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Title: Cousin-hunting in Scandinavia
Author: Mary Wilhelmine Williams
Release date: December 14, 2024 [eBook #74893]
Language: English
Original publication: United States: Richard G. Badger
Credits: Fiona Holmes and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUSIN-HUNTING IN SCANDINAVIA ***
[Illustration: Riddarholm’s Church, Stockholm]
COUSIN-HUNTING
IN SCANDINAVIA
BY
MARY WILHELMINE WILLIAMS
_ILLUSTRATED_
[Illustration]
BOSTON: RICHARD G. BADGER
TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY MARY W. WILLIAMS
All Rights Reserved
The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.
Made in the United States of America
TO MY FRIEND
ELLA MAY ADAMS
PREFACE
As every one knows, the mother land of the American nation is England.
But what is the _grandmother_ land? A short glance at England’s
past will show that it is Scandinavia. Though the English people
are exceedingly composite, there exists in them a very important
Scandinavian strain. The Northern blood was contributed primarily
by two great immigrations directly from Scandinavia, and one from
Normandy, by people only a century and a half removed from Scandinavia;
but it should be borne in mind also that the somewhat mysterious Jutes,
Angles, and Saxons, whose continental home was in the peninsula of
Jutland and about its base, must have borne a very close relationship
to their contemporaries and neighbors to the north.
With the introduction of Scandinavian blood came Scandinavian manners
and customs which made an impress upon the English population only
recently recognized.
Of the various parts of Europe which contributed elements to the
English people during their formative period, Scandinavia is the only
one whose population has remained relatively pure and in the original
home, unjostled and unmixed by foreign invasions. Thus it happens that
the English people are more closely related to those of Scandinavia,
in blood and in manners and customs, than they are to the inhabitants
of any other European country. Hence, Scandinavia is the _grandmother_
land of the American people.
We know the English fairly well, but with the Scandinavians, who have
more in common with us than any other Europeans except the English,
our acquaintance is of the slightest. Books in plenty, descriptive
of present-day Scandinavia, are in existence, but they somehow fail
to present the Scandinavians as definite personalities. My aim in
writing this narrative has been to introduce to my fellow Americans
in as intimate manner as possible their Scandinavian kindred, who are
still living in the ancient ancestral homestead—the Grandmother Land.
In my efforts to establish a real acquaintance between the branch of
the family which has wandered and that which has remained at home, I
have purposely omitted the more conventional and more obvious part of
my experiences in Scandinavia in order to give place and emphasis to
the homely details which help to bring out the characteristics of the
Scandinavians and their home land, and to show them as they really are.
In the preparation of this book I have received aid of various sorts
from many people—so many that to list the names of all to whom I feel
indebted would be a most perplexing undertaking. Consequently, I make
only this general acknowledgment of obligation.
Mary Wilhelmine Williams.
2207 N. Charles Street,
Baltimore, Maryland,
May 28, 1916.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE ENTRANCE INTO SCANDINAVIA; COPENHAGEN 11
II. MORE ABOUT COPENHAGEN; THE COPENHAGENERS’
COUNTRY GARDENS 38
III. BORNHOLM AND THE BORNHOLMERS 54
IV. AN INTRODUCTION TO SWEDEN: LUND, HELSINGBORG,
GOTHENBURG 82
V. JOURNEYING ACROSS SWEDEN; STOCKHOLM 96
VI. THE TWO UPPSALAS; GEFLE AND SÖDERHAMN 120
VII. DALECARLIA AND THE DALECARLIANS 144
VIII. TRONDHJEM AND MOLDE; THE NORWEGIAN
FIORDS 159
IX. BERGEN AND CHRISTIANIA 183
X. COPENHAGEN ONCE MORE; CASTLES IN
DENMARK 202
XI. ROSKILDE AND ODENSE; GOOD-BY TO SCANDINAVIA 227
INDEX 237
ILLUSTRATIONS
Riddarholm’s Church, Stockholm _Frontispiece_
_Facing Page_
City Hall and Palace Hotel, Copenhagen 32
Rosenborg Castle 32
“Denmark,” by Elizabeth Jerichau-Baumann 40
Grave Monument, by Rudolf Tegnér 40
Bornholm’s Museum and Saint Morten’s Street, Rönne 58
Bridge Crossing the Old Moat at Hammershuus Castle 58
Harvest Time in Bornholm 74
Österlars Church, Bornholm 74
Ezias Tegnér 92
Statue of Gustav Adolf, Gothenburg 92
Statue of Birger Jarl, Stockholm 108
Museum of the North, Stockholm 108
Selma Lagerlöf 112
Interior of One of the Ancient Swedish Houses at
“Skansen,” Stockholm 112
Gamla Uppsala Church 132
Choir of Gamla Uppsala Church 132
A Quaint House in Rättvik 156
Rättvikers on Their Way to Church 156
Gargoyle on Trondhjem Cathedral 172
Romsdal Fiord, Showing Horn 172
A Norwegian “Maud Muller” 178
Piling Codfish in Söholt 178
Rosenkrantz Tower and Haakon’s Hall, Bergen 186
Norwegian Mountain Homes 186
Above the Timber Line in Norway 192
Statue of Henrik Ibsen by Sinding 192
Stork Fountain, Copenhagen 220
Statue of Holger Danske at Marienlyst 220
Roskilde Cathedral 234
Hans Andersen’s House 234
COUSIN HUNTING IN
SCANDINAVIA
CHAPTER I
THE ENTRANCE INTO SCANDINAVIA; COPENHAGEN
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK,
July 20, 191—
_Dear Cynthia_:
Here I am at last, all safe and sound, in the land of the Viking—the
land of my ancestors. In fact, several days have passed since my
wandering feet first touched Danish soil; but I have been so absorbed
with my initial explorations of this snug little country, which is
still “home” to my mother, that I have been neglecting my own home and
friends in the dear Far Western World.
