"Because we all know about you from the newspapers (not one word of which we could read ourselves), and we are very anxious you should like us and our land, and tell the people in England we are not barbarians as they suppose. Please excuse my speaking to you, but I am the spokesman of many, who will be delighted to hear you are satisfied, and wish you a pleasant journey. If a stranger may be so bold—I thank you for coming."
"Finland certainly deserves to be better known," I replied.
"You think so? oh, I am glad;" and after a few minutes more conversation he said, "I hope you will enjoy Punkaharju."
"How do you know I am going to Punkaharju?"
"I heard so, and that you are actually living in our Castle, and that you are going through the country to Uleåborg."
I almost collapsed; but he was so nice and so smiling I dared not be angry at his somewhat inquisitive interest in my movements.
On another occasion it was an elderly general who calmly sat down and addressed me in German, in order to inquire what I was going to write, how I was going to write it, and when it would appear.
These are only three instances of several, all showing the keen interest of the people that the land may be known and the Finlander a little better understood than he is by half the world to-day, who seem to imagine him to be a cross between a Laplander and an Esquimo—instead of what he really is, a very cultured gentleman.
My sister eased the troubles of life for me by kindly doing the packing; but once, so she says, virtue seized me in a rigid grip—and I packed.
It was at Olavin Linna—at our Castle. We were leaving next day, and one Gladstone had to be filled with things we did not want for a short time, and the other to be packed with everything we required immediately.