
bundle, prepare to row home again.
The church boats are, of course, only used in the summer; in the winter
the route is much shortened by the universal snow and ice, which makes
it possible to sledge over land or sea alike, and make many short cuts.
On a later date we went to a Sabbath service at a _Luthersk Kyrka_, and
a very remarkable affair it proved. As we drove up to the church about
one o'clock, we found over a hundred _kärra_ or native carts standing
outside. In these funny "machines," as our Scotch friends would rightly
call them, many of the congregation had arrived, and, after having tied
their horses to the railings outside, gone in to service. The church
held nearly four thousand people, and every man and woman present was a
peasant. The building was crowded to excess, the sexes being divided by
the centre aisle. Nearly every one wore black, that being considered the
proper wear for Sundays, weddings, and festivals, especially for the
married women, who also wore black silk handkerchiefs over their heads.
Each woman carried a large white handkerchief in her hand, upon which
she leaned her head while praying. Subsequently we found that all the
females rolled their prayer-books up in these cloths while carrying them
home.
Service had begun at ten, so that three hours of it was over when we
arrived, and the Communion, which lasted another hour and a half, was
about to begin. The place was packed, the day very hot, and the peasant
atmosphere a little oppressive. We were much struck by the children;
mere babies actually being nursed by their mothers, while elder urchins
walked in and out of the building--going sometimes to have a game with
various other little friends amidst the graves outside, plaiting
daisy-chains, or telling fortunes by large ox-eyed daisies. The men
walked out also and enjoyed a pipe or gossip with a neighbour, and there
was that general air of freedom which prevails in a Roman Catholic
Church during divine service; nevertheless, the intense simplicity, the
devotion, the general inclination to moan and weep, reminded us of the
Highland Kirk. But it was very surprising to hear the Pastor tell his
congregation that at a certain day he would be at an appointed place to
receive grain, butter, potatoes, calves, etc. The clergymen are paid in
"kind," which to them is a suitable arrangement, as they are generally
peasants' sons and well able to attend to their own glebes; but it did
sound funny to hear a clergyman, standing in the pulpit, talk of butter
and eggs.
When the congregation stood up we naturally stood up with them. The
Finlanders are short, and for two women five feet seven or eight high,
with hats on the tops of their heads, suddenly to rise, amazed a
congregation the female members of which were seldom taller than five
feet one or two, and wore nothing on their heads but a flat
handkerchief. We felt like giraffes towering over the rest of the
people, and grew gradually more and more ashamed of our height and hats,
simple though the latter were. How we longed to be short and have our
heads covered with black silk handkerchiefs like the rest of the folk
around, so as to be unnoticeable in their midst.
We felt we were a very disturbing influence; for, gradually, those who
had not noticed our entrance began to realise there was something
strange in the church, and nudged their friends to look at two tall
women--dark into the bargain--each with a hat on her head. Their
surprise might be forgiven, for to them we must have appeared strange
apparitions indeed. In that church there was no organ, but a young man
got up and started the singing, just as a precentor does in the
Highlands; having once given them the tune, that vast congregation
followed his lead very much at their own sweet wills.
For our own part, certainly, we came away much impressed by their
devoutness, and not a little touched and interested by the simplicity of
the Lutheran service.
When we came out some of the men, who had previously slipped away, were
beginning to harness their ponies in order to drive very possibly ten
miles. Little groups were also forming to enjoy the luncheons brought in
handkerchiefs, ere starting to walk back long distances to their homes.
Verily, we might have been in Scotland; there were the gossips round the
church doors, the plate to hold the pence, covered with a white cloth,
ay, and even the dogs were waiting; there were the women lifting up
their black skirts, inside out, exactly as her Highland sister when
attired in her best gown. How like in many characteristics the two
nations are.
It seems ridiculous to be always writing of the intense heat in Finland,
but as it is generally supposed to be a cold country, where furs and
rugs are necessary even in the summer, we could not help being struck by
the fact of the almost tropical temperature, at times, which we
encountered all through June, July, and August. No wonder people had
laughed at our fur coats on arrival. It is a fact that although in
Finland the winters are terribly long and severe, the summers are
extremely hot.
Just before reaching _Iisalmi_ we turned in at the gate of _Herr
Stoehman_, a large gentleman-farmer to whom we had an introduction, and
paid a most pleasant visit. He was a delightful man, hospitality
personified; and his wife at once invited us to stay with them, utter
strangers though we were.
He has a sort of agricultural college, in the dairy department of which
we were specially interested. Our host takes twenty peasants at a time,
who remain for a two years' course. In the summer they are taught
practical farming out of doors, in the winter theoretical, indoors.
It was a wonderful institution, splendidly organised, well kept, and
quite a model in its way. Indeed, it is amazing to see how advanced the
Finlanders are in all matters of technical education, and there is no
doubt but that the future of _Suomi_ will be the outcome of the present
teaching.
Adjoining was a _Mejeri_, where a dozen women Were being instructed in
butter and cheese-making. The butter all goes to England, while the
cheese is an excellent _copy_ of our own cheddar, which we have almost
forgotten how to make.
Poor old Albion!
Butter and cheese-making is quite a new trade, pursued with energy in
Finland.
Until about 1880 co-operative dairying was almost unknown in Denmark,
and now Denmark is a rich country which has established over two
thousand creameries, and sends to England alone some £7,000,000 worth of
butter annually, to say nothing of eggs and bacon.