Last Friday morning I left Kiel for Korsör, which is upon Seeland, the
largest island of Denmark. A glorious, cloudless sky was overhead; and
the Baltic about us was a vast, shimmering, rippling liquid plain of
changing blues and greens over which our boat, the _Prince Sigismund_,
smoothly and rapidly passed. About two hours after leaving Germany I
secured my first glimpse of Danish territory; Langeland (Long Land),
with low, white cliffs—modest imitations of Shakespeare’s “pale and
white-faced shore”—loomed up on the left. Our boat kept close enough
to the island to give us a good view of the rolling coast, marked
off in patches of light fields and dark forests, with here and there
glimpses of quaint farm houses and windmills of the “Dutch” variety. To
the right, faint and far away, was a misty suggestion of the cliffs of
Laaland (Low Land), a larger island of the Danish archipelago; but so
like Langeland did its vague outline appear as to seem the very ghost
or double of it.
While we were still passing between these two southern outposts of
Denmark, luncheon was announced. Some of the passengers promptly went
below to the dining salon, but many had their refreshments served on
little tables on the open deck. I was among the latter. Most of the
people about me were evidently Germans going to Denmark or Danes or
other Scandinavians returning home after visits of business or pleasure
in Germany. To them it was a voyage frequently made, and they preferred
the deck to the dining salon merely because it was pleasanter. But to
me, an American of Scandinavian parentage, it was such a very important
occasion that I was determined to see as much as possible, during this
first view, of the land in which, for centuries—for thousands of
years—my forefathers and foremothers had lived and died.
The part of the Baltic which separates the island of Fünen from the
island of Seeland, upon which Copenhagen is situated, is called by
the Danes “Store Baelt”—the Great Belt. As I have told you, for
my crossing, the waters of the Great Belt rippled charmingly under
the gentle stroke of the summer breeze; and the islands beckoned
invitingly to the front and the left and the right. This seascape and
landscape was as different as possible from the mental picture which
the name Great Belt had long summoned to my mind. Since studying
Scandinavian history I had most frequently thought of the strait as
heavily bridged with ice, and of the Danish islands as paralyzed under
the dominion of the Frost King. For this was the state of affairs one
February day two hundred and fifty odd years ago. And the bridge of
ice was so strong and so thick as to tempt Charles X of Sweden—who
had been recently moved to make a belligerent call upon his nearest
neighbor to the south—to march several thousand horse and foot
soldiers over the bridge, via the smaller islands to the right hand,
and to threaten the Danish capital. In consequence of the Swedish
king’s pressing attentions, Frederick III of Denmark, who had been to a
considerable extent to blame for the quarrel, decided to buy peace by
means of the treaty of Roskilde. This gave to the Swedes a half dozen
Danish provinces, including some in the southern part of the present
Sweden, which had long been Danish soil.
