Porvoo or Borgå, 1908
There is one excursion which no tourist should omit before leaving Helsingfors, and that is an expedition to delightful old Borgå.
From: 1908 C.E. To: 1908 C.E.
Location: 60°23′40″N 25°39′50″E
Note: This article has been excerpted from a larger work in the public domain and shared here due to its historical value. It may contain outdated ideas and language that do not reflect TOTA’s opinions and beliefs.
From A Summer Tour in Finland by Paul Waineman, 1908.
There is one excursion which no tourist should omit before leaving Helsingfors, and that is an expedition to delightful old Borgå.
Of all the pleasurable reminiscences that I have of my trip through Finland, perhaps the hours I spent at Borgå stand out as the most delightful. I had been particularly happy in my choice of a day—it turned out to be one of those exhilarating days of the North, when the warmth of the sun seems touched with a spice of freshness impossible to describe. The air was not the usual insipid air that you breathe in without conscious sensation of any kind. It was an air that compelled you to open your mouth and fill your lungs to the utmost with breaths that gave new life to every tingling pulse—an air that made the three-hours' journey on the little steamer to Borga slip by like three minutes. It is easy to forget time in the North, when gliding in and out from fjord to fjord, connected with winding waterways, so narrow at times that the overhanging branches of the trees brush against the steamer on either side, as she cuts her way between their wooded shores.
I had also the good fortune to have a delightful companion in the person of Colonel Rudolph de Schulman, who had spent some of his childhood days at Borgå, and who knew every nook and corner of the quaint old town. He must have wondered at my insatiable appetite for stories of the good old days. Like a greedy child, I wanted more and more Those tales of old Borga fascinated me, and I seemed to have made the acquaintance of those old-world homes long before our friendly captain (who apparently had a good word for every one of his passengers) had slowed down his craft, previous to entering the shallow waters of the picturesque river upon whose steep banks the old red, green, and yellow houses of Borgå cluster. Our steamer was the most leisurely of crafts—that is to say, she could steam away in a fine style when so inclined, and rode the waves of Sibbo fjord like a bird; but for the greater part of that journey she steered from shore to shore, stopping at the numerous landing-stages of the various summer villas that spring upon you in the most unexpected manner—charming villas, with deep balconies and open verandas, just perched on some rock, or half hidden amongst the trees.
As a rule, there is no pretence at cultivation about them. Gardens and lawns, as we understand them, are entirely absent. A Finn prefers to place his summer abode in the most countrified surroundings that he can find. He builds a long wooden bridge of the simplest design, yet strong enough to withstand the daily onslaught of that much-looked-for steamer from Helsingfors. Then he makes a little sanded pathway to twist and bend through the shadows of the forest trees, until it touches his front door-step, where sometimes the wild pink heather forms the only carpet bedding of his ideally rural home. Those villas are like perennial flowers. They blossom out every spring, and are boarded up and deserted at the first touch of frost Yet at every stop we made, a stranger would find something novel to occupy his attention. It is most amusing to watch the disembarkation of the passengers clad in their town clothes, with that half-important air of having only just come from the capital, greeting their children or friends, who, entirely regardless of the glances of other passengers, rush down to the landing-bridge hatless or stockingless, at the first sound of the approaching steamer's whistle.
At one place I remember two of the quaintest little girls I had ever seen waiting apparently for their mother, who, judging from their excitement and the goodly pile of market-baskets that were deposited on the bridge, must have brought them a nice fairing from town. Those little girls, about fourteen or fifteen years of age, were dressed alike in the cleanest of white starched muslin frocks, and were both hatless and bare-footed. Both possessed a pigtail of splendid flaxen hair hanging down almost to their knees and tied with blue ribbons. Behind them stood a fat, smiling servant-wench, with cheeks like a red apple, who with the first appearance of the steamer kept on bobbing, and continued to do so until I yearned to stop her. Perhaps daily practice had made her knees pliable. My knees almost gave under me at the sight of her. My last view of her, when we were already well on the fjord, was wending up the steep pathway to the house, carrying in each hand a huge market-basket, but in my imagination I still saw her bobbing.
Finland appears to be the most friendly of countries. Every one seemed to be greeted with such overbrimming goodwill and pleasure that it made one think that none of those rural villas could contain anything but warm-hearted hospitality, and that uncharitable deeds or thoughts could not flourish there.
