Of the achievements of Finland's women artists during the last twenty years I must not write in detail, for Finland has forged ahead in art as in other matters. At the time of my first visit, few Finnish women had devoted themselves to sculpture, and only one —Miss Sigrid af Forselles– had accomplished really good work. But to-day she no longer stands alone.
Already we see the first generation that benefited by the recognition of the power of women enjoying the prime of early manhood and womanhood; and it is certain that in the enormous upheaval in the old order of things that is going on all over the world, Suomi will hold her own in the forefront of education, for the learning of the mother must prove a valuable asset in moulding the characters of the citizens of the future.
CHAPTER XI
A HAUNTED CASTLE
The bells rang! It was four A.M. when the ship Concordia, which had been our home for thirty-six hours, arrived at Nyslott, one of the small towns which are sparsely scattered over Finland.
Nyslott is famous for two things: its very modern "bath cure" accompanied by a "kasino" – of which French watering-places need have no jealousy – and, by way of extreme from such modernity, its other attraction is an old ruined castle, built originally in 1475. The castle is the most perfect left in Finland, and its position is certainly the most picturesque, for it stands quite alone on an island of rock, round which the current forms endless whirlpools. It is built with sharp buttresses, and once had five towers, of which, alas, only three remain, but those three are very perfect.
What stories that castle could tell of wars and sieges, of Russian and Swedish possessors, of Catholic and Lutheran sway, and of cruelty too horrible to dwell upon, although one cannot help realising its possibilities after entering the little dark cell in which two men were built up to live together in darkness and in hunger till death ended their sufferings.
The Roman Catholic Chapel still remains; windowless, save for a small hole over the stone altar, which certainly suggests artificial light having been thrown from behind on some sacred relic or picture – a theatrical effect not unknown to that faith. Its uneven stone floor, and its niches for the sacramental cup, all remain in weird darkness to remind one of ages long gone by. In turn the Castle has been Catholic, Lutheran, and Greek – so three persuasions have had their sway, and each has left its mark.
Our thoughtful friend, Grandpapa, whom we had left a fortnight before at Rättijärvi, was waiting for us at Nyslott, or rather, a moment after the ship stopped at the quayside in the early dawn of morning, he arrived, accompanied by a man in a boat, one of those regular Finnish boats pointed at each end known as a kuiru.
"Where are we to live?" we called, over the side.
"In the Castle, as you wished," was the reply; and overjoyed at the prospect of anything so romantic, we quickly transferred ourselves and our baggage into the boat below.
"I'm very anxious about this arrangement," said our youthful old friend. "When I arrived a fortnight ago, and found there was not a room to be had in the town, I was in despair; after wandering from house to house, again I beseeched the little hotel to take me in; but even their sofas were occupied. However, determining not to leave Nyslott till I had seen the famous castle, I got a boat and rowed across. Veni, vidi, vici– for I persuaded the watchman to put me up for the night, and there I am still. When, yesterday, I could find no habitation for you, I reluctantly telegraphed that the town was full and I was only put up by the Vahtimestari of the Castle. Imagine my horror when I got your reply – 'Arrive 4 A.M., arrange stay Castle.'"
"Were you so very much horrified?" we laughed. "We thought it would be such fun, and so delightfully romantic."
"It was no fun to me. I felt utterly taken aback, and went off to consult an artist friend, who was painting the queer old place.
"'Nonsense, my dear fellow,' he said, 'you can't lodge ladies in this barrack. It's all very well for two watchmen, or for you, if you like, to rough it – but for women – nonsense, it is impossible.'
"'But,' I remarked, 'they are very enterprising, and one of them, who is writing a book, loves queer corners, odd experiences, and native life.'
"'I daresay,' replied he, 'but this Castle, I repeat, is impossible, especially for Englishwomen, who are all accustomed to much luxury.'
"Back into the town I went again to try for rooms, but without success. What was to be done? You were on the way, time was growing short, and I had arranged nothing. So once more to my watchman I returned and told him my awful dilemma, and the depths of my despair. He so thoroughly entered into the spirit of the thing, that he promised to do the best he could, and in an hour's time he had arranged for extra towels and a few necessaries to be sent over from the town."
"Delightful!" we exclaimed; "what a dear man! It is like a romance in a story book."