It soon became evident, however, that Charles intended to make use of
the army which he maintained in Denmark for the purpose of wringing
still further concessions from his humiliated neighbor. Naturally,
Denmark did not agree to the new demands with the desired alacrity,
and King Frederick declared that he would die like a bird in its nest
rather than surrender to Charles. Whereupon the Swedish king vowed that
he would wipe the Danish nest off the map, and soon had laid siege to
Copenhagen. But the Danish people worked as one man and helped save
their capital by hurling upon the enemy an avalanche of artillery fire,
stones, and hot water. Much aid was also given to the Danes by the
Dutch fleet, which slipped past the Swedish guns guarding the Sound
to the north and arrived in time. Soon the tables were turned. The
Swedes were defeated and driven out of the land, and in the end Denmark
recovered some of the territory which she had lost. And little Denmark
still stands, somewhat pared away, to be sure, in the course of the
centuries by one enemy or another, but with the great heart of her—the
most Danish part—still intact and still beating, an independent nation
of busy, healthy, happy people.
While I was still meditating upon Charles X’s crossing of the Great
Belt and the exciting events which followed, the _Prince Sigismund_
slipped swiftly into the harbor of Korsör, a place rimmed with
low-built, cosy-looking houses. As soon as we landed, a giant in
buttons and bars “shooed” us into the customs house. He was a giant
of the harmless, friendly sort, and as soon as the inspection of my
baggage was over he hunted up a porter for me. The porter was a blond,
guileless-appearing individual, possessed of astonishingly modest ideas
of his own worth. He weighed my trunk and put it on the Copenhagen
train, carried my two suit cases to an “ikke-röge” (smoking not
allowed) compartment of the same train, and then announced the charge
for his services to be ten öre—less than three cents!
The train which I boarded, like most passenger trains in Europe, was
divided into compartments for accommodating about six people, each
compartment opening into a narrow corridor running the whole length of
the car. The compartment in which I rode was third class, but it was
very clean and was quite satisfactory for a short journey. The seats
were not upholstered, but they were more comfortable than the average
church pew. On the walls were several attractive photographic views of
Danish landscapes, and a map of Denmark. There was also the customary
notice prohibiting spitting upon the floor. My only companions in the
compartment were a rosy-cheeked Danish mother and two chubby, blue-eyed
little boys. Each of the little chaps had a tiny shovel and a tin
bucket, still bearing traces of sand. They had evidently spent the day
at the beach.
As the train rolled placidly along, I had pleasant glimpses of Seeland
through the car window. The otherwise monotonous level of the land
was broken by the variety of color and form: there was a constant
alternation of dark forests and light fields, of thatched-roof farm
houses and huge windmills; and occasionally there appeared men and
women cultivating the crops. Now and then we passed through a town,
and in one of them, Roskilde, I obtained a view of the spires of the
fine old cathedral towering above the tops of the trees clustering
around it, and far above the broad red-tiled roofs of the houses in the
foreground. I shall visit Roskilde upon my return.
Soon we were at our destination. It took just two hours to pass from
Korsör to Copenhagen—to cross Denmark’s largest island; and the fare
which I paid was the equivalent of eighty-five cents in American
money—about one-third of what it would have been if I had come first
class. To an American used to the long transcontinental journey in her
own land, Denmark seems so very, very tiny.
As you doubtless know, I have cousins in Copenhagen, but I did not
write to them of my intended visit because I wished to make my first
acquaintance with Denmark’s capital by independent exploration;
therefore, at the Central Station I took a drosky for a hotel. And
at the hotel I secured a comfortable room, supplied with a generous
portion of windows and furnished in blues and greens and browns blended
according to Danish ideas of the artistic. My exploration of Copenhagen
began with my bed-room. I wish that you could see my bed and my stove,
Cynthia; they are marvels to American eyes. The bed is a veritable
mountain of feathers; whole flocks of geese must have contributed their
substance toward its construction. Not only are there several strata
of feather pillows upon which to lie, but the coverlet is also of
down, puffy and fluffy, and of smothering thickness. At night I cast
most of the components of the bed in a heap upon the floor, cap off
the pile with the coverlet, and sleep in peace under the top sheet and
the steamer rug which I purchased in New York. It is not a bad plan to
carry along one’s blankets when one is traveling.
When, as a child, you read the story of the “Princess and the Pea,”
didn’t you feel that Andersen stretched the truth a little in his
solemn assertion that the old queen put _twenty_ mattresses on top
of the pea, and _twenty_ eider-down beds on top of the mattresses? I
certainly did; but I doubt no longer. Since, in these modern times, a
hotel bed for plain folks contains the number and variety of mattresses
and feather beds which mine does, I am willing to believe that in times
past on an extraordinary occasion Denmark’s queen used an _unlimited_
quantity of downy layers in making up the royal “spare bed.” Whether or
not the true princess felt the pea through the forty-strata mountain is
another question.