Our captain took evident interest in all his passengers. We were nearly in sight of Borgå town, our final stopping-place, and the greater part of the passengers had already disembarked, when he turned gravely towards myself. "Do you speak English?" he demanded slowly. "Yes,” I replied quickly. "I cannot," he returned mournfully. Then he saluted me, and walked hastily away. I admired that captain. I suppose he did not wish to leave the least of his passengers out in the cold, and so had learnt that makeshift scrap of English dialogue in case of need.
The first view of Borgå from the water is delightful beyond words. It has not the appearance of a real town, but looks like a stretch of canvas against a background of blue sky, on which a master hand had painted the most bewildering diversity of old wooden buildings, in every possible and impossible hue, and clustering one upon the other like banks of wild-flowers.
But Borgå is as variable as a woman. When we arrived I thought its ruling colour was red—not a harsh crude red, but a red softened with the touch of years. Every other colour seemed dominated by the red of the crimson-painted packhouses by the river-side and mirrored on the surface of the water.
But Borgå is only deceiving one in giving this impression. Almost before one has landed, one's eye forgets that first aspect of the town, and one is confronted with a steep cobble-stoned street, twisting and turning up a hill, on the summit of which stands a cluster of the quaintest old-fashioned wooden houses with yellow-painted walls. Then again this glow of yellow fades away, and on the top of the hill you suddenly realize that yellow and red alike have been but foils to bring out more movingly the solemn greyness of the old cathedral that stands so majestically in her midst
Borgå Cathedral was built in 1418; nearly a century later than the town itself, which, according to some historians, was founded by King Smek of Sweden in 1346. It stands in a walled-in courtyard, now grass-grown and curiously uneven. The intense light outside made my first impression of the interior vague and uncertain. Then gradually I saw the vaulted roof and majestic proportions of those old walls that have withstood the ravages of nearly six centuries.
The imprints of the Reformation have fortunately done little to injure the decorations, which are still almost the same as in the old Catholic days, when the cathedral was in its zenith.
The pulpit is a splendid specimen of the wood-carving of the sixteenth century, and was the gift of one of the heroes of the Thirty Years' War, a certain Arvid Wittenberg, who was born at Borgå. It is painted in white and gold, surmounted by a gorgeous canopy to match, from which a dove, resplendent with crimson and gilt wings, is suspended. The quaint hour-glass, filled with sand, is still used by the preacher. The fine organ and gallery at the back of the nave are of a later date, 1780, and are also painted in white and gold.
The walls are decorated with very crude frescoes of no special interest, except that they give an added note of colour amidst that general scheme of white and gold. But the old brass wall sconces and superb crystal chandeliers from the seventeenth century would alone be worth a journey to Borgå to come and look at. They at least filled me with envy. I wondered if the good people of Borgå knew how to value them, or if they would some day become such vandals as the citizens of Abo (the oldest cathedral town of Finland), who, some thirty or forty years ago, replaced the magnificent crystal and bronze chandeliers of their cathedral by the most hideous modern brass gas brackets that could be found.
The verger, who looked as if he also belonged to the Middle Ages, eyed me suspiciously. He held in his hands a bunch of giant keys, rusty with the age of many centuries. My attention wandered from the crystal chandeliers to those keys. They looked as if they might open the door to some hidden treasures. After some persuasion the old man was induced to lead the way to the old consistory, now used as a vestry, where the principal treasure of the cathedral is kept, a silver cup, which is considered to be one of the oldest in the world, dated 1207, and which was brought to Borgå from Germany in the fifteenth century.
By this time our veteran guide had become more amiable, and showed us of his own accord some of the gorgeous vestments used by the bishops in the good old days. Those bishops must have used them sparingly, as they were astonishingly well preserved. One in purple velvet, ornamented with an immense crucifix in silver, and bordered with splendid silver lace, looked as if it had been made yesterday, and yet it was dated 1680. Another, in shimmering gold brocade silk, was certainly the freshest production of the weaver's art dating from that period that I have ever seen.
But it is not for such things as these that Borgå Cathedral is famous. It is because one of the most momentous incidents of Finnish history took place within its walls. It was here on March 29, 1809, with the thunder of war still vibrating in the air, that the Emperor Alexander I. of Russia, two days after he had signed the constitution which gave freedom to the country that he had conquered, received the oaths of allegiance from his newly made subjects.