"But my story is not finished," Grandpapa replied, with a rueful face; "we had set to work to sweep, and brush, and clean with a will, in order to make the room more worthy of its occupants, when the Vahtimestari suddenly said —
"'I'm afraid, after all, you will have to go and get permission from the Mayor, or I may get into trouble for allowing ladies to sleep in this ruined Castle.'"
Here was an adventure. Our hearts quailed a little as we waited breathlessly for the finish of the story.
"I got into the boat," went on our friend, "pulled on shore, and set off to the Mayor, in order to obtain permission for you to sleep there. At first he sternly refused.
"'Ridiculous!' he said, 'bats and owls, goblins and ghosts! that is not a fit home for ladies – ridiculous, and quite impossible.'
"I explained and argued, told him how enterprising you were, and how well versed in travel, and at last he gave in, saying, 'Well, the old Castle has withstood many sieges, and it is hard it must give in without powder or shot to two Englishwomen.'
"Thus his reluctant permission was granted, and away I came triumphant. You are to have the watchmen's room, they the kitchen, and I am to sleep in the Lutheran Church, which chances to have a roof."
We were delighted, and at once started for our haunted Castle. We rowed away to our island home, and, when we appreciated the difficulty of steering through the fast-running whirlpool, to the only gate with its fine portcullis, we realised we were indeed on adventure bent.
It was barely dawn, and as we swept over the seething waters, and stood under the ancient archway, we felt like Mary Queen of Scots before the gates of Fotheringay.
We were indeed triumphantly triumphant. Far from the whistle of a train, right in the interior of Finland, standing beneath the portals of a famous castle virtually ruined and uninhabited – we felt at home.
The streaks of early morning sunlight lent enchantment to the romantic surroundings, as we wandered along queer passages, where the walls varied from five to fifteen feet thick, peeped into cellars and dungeons, and bending our heads under Norman arches, at last entered the first courtyard. We saw mysterious winding staircases, generally spiral, leading up and down into deep dark mystery. Certainly so far the ruins did not look as though they would protect any one from wind and rain, and we passed on, through walls that seemed impregnable, to ruined chambers, utterly roofless, in and out of which pigeons were flying happily at their sweet will.
The second courtyard was gravelled; but round its sides tangled beds of syringa in full flower, red and black currants nearly ripe, pretty wild roses and lilac almost looked homely, while white and yellow marguerites shadowed dear little wild strawberries, and a general air of naturalness prevailed. We had reached the very centre of our enchanted castle! How often had this courtyard been the scene of revelry, of tournaments and joustings, at which lovely woman had smiled and distributed her favours from the surrounding battlements.
"There is your room," exclaimed Grandpapa at last, pointing to a modern little bit of building erected for the custodian's use, in which, sure enough, was a real glass window.
Up the modern steps we mounted, to find a nice big room, poorly furnished, 'tis true, with one bed and a garden seat, two wooden chairs and a long wooden school bench, a table on which stood a brown earthenware bowl, and a large glass water carafe, that glass bottle which had haunted us since we set foot in Finland. The bench was to do duty for washstand and the impedimenta thereto. The wooden floor was delightfully scrubbed, and what mattered the simplicity when all was so delightfully clean!
Lo and behold, a bouquet of flowers stood in a tumbler on the table, the votive offering of the Finnish custodian himself; a charming welcome to his English visitors.
Out of this large bare chamber led a dear little kitchen, and farther along a passage and up some stairs we came to the old church – capable of seating a couple of hundred persons, although it did not really possess a single seat – which was to serve as Grandpapa's bedroom. Churches invariably do service for sleepers even to-day in Iceland, where hotels are practically non-existent, except in two or three instances, and even habitations are few and far between.3
So this was to be for a brief space our home; a real, wild, weird, romantic home, seated on its rocky island away from the world, away from every sign of life save pigeons or bats; full of grim spirits – if tradition were to be believed – and nightly walked by strange women and blood-stained men – for stories there are in plenty concerning the great Castle of Olavin Linna as the Finns call it, at Savonlinna, the Finnish name for Nyslott.
