A school-fellow—the native of Finland whom I have already mentioned—was staying with us in England that spring. She had often talked of her wonderful country—her beloved Suomi—with its eight hundred miles of coastline, and literally thousands of islands, ranging in size from tiny rocks to habitable portions of land. She had often done her best to persuade us to go there, but it seemed a long way and there was no particular reason for the journey. Now, when my husband had passed away, she persuaded me anew to pack my trunk and accompany her to Finland. Change of scene and thought would be good for me, and I could gather material for a book. We started within a week, and thus, on a brilliant morning early in June, in 1896, our vessel steamed into Helsingfors.
My friend was connected with some of the oldest families in Finland, and great and wonderful was the hospitality we—my sister and I—received upon her native shores. We were there for some months. We wandered north, south, east, and west. We slept in a haunted, deserted castle, which stood alone on a rocky island, round which the current made endless whirlpools. We roved through districts where milk and eggs and black bread were the only food procurable; we went to the fashionable watering-place Hangö, and there were entertained on a Russian man-of-war. We saw the Kokko fires lighted on Midsummer’s Eve; we watched the process of emptying the salmon nets at five o’clock in the morning and packing the fish for transport to St. Petersburg. We heard the Runo singers, those weird folk who, by word of mouth, have kept alive the Finnish legends from generation to generation. We saw forests burnt; and I tried an ant-heap bath, which is a Finnish remedy for rheumatism and such-like ills. We plodded along the stony path to Russia. We stayed at a monastery at Lake Ladoga, and, above all, we descended in tar-boats the famous rapids between Russia and the Gulf of Bothnia, which was perhaps one of the most exciting events in my life—a life which has not been altogether devoid of excitement.
No one can dream of the pleasure and nervous strain of rushing through curdling water for six miles at a stretch over huge waves, in a fragile craft, at breakneck speed.
Six miles, with a new experience every second. Six miles, when every bend, every mile, may be the last. Turning and twisting between piles of rocks, running down like precipices to the water’s side, from which one could feel the drops of water as they splashed over our little craft, or when a great wave struck it and threw a volume of water into our laps. We felt almost inclined to shriek at the speed with which we were flying those rapids. Wildly we tore past the banks, when, lo! what was that? A broken tar-boat, now a scattered mass of beams, which only a few short hours before had carried passengers like ourselves. In spite of the wonderful dexterity of the pilots such accidents sometimes happen. The steersman of that boat had ventured a little too near a hidden rock and his frail craft was instantly shattered to pieces, the tar barrels bubbling over the water like Indian corn over a fire. The two occupants had luckily been saved, as they were sufficiently near the water’s edge to allow a rope to be thrown.
Yes, these rapids, of which there are several, the largest being thirteen miles long at Pyhakoski, represent an enormous force of nature, and, to descend them, shows a wonderful example of what great skill and a cool head can do to steer a frail boat through such turbulent waters and such cataracts.
I tremble now when I think of those awful nights in Finland. Sleep had deserted me. I used to steal from my bed in the small hours, when I could toss about no more, and, throwing on a dressing-gown, slip out on to the balcony. How perfect it all was, that great high dome of sky so light that one could barely see a star, so warm that sun and moon fought for pre-eminence. No one who has not really seen them can know the glory of those Northern nights both in winter and in summer. In winter the glory of the darkness and the aurora borealis (Northern Lights), in summer the perfection of colour and light. I have seen them on four or five different occasions. Beautiful as is the South, the night of the Arctic is still more wondrous. It is so still, so calm, so vast.
There on the balcony, listening to the grasshoppers and watching the reds and yellows of the midnight sun, I would dream waking dreams. Could I really write professionally? Could I earn sufficient to send my boys to school and keep a home, ought I to risk it, or should I decide, as so many friends wished, to part myself from all my old ties and treasures, and live in seclusion on my little income in a cottage or a suburb? It was a great fight. Six months of anxiety and two terrible shocks had weakened me and made me distrust myself.
Yes, even now I shiver when I think of those nights. Nights of wakefulness after a hard working day. Napoleon, Wellington, and Grant could all sleep at a moment’s notice, even on the battlefield, the result of will-power and habit. I wished I could acquire the gift.