Finland not having been slow to see the extent to which Denmark had
succeeded, _Mejeris_ were established here and there over the land for
the making of butter and cheese; indeed, there were in 1912 seven
hundred and fifty-four of them in existence.
Imagine our surprise when driving along a country road, right in the
wilds of Finland, to see a vast herd of cows being driven home to be
milked; yet this happened several times.
"Where are they going?" we asked on one occasion; "how can so few
families require so much milk?"
"They are going to the creamery," was the reply. "This neighbourhood
could not use the milk, which is all made into cheese, and the cream
into butter, to be exported to England."
Being much interested in the subject, having written a pamphlet _Danish_
versus _English Buttermaking_, we of course stopped to see the
creamery, and were amazed to find it conducted on the latest scientific
Danish principles, and, although established little over a year, in full
working order.
The proprietor only owned sixty cows, but he had the milk sent in from a
hundred more, and exactly as they return the skim milk in Denmark, so
they return it in Finland. By a careful process of autumn calving, the
Finnish dairymen manage to have most milk in the winter, when they make
butter, which they send seventy miles by sledge to the nearest railway
train, to be borne hence to _Hangö_, the only port in Finland that is
open during the winter months. There it meets a steamer which conveys it
to England.
In 1874, there were exported about 5,159,885 kilograms (about 2 lbs.).
In 1909, this quantity had doubled itself, the amount exported being
11,632,200 kilograms.
Of this, Great Britain took the larger share, her import of Finnish
butter being of the value of twenty-four million marks, while Russia's
only reached four million marks.
Formerly all the butter was sent to Russia; but Russia, like every other
country, except England, woke up and began making her own butter.
Finland, however, does not suffer, she merely ships to England direct,
or through Denmark to England instead, and the trade in ten years has
trebled itself.
Few of us in England realise what a large sum goes out of this country
every day for butter consumed by a people unable to make it for
themselves. England imports vast quantities of butter from Normandy,
Brittany, Australia, and the Argentine, and much comes from Denmark, to
which country Finland is a fair rival.
We stayed at the _Mejeri_ late into the night, for we were always making
mistakes as to time in that bewilderingly everlasting daylight. After
weeks of eternal light, one begins to long for the peace of darkness.
One of my sister's greatest joys, and one of my greatest discomforts,
was a kodak. Now, a large kodak is one of those hard uncomfortable
things that refuses to be packed anywhere; it takes up too much room in
a Gladstone bag, it is apt to get broken in the rug-strap, and,
therefore, the wretched square box invariably has to be carried at all
inconvenient times and seasons. However, as there were no photographs to
be procured of Northern Finland, and my sister declared there was no
time for me to make any sketches, we decided to struggle with the
kodak, and I tried to bear the annoyance of its presence in the
anticipation of the joy of future results. My sister kodaked here and
kodaked there; she jumped out of the little cart and made snap-shots of
old peasants and older houses, of remarkable-looking pigs and
famine-stricken chickens. In fact, she and the kodak were here, there,
and everywhere, and glorious reproductions were anticipated. Each day
she exclaimed, "What a mercy we have not to wait for you to sketch. Why,
I can do twenty or thirty pictures while you do one." I felt the reproof
and was silenced.
Then came a day when the roll of a hundred had to be changed. We all
know the everlasting cry, the endless excuse for bad photographs. "You
see, the light got in;" and generally the offender, we learn, is some
ruthless custom-house official, who cares nothing for travel and less
for art, and whose one joy is unearthing cigars and disturbing ladies'
hats. This time "the light got in" with a vengeance. For a couple of
days my wretched sister endeavoured to find a place to change that roll,
but in a land where there is continual day it is absolutely impossible
to find night!
We inquired for cellars, we even sought for a cave--all unsuccessfully;
and so the night we left the _Mejeri_ she decided that the roll _must_
be changed, and darkness secured somehow. There were two windows to our
bedroom; we had two travelling rugs; one was pinned up over each window,
but the light streamed in above and below and round the curtains. We
then pinned up our skirts, but even that was not sufficient; we added
bodices to the arrangement, the length of the sleeves filling up
inconvenient cracks, but the light still streamed under and above and
round the two doors. We laid pillows on the floor, and got rid of that
streak of illumination; we stuffed the sides and top with towels, but
even then there was a wretched grayness in our chamber which forbode
ill.
"I know," exclaimed my sister, "I shall get under the bed." But as the
bed was of wood and very low, she only succeeded in getting her own head
and the kodak beneath its wooden planks, while I carefully built her in
with blankets and eider-downs, and left her to stifle on a dreadfully
hot night with a nasty-smelling little lamp under the mattresses.
She groaned and she sighed, but at last she emerged triumphant, if very
hot, from the undertaking. Particularly happy in the result of our
midnight performances, she started another roll, and felt assured that
she had a hundred excellent photographs of the life of the people in the
interior of dear old Finland. Only after we returned to London did the
terrible truth reveal itself; the light had indeed got in, and one after
another of the films, as they were taken from their bath, disclosed
nothing but gray blackness!
The laugh (and the cry) was on my side now. Why, oh why, had I not
persevered with the sketches, instead of only doing one at our midnight
haven of rest in the _Uleåborg_ rapids?
FOOTNOTES:
[E] Described in _A Winter Jaunt to Norway_.