We wandered everywhere: we peered into all the mysteries. Verily a ruin. Mounting to an upper floor by the solid stone steps outside, we found ourselves in another chamber, the roof of which was supported by rafters, through the thick walls of which a long dark passage led us round two sides of the courtyard, passing a small tower by the way from which we could see yet another court, whose wide grass-grown ramparts overhung the rapidly-flowing current of the lake.
Here was the hall of the knights, a long and dark chamber – so dark, in fact, that we wondered how any one had ever been able to see clearly in it. On all sides were rooms and pitch-black dungeons, for at the time the Castle was built (1475) the powers-that-were thought nothing of shutting people up in dark little holes, where they left them to die, and the Olavin Linna seems to have been particularly rich in such choice chambers. From where we stood, a few steps up a winding staircase led us to a big tower containing a large round room, called the ladies' drawing-room. The dames of that period certainly had a glorious view all round for miles and miles, although they were far removed from the life going on below. From this point of vantage we saw how the Castle literally covered the whole of the rock, and occupied a most commanding position where three lakes met. As we wandered down again, we chanced into a queer sort of chamber, wherein half a dozen weird straggling trees struggled to exist. It was almost dark; the storms of winter could rustle through those blank windows, and the trees were white, and gray, and sickly – more like phantoms than real trees – so queer and withered and pale and anæmic were their leaves, and yet they stood eight or ten feet high, showing they had boldly struggled for life.
After having thus gained a general idea, snatched a sort of bird's-eye view of this strange Castle, we returned to our room and investigated its capabilities.
There was one small bed, already honourably mentioned, and a garden seat – one of those well-known benches made of thin wooden laths, with a rounded uncomfortable seat and back.
"Could we manage with such meagre accommodation?" Grandpapa asked timorously, "or must another bed be hired; that is to say, if another bed can be hired, or bought, in a town already overcrowded."
We looked at our friend's troubled face, and, feeling we had already caused him a sad amount of inconvenience, valiantly replied, "We will manage." And manage we did.
To the "elderly scribe" was allotted the bed, a very finely carved wooden erection; but let me at once own that, although I had slept on hay in a tent in other lands, passed a night on a dining-room table, several on the floor, and in deck-chairs, I never slept in anything quite so "knobby" as that extraordinary bed. A lump here, and a lump there, always seemed to select the most inconvenient part of one's frame to stick in, and sometimes getting on a nerve quite numbed the spot. After the first night I asked the Vahtimestari to turn and knead the mattress, which he cheerfully promised to do, and no doubt did. But all his turning and pounding was perfectly useless, so after a second restless night, which left me beautifully black and blue from head to foot, I determined to investigate the mysteries of that bed for myself.
When I removed the under-sheet a bewildering problem was solved. On the top of the mattress lay an enormous coat, lined throughout with black sheepskin. Its double-rolled collar had made a huge ridge down the middle of my back, across which a thick waist-belt had not unsuccessfully tried to form a bridge – the sleeves could only be accounted mountains, while innumerable buttons had left their impress on every inch of my body! I felt very sorry for my flesh that morning!
Four nights passed on a hard garden seat does not sound entrancing; nevertheless, on such a non-captivating couch, my sister, helped by rugs and a pillow, slept the sleep of the just, and of youth.
Her "plank bed" may have been – nay, certainly must have been – hard, and the Castle certainly was primitive, but everything, bedding included, was spotlessly clean, and, after all, cleanliness and a quiet conscience compensate for much – anyhow she slept; that is a fact for which I can vouch.
During the first night of our stay at Nyslott one of us lay and dreamed a semi-waking dream, in which the old rock – Nature's fortress – appeared in the lake bleak, bare, grim, and lonely until 1475, when the first stones of Olavin Linna were laid. After that the scene suddenly shifted, and the bloody battles of 1743, when Nyslott was taken by the Russians, were again fought for the benefit of a new spectator, only, as it seemed, for the Castle to be given back four years later to Finland! A very curious reminiscence to occur to any person's mind between "sleeping and waking." Later on, that over-tired traveller mused dreamily on the three periods of history, pictured scenes during the two hundred and sixty-eight years of Swedish sovereignty, the half century under Russian sway, and the more modern happenings under Finnish rule, its troubles practically ended in 1871, from which date they have been but a souvenir in the history of Europe.