The Danes call heating apparatuses like the one in my room a
“kakkelovn,” and they show discrimination and taste in doing so; no
such simple word as “stove” could adequately indicate the dignity and
majesty of the structure which fills the corner of my room from floor
almost to lofty ceiling. The edifice bears a striking resemblance to
the picture of the Tower of Babel which appeared in the “Child’s Bible”
of my juvenile days. Though its proportions are slimmer, its general
style is the same; a series of stories—each one slightly smaller than
the one next below—mount ambitiously skyward. Far above my head is the
summit, crowned with a shining nickel ornament, and near the base is a
door opening into the fire-box. There is enough cast iron in the tower
to make several fair-sized American heaters.
The days since my arrival have been so balmy that the giant stove has
not been called upon for service; but I gladly warrant its efficiency,
for it bears a strong family resemblance to a more modest-appearing
structure called a “kachelofen,” which kept my room in Germany
comfortable last winter in the worst below-zero weather. These “kakkel”
stoves are lined with brick and retain the heat remarkably well. They
are a vast improvement upon the English open-grate fire which permits
one to freeze on one side while he roasts on the other.
On the very afternoon of my arrival, without even stopping to unpack my
suit-case, I took a walk about Copenhagen. I just could not wait; all
of the sights and sounds which came to me through my wide-open windows
seemed to blend into one distinct personality and to call to me to come
forth and become acquainted. Copenhagen has decidedly the most distinct
personality that I have ever sensed in any city. This interesting
capital seems very old and very wise, but not too old and not too wise
to sympathize with youth and unwisdom. It is like an ancient lady
with silvery hair and strongly-lined face, who yet has warm red blood
pulsing through her heart and a merry twinkle in her blue eyes; a very
charming dame, Cynthia, and altogether lovable. Once out upon the
streets, moving along with the pedestrians, I felt quite at home. I was
no longer a stranger in a strange land.
Perhaps the fact that familiar words met my ears was the chief element
in my sense of homelikeness. My ability to understand Danish and to
speak it—after a fashion—contributed much toward placing me upon a
friendly basis toward Copenhagen. But the Copenhageners’ knowledge of
English was also a tremendous help. An astonishing proportion of the
population speak English. Most of the younger half have studied it in
the schools; and some have become acquainted with the language through
residence in England or the United States. I promptly met one of the
latter group. A short distance down the street I noticed some large red
gooseberries of a variety which is edible raw. I have never seen them
in the United States, but became fond of them in Germany; so I wanted
some. As I could not remember the Danish name for the fruit, I simply
pointed to it and asked for ten öres’ worth. While measuring out the
berries, the salesman surprised me by asking, in good English, “What
is the English name for these?” I told him, and he evidently promptly
catalogued me as an American experimenting with the King’s Danish; for
he proceeded to remark that he had seen berries of somewhat similar
appearance in “the States,” where he had spent a few years. I replied
that it was pleasant to find people in the shops who could speak
English. “Sure!” said he, whereupon I was quite convinced that he had
been in “the States.”
Until the middle of the twelfth century the place which later became
Denmark’s capital was but a small fishing port. Facing, as it did,
the Baltic, which was at the time infested by the piratical Wends,
whose homes were on the southern shore, this portion of Seeland was
very open to attack; and probably was also frequently a resort for
sea-robbers. But a change came soon after the great warrior-priest,
Axel—or Absalon, as he was later called—was made archbishop of
Lund. This was in the stirring days of King Waldemar the Great, and
the frontier bishop’s office was far from a sinecure; repeatedly,
Absalon interrupted services at the altar in order to seize the
sword and to pursue the enemies of his land and his religion. And
eventually the struggle ended by the conquest of the Wendish heathen
and their conversion to Christianity. But before this, Copenhagen was
founded. During his campaigns against the Wends, Absalon strongly
fortified the obscure little fishing port. At first the stronghold
bore the name Axelshuus, or Absalon’s House, but as time passed the
important commercial town which grew up around it came to be called
“Kiöbmaenshavn,” which in Danish means “Merchants’ Haven.” Copenhagen
is merely the English corruption of the modern Danish name, Kiöbenhavn.
The name of Bishop Absalon, as you see, is one which is written large
in Danish history; and, in the long centuries which have passed since
his day, Copenhagen has not forgotten his services. Close to the
Island of the Castle, or Slotsholmen, on which once stood the fortress
erected by him, is a conspicuous equestrian statue of Absalon; and on
guard over the entrance to the new town hall, or Raadhuset, is another
sculptured figure of the great Dane who went forth with the cross in
one hand and the sword in the other.