As I walked out again into the sunshine, and looked down upon the motionless river that seemed as lifeless as the old wooden houses that clustered up its steep banks, it was difficult to imagine that day, close upon a hundred years ago, which had transformed Borgå from a despised provincial village to the proudest town in Finland.
The halo of greatness that then shone over it must always light up the shadows of passing years. Old Borgå understands that other towns in Finland have sprung up and long since passed it in commercial prosperity—wealthy towns, with fine stone buildings and straight wide streets that Borg& has never known. Yet Borgå, repaints her old one-storied wooden houses in the same vivid colours as of old, and year by year the sunshine mellows the grey tints of the cathedral and gives to it something of that inexplicable majesty that only age can bring forth.
Most of Europe knows with what tenacity the Finns have fought during the last few years for their independence and constitution. But few know that that very constitution, so dearly prized by them, was signed on March 29, 1809, in an upper room of a house in Borgå, by his Imperial Majesty Alexander the First of Russia.
That historic house is still standing exactly as it was. The exterior is so modest that it seems hardly possible that it once had held the Council of an Empire within its walls. The imperial pomp of the most magnificent Court in Europe appears so utterly at variance with that humble dwelling, with its old-fashioned blue-painted canvas blinds.
To-day the house is used for meetings of the bishop and clergy of the district. The famous room in which Finland obtained its freedom is open to visitors on payment of a small fee to the caretaker, who lives in an adjoining house. The room was much larger and loftier than I had expected from the outside The principal thing in it is an immense oil-painting, by an artist of the period, representing that memorable gathering within the walls of Borgå Cathedral two days after the constitution had been signed, when the nobles, burghers, clergy, and peasants of Finland took their oath of allegiance to the Emperor who had so chivalrously protected their rights.
The picture gives a most graphic impression of the scene. The ladies form a charming group in one of the galleries, dressed in their high-waisted old-world gowns, with ringletted hair and swan-like necks bent towards the Emperor, who stands erect with kingly bearing in the midst of that glittering throng.
One of the ladies represented was the famous beauty, Miss Mollersvärd, who married later General von Essen, a widower, who had the reputation of having the worst temper in Finland. His first wife was a Miss Reutershiold, of whom little is known except that she died young; Miss Mollersvärd divorced the general after three days of matrimony. The general was not deterred by this matrimonial mishap, for he soon found a third wife in a Miss Boyer.
This third wife, who soon became the inseparable friend of her predecessor, the beautiful Miss Mollersvärd, is said to have entirely subdued the fiery general into lamblike meekness. The first step towards this desirable change occurred when the general, in a fit of temper, rose from the dining-table and threw a glass on the floor in his wife's presence.
She returned the compliment by calmly rising from her place and quietly drawing the cloth towards her until every piece of the valuable china and glass on the table was smashed to pieces on the floor. This spirited conduct so charmed the general that for ever afterwards he was the devoted slave of his wife.
A charming impression of Borgå can be had from the ramparts of Borgbacken, the favourite walk or drive of the townspeople of Borgå. Borgbacken is the site of an ancient fortress of unknown antiquity, and is situated on the top of a hill to the north-east of the town. From its summit a most beautiful view of the town and surrounding country is obtained. No sign of the original fortress exists at the present day, except the deep encircling moats. The fortress is said by some historians to be the oldest in Finland, dating far back into heathen times. It was mentioned in 1327 as a relic of the past The last remains of the fortress were probably destroyed in the wars with Russia in 1571 and 1590, when the greater part of the town was laid in ashes. The ancient battlements are now guarded by that modern horror—barbed wire, and light wooden bridges are placed across the moats for pedestrians. It was upon these wooded heights that the famous Finnish poet, Walter Runeberg, used to come and seek for inspiration for some of his immortal poems.
If a Finnish child were asked, "For what is Borgå famous?" the answer would be, "It was the home of Walter Runeberg.” The memory of his sojourn here is one of the proudest records of the town. The modest one-storied wooden house that was his home for over thirty years is now the property of the town, and open to all who care to visit 'this shrine to the memory of a great man.
Everything is left in the house exactly as it was when Runeberg lived there, and the very spirit of the dead master seems to cling to the old-world furniture and fading hangings of other days. Even a stranger must feel a certain solemnity within those walls. All the symbols of a home are there, only life is absent Surely the ghost of the master must sometimes steal back to the home that has never been dismantled—the home that he loved, and where the genius of his mind gave birth to those beautiful songs that he left as an heirloom to his country.