Olavin Linna was the spot around which three different races met and struggled; the Russians, the Finns, and the Swedes. The Russians with their superior numbers, their riches, and their sharpness, pushed the Finns towards the North and took their country, the now northern half of Russia in Europe. The Swedes came and conquered the Slavs; founded a dynasty and called their State Russia (i. e. Sweden, Ruotsi being the Finnish name for Sweden to this day). The Swedes also conquered the remaining part of ancient Finland, and introduced Christianity, and the strong and freedom-loving Scandinavian law.
The struggle now remained between the Scandinavians and the Slavs – between a democratic and courageous race and an oligarchic and diplomatic one. Then our Castle – our own – for had we not conquered it? – was built on the frontier to resist the inroads of the Slavs. But again the Russians were triumphant. Sweden succumbed, while Russia took the remainder of ancient Finland. Since then Russia has become a great power.
Alexander I. granted to that part of Finland, imbued with Scandinavian law, the privilege of considering itself a nation, and continuing its former laws and government. Under this state of things the country grew prosperous. It arose and shook itself from its dormant existence of the previous six hundred years, collected its own traditions, and worked hard for education, so that it might continue a distinct race.
Then was built the large modern red brick schoolhouse at Savonlinna– a fortress of learning to take the place of the old Castle, and to teach the people that "the pen is indeed mightier than the sword."
One of us twain dreamed again! Saw the Castle built by Erik Tott, a member of one of the greatest Finnish-Swedish families, and read the inscription —
Anno Domini 1475 leth iag Erik Axelsson Ridder i Lagnö, bygia thette Slåt, Gud till loff, Christum, helga Christna tro till styrkielse, och thå var hustra min Elin Götstaffsdotter i Lagmansöö.
Translation —
Anno Domini 1475 let Erik, son of Axel Knight of Lagnö, build this Castle to the Glory of God, to strengthen the Holy Christian Faith in Christ: and then was my wife's name Elin, daughter of Götstaff4 in Lagmansöö.
That weary traveller saw the indignation at its erection at Nyslott, just within the Russian limits of the frontier, saw the five splendid towers finished, of which three now remain, and the Bastion Dick properly rebuilt.
And then all grew suddenly dark, and, in a deeper sleep, that dreamer groped along the gloomy subterranean passage, said to run from the clock tower to the town, seemed to hear the rushing water, a hundred and twenty feet deep at this point, tearing like a cataract overhead, peered into those many strange dark chambers, and hearkened, appalled, to the piercing shrieks of those two wretched men bricked up together in yonder small chamber, in darkness till death brought relief.
What a life, and what a death! Four stone walls round a room about six feet by ten – with an earthen floor and a low ceiling – no window for light, no stove for warmth in that bitterly cold land.
Half waking from troubled slumber the weary traveller shivered to think of the horror that had been enacted so close to her elaborately carved bedstead and its lumpy mattress.
How hot it still was! The day had been almost tropical, but it is a merciful provision of Providence that all days, even one beginning at four A.M., must end at last, and as I, the nineteenth century traveller, the "elderly scribe," aroused myself sufficiently to shake off those terrible visions of a cruel past, I realised it was getting on for midnight. I heard our friend going to rest in his chapel-chamber, and, turning over, tried to go to sleep. How quiet everything was! Except for the gnawing of the rats or mice under the floor – no unusual sound in an old castle, of course – and so unconsciousness came – I slept – yes, I slept – till —
Ah! what was that! Was it? yes, it was – some one calling; and yet it could not be.
The custodians had both retired to their kitchen to rest I knew – for had I not heard them trudging upstairs to seek their improvised couches long before? – and yet, most certainly, a loud strange call had broken the silence of night. Was it, really uttered by a human being, or could it be – no, no, of course not. A spirit? Ridiculous! The very idea was preposterous, and, lying down again, I argued how absurd were such fears, how I had been simply dreaming; over-fatigued after a long day's travel – how, in fact, my mind was disorganised, and the best thing to do was to fall asleep at once. At that moment a tremendous peal of thunder broke overhead, while, simultaneously, the whole room was flooded with light. It played over the walls, it danced over the floor, and then a clap more tremendous than the first seemed to shake the very building. Yet through the roll of heaven's artillery I heard that hideous weird cry distinctly audible.
Starting up again in response, I began to think sleeping in a haunted castle was not such fun after all; that there must be something very uncanny about Nyslott, more especially when a strange door creaked on its hinges, that sort of rasping squeak one associates with the opening of a door generally kept firmly closed – and muffled feet pattered over the stairs.
Nearer came the sound, nearer, yet nearer. My heart jumped into my mouth, it ceased almost to beat as the strange footsteps stopped on the very threshold of our room. "Oh!" I gasped, thinking that in another moment spirit fingers would turn the handle, and a ghostly figure enter the room. What form would it take? Would the phantom be man or woman – tall or short – an assassin, murderer, or victim? Yes, the steps had ceased at our very door, and the next moment they would be upon us.
But after that brief pause the muffled patter passed on, it became more and more indistinct, and again all was still.
What a relief! it was perhaps nothing after all – imagination, hallucination probably, but nothing real – nothing any way to fear.
Stay though! The voice, a voice, another voice unheard before, spoke in murmured accents, and then a deeper bass than that which had previously called shouted again and again in muffled reply.
This was too horrible!
It must be a ghost; nay, not even a single ghost but two, and what chance had one poor living woman and a sleeping girl against such odds from the spirit land?
The whole thing, even at Nyslott, seemed too terribly impossible; so I pinched myself to make sure I was awake, only to hear the awful footsteps – duplicated —coming back! By this time my sister was awake, and lazily asking "What is the matter?"
"H-st-st," I answered under my breath.
Thud, thud – the mysterious footsteps drew nearer and nearer —
They were almost again at our door, when absolutely petrified by fear, and clammy by reason of the awful Nyslott stories we had been told, we twain sat up straight feeling creepy and cold all over.
The footsteps came on apace, and we held our breath, thinking our time had come; but was it? could it be? Yes, yes, thank heaven it was! We recognised the voice of our own custodian talking softly to his comrade.
It was no ghost after all! only the under Vahtimestari who, having spent the evening on shore, shouted as usual to be admitted. It was his strange voice echoing through those empty corridors and vaulted chambers that had waked us from our first sleep. His cries not being heard by reason of thunder roaring and rolling, he had called and called again with increasing energy till admitted.
What an unromantic ending to a most weird story, with every surrounding at hand, every element ready except the actual ghost himself! A happy ending. Stay, now it is over, I almost wish the ending had been less happy and more romantic.
Woman is seldom satisfied, and man never! One woman, however, I am not ashamed to say, was never in all her previous life so frightened as during that midnight hour at Nyslott.
Happy days followed after this terrifying episode. We explored dark chambers with a candle and matches, we cooked coffee on the stove for breakfast, and boiled eggs in an enormous tea-kettle, aided in our pleasant toil by two smiling much-interested watchmen, and afterwards ate our meal among tangled shrubs in a courtyard shaded from the sun's heat by a linden tree.
We idled generally; wrote letters, scribbled up our diaries, chatted or made sketches in the Bastion Dick with its eight windows, each of which are at the narrow end of a wall measuring fifteen feet thick, thus forming the deep recesses of a large octagonal chamber with long benches stretching down the side of each of the fifteen feet walls. A wondrous and remarkable hall, always cool even on a hot day with its windowless look-outs over that beautiful lake.
Up the centre of this huge hall was a column of solid masonry coming from the chamber below, and rising some thirty feet to support the arched roof.
We enjoyed it all; but, be it owned, the life was very primitive, and to many people would have seemed ghastly.
For dinner (which is always between two and four in Finland), we were obliged to cross to the Kasino or Societetzhuset (Hotel), our commissariat and chef de cuisine not rising to the requirements of such a meal.
We learnt how ugly ordinary small Finnish towns are, with their one-storey wooden houses, ill-paved roads, totally devoid of side paths – how very like cheap wooden Noah's arks, such as children have; all straight and plain with glaring windows painted round with white paint, no gardens of any kind, while every casement is blocked with a big indiarubber plant. Generally they possess a huge stone or brick school-house, large enough to contain all the thousand inhabitants in the district, instead of the town's two hundred children, but then it is built ready for contingencies.
All this hideous inartistic modernity contrasted sadly with the massive beauty and vast strength of our castellated home.