My next pilgrimage was to that green hill across the river where the people of Borgå sleep their last long sleep. It is in truth a place of rest: a garden of peace, shadowed by watching trees that alone break that majesty of silence when a breeze from the distant fjord stirs their drooping branches above the resting-places of the dead.
Runeberg is buried there, and above his grave a splendid monument of Finnish marble is outlined against the sky.
Just as Vikings were always buried by their followers on the highest eminences to show to all their kingly rank, so the people of Borgå placed the mortal remains of their poet upon the most elevated position they could find. The grave of Runeberg stands alone upon the summit of a little hill, impressive in its simplicity, and worthy to be the shrine of a patriot
Below that hill, hidden amongst the shadows of the trees, there is another, grave—a modest slab of granite, so unassuming that passers-by would not heed it. To a stranger the simple inscription, "Eugene Schauman d. 16th June 1904” would convey nothing. But few Finnish hearts have failed to beat the quicker as they have looked down on that bare sentence, because beneath those printed words there stands out vividly a message in blood—"This man gave his life for his country."
Eugene Schauman will be known to posterity as the William Tell of Finland, who shot his country's tyrant, General Bobrikoff, and then took his own life. As yet the deed is so recent that the name of Eugene Schauman is only whispered, but little children lay a flower on his grave when the shadows fall and the sun sinks behind the old homes of Borga.
The bridge that spans the river below the cemetery is built of wood, and is a most picturesque adjunct to the scene. The river was crowded that day with immense stacks of floating timber, slowly drifting downwards towards the open water. It was my first glimpse of those countless timber-floats that later were to meet my eyes in every part of my journey through Finland.
The view from the bridge was so delightful that I was only reminded of the passing of time by a word from my long-suffering companion, Colonel de Schulman, who gently hinted that man does not live by sight-seeing alone. We, therefore, wended our way to the Societetshuset, a comfortable old-fashioned hotel, where we obtained a most excellent dinner, served by a particularly attentive Finnish maiden, the happy possessor of the bluest eyes that I have ever seen.
Borgå, by the way, is noted for a special brew of ale, and also a peculiar kind of bun, immemorially known as "Borgå Tippor." These buns have been the delight of children for so many generations past, that the name of their originator is lost in antiquity. Perhaps some heathen housewife of the ancient citadel made them as a surprise for her lord and master.
Before leaving Borgå, I had just time to give a hasty glance over the museum. It has been opened but recently, and contains principally gifts of private donors, consisting chiefly of objets d’art and furniture of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. I shall remember that museum chiefly for two things. First, the famous sledge in which Alexander I. made his imperial progress through Finland a hundred years ago. Time has dealt gently with that historic equipage, and the panels of vivid wool-work that decorate it, and which were worked by the fair hands of Finnish maidens, are still only slightly less florid in their hues than when in their pristine glory. Secondly, the old custodian who refused to take a tip. A Finn's honesty is sometimes almost aggressive.
I must not forget to mention, also, an old blue-and-white willow-pattern dinner-service, lately given to the museum, that I had frequently eaten my dinner off in the days gone by. I immediately recognized it, although I had no previous knowledge that it had been placed there.
That particular dinner-service had only been accounted valuable of late years. When I knew it, it was only considered fit for the nursery and everyday use. It made me feel quite venerable to think that the plates of my nursery days were now reposing in solemn rows behind large show-cases in a museum. I was glad that fine china had found at last its right place in the world But I know of many homes in Finland which still have china in everyday use that would create a sensation at Christie's.
How that old Oriental china has got into Finland is more or less a mystery. It can only be surmised that during the many wars in the Middle Ages, it must have crept over the Russian border from Constantinople, or else have been brought over in trading vessels from the East. But I must not induce would-be collectors to go in search of these treasures, which, as a matter of fact, are generally hidden away safely upon unseen shelves. I, myself, found a fine Oriental bowl in an old curiosity shop at Helsingfors during my recent stay there, and I know of another perfect specimen reposing in the centre of Finland (a sufficiently vague address, I hope), which I mean to be mine some day. This bowl is of immense size, thirty inches across, of richly glazed porcelain with a vivid green decoration, and absolutely void of any other colour. The price asked was so high for Finnish currency, 400 marks (£16), that I could do nothing but shake my head and leave it there until hops begin to pay again.
Waineman, Paul. A Summer Tour in Finland. Methuen & Co., 1908.
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