Nyslott, as already said, is famous for its baths, which are a great institution, and charmingly arranged – douche baths, steam, mud, swimming, etc., and about forty or fifty little private rooms, some containing sofas – and at least a dozen women to attend to the comfort of visitors. They are regular Finnish bathing-women, wearing the ordinary uniform of their calling, viz. a thick blue serge skirt, red flannel outside stays, opening at the lacing in front and showing the white cotton chemise that is de rigueur, cut low at the neck and with quite short sleeves, a very pretty simple dress that allows great freedom to the arms when massaging, one of the important items of every Finnish bath.
We always returned to our castellated home for our evening meal, and, armed with a basket containing sardines, bread, butter, cold tongue, or ham, delicious cakes or fruit for dessert, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.
Our table in the courtyard was gray with age, and notched with the initials of young Philistines of former generations. We had no cloth, why should we; our forefathers ate without cloths and were happy nevertheless. We had a large brown earthenware pot, such as is used as a bread pan in England, at the head of the table filled with milk, which we served by dipping a cup into its depths. A mat of birch bark was our bread trencher, a cabbage leaf our butter dish, for although we had plates and knives and forks, cups and tumblers, there were not enough to accommodate the many articles displayed upon our liberal board.
The pigeons generally joined us at our meal, and seemed to know when we sallied forth in solemn procession, each with a black tin tray, what coming event was casting its shadow before, for they began to arrive whenever they heard the first rattle of cups and saucers. Our feathered friends guessed intuitively that scraps would immediately follow the pleasant music, more delectable than any the Castle had hitherto furnished. If our bedroom was quaint, our youthful Grandpapa's was quainter.
Never was there a more strange sleeping-chamber than the old church where Grandpapa reposed on a mattress on the floor. It was a long narrow room with windows on both sides, the only place which boasted real windows except our own room, and the wee kitchen in that rambling old Olavin Linna.
Although this church had been Catholic, Lutheran, and Greek, and then Lutheran again, all that remained of decoration were the remnants of an altar, at the far end, above which hung a large picture of the Crucifixion, and below a representation of the Lord's Supper; both badly painted, if one might judge from the scant colour remaining on the canvas. On one side stood a pulpit with a top like an extinguisher, much the worse for wear; formerly it had been painted all over with bright colours, the panels of the saints being surrounded by garish festoons and queer designs. In the opposite corner of the room was a very remarkable representation of Our Lord, with the five foolish virgins on one side, and the five wise ones on the other. It was a truly wonderful picture, for all the arms were out of drawing and all the heads too big for the bodies, and every one of the faces hideous. But even more wonderful than all the rest was the dado painted on a wooden panelling which ran round the church. The background was pale green, and the persons represented were prophets, apostles, and saints in the most rude form of art. Finnish art about a hundred and fifty years ago closely resembled the very earliest examples known of the Italian, only it was yet a hundredfold more primitive. But then, we presume, the village artist had never really seen a good picture in his life, and had nothing to go by.
On the panels were the following: —
P. Isak (P. standing for Pylia = saint), dressed in a blue kilt, with black top boots, a red cape, and a black billycock hat!
P. Jacob, who was next to him, wore brown knickerbockers and long stockings, a red and blue plaid, and a red felt hat.
P. Samuel had a hat like a Jewish Rabbi and a long black cloak.
Judas Iskariot a most wonderful red head and beard, and carried in his hand a Finnish peasant's tobacco pouch.
But the most wonderful was Noak or Noah in blue and white tartan knickerbockers with a short kilt above them, carrying a red cloak and black slouch hat over his arm.
At the end of the room, opposite the altar, was a sort of wide wooden stair, on which prisoners used to sit during service at the commencement of the nineteenth century.
We bathed in that hot weather from the rock on which Nyslott is built, and enjoyed the cool water amazingly. To find a safe spot, however, from which to make our plunge proved a difficulty, and one we had to solve for ourselves.
Leaving the main and only entrance of the Castle, and descending some wide steps leading to the water edge, bathing dresses and towels in hand, we found a little ledge of stone-work barely twelve inches broad, just above the level of the lake. Literally only a foothold. Any nervous person inclined to turn giddy would hardly have dared to venture along such a path at all. But it led to the only spot where we could stand on solid earth outside the Castle walls, so completely did the edifice cover the rock on which it was built. A gust of wind at the turn of the tower almost blew us over, it was so sudden and unexpected.