But to my thinking, at least, Denmark’s prehistoric past is of more
interest than her early Christian history. Consequently, I went, the
day after my arrival, to the National Museum. This is in the heart
of the old Copenhagen, just opposite Slotsholmen. The building which
houses the national collection was first erected in the seventeenth
century; and it was rebuilt in 1744, as a residence for a Danish
prince, for which reason it is still called “Prinsens Palais.” About
sixty years ago it was converted into a museum; and, though it is a
homely old structure, the Prince’s Palace is spacious and well lighted,
and hence is well suited to its present use.
On the walls of the courtyard are memorial tablets to Rasmus Nyerup
and to Jens Jacob Asmussen Worsaae, the founder of Danish archæology.
To see these tablets was like coming across mementoes of old friends;
for Nyerup and Worsaae have done much toward making rough ways smooth
and crooked paths straight for all who care to learn what the ancient
Scandinavians were like. And within the vestibule of the building
stands a marble bust of Christian Jürgensen Thomsen, the man to
whom Denmark is most indebted for bringing together the collections
exhibited in the museum.
But it is neither Nyerup, Worsaae, nor Thomsen to whom belongs the
final credit for Denmark’s pre-eminence in things archæological.
That must go to the Danish people, whose unusual interest has been
indispensable in making the national archæological exhibit the most
complete possessed by any nation, except Norway and Sweden. But
there is no mystery connected with the Scandinavian zeal for things
prehistoric; it has a sound historical basis, which is akin to family
pride. No other peoples of Europe have so long held the soil now
occupied by them as have the Scandinavians. In fact, the ancestors
of the modern Scandinavians reached the northwest of Europe even
before they were Scandinavians; it was only during the long centuries
following their arrival that they acquired the physical and mental
characteristics which distinguish them from other peoples of Teutonic
stock. When my pre-Scandinavian forefathers and foremothers came into
the present Scandinavian lands, a thousand years or so before the birth
of Christ, they were in the New Stone Age of culture. And while nations
rose and fell in other parts of Europe—while Celt fell before Roman,
and Roman before Teuton, and Teuton before Saracen and Slav—the people
who were becoming Scandinavians remained isolated in their northern
land, frequently quarreling among themselves, it is true, but unjostled
and uninvaded by alien blood. Consequently, to the modern Scandinavians
practically all archæological remains found in the land seem almost
ancestral relics, and, naturally, they take a tremendous interest in
them.
The exhibits are arranged in the museum in chronological order,
beginning with the Old Stone Age, and visitors are expected to follow
Denmark’s cultural development progressively. I know, because I
unwittingly entered first one of the rooms containing exhibits from the
late Middle Ages, and the vigilant guard courteously but firmly showed
me to the door on the opposite side of the vestibule. I was not to be
permitted to get an inverted idea of Denmark’s past, even if I wished
to do so.
The earliest part of the Old Stone Age in Denmark is represented in the
museum by a section of a kitchen midden, or shell mound. The primeval
settlers of Scandinavia did not live in the days of patent garbage cans
and incinerators; hence, after a feast of raw or baked clams or oysters
on the half shell, they dumped the shells upon the community refuse
heap—and thus were saved dish-washing. When they feasted on mammals
and birds, the bones were thrown upon the same garbage pile; but the
middens are mostly made up of shells, for shell fish—especially
oysters—were wonderfully abundant in the Baltic in the Old Stone days,
and could be had for the digging.
I was particularly interested in this _bona fide_, primitive Danish
garbage heap because a few years ago I saw a midden of the same general
character, left by the ancestors of the American Indians, when they
were at the same stage of culture as the makers of the Danish shell
mounds. Perhaps I have told you before of the midden which I saw in
California. It was near Point Richmond, on the shores of San Francisco
Bay; but as the land on which it stood has long been sinking, it had
been partially carried away by the waves. On the other hand, since the
coast of Denmark is rising, many of the Danish middens are now far
inland. But the two kinds of prehistoric garbage heaps bore a striking
resemblance to each other; both were made up largely of shells,
interspersed here and there with bones.
Until the middle of the last century, the world believed that the many
heaps of shells, mixed with bones, found here and there on the coasts
of Denmark, were merely due to the in-wash of the sea waves. Professor
Worsaae it was who discovered their true origin. In 1850 he proved them
to be of human formation. Though this seems a very simple discovery, it
was a very important one in archæology, for it explained similar mounds
in other parts of the world, and it led to a most careful investigation
of the Danish middens, resulting in the disclosure of fragments of
weapons and utensils which threw light upon a people whose one-time
existence the Danish archæologists had hitherto not even suspected.
But though we are introduced familiarly to their garbage heaps and to
a few of their personal belongings, much uncertainty exists regarding
the midden-builders of Denmark’s Old Stone Age. We know, to be sure,
that they probably lived in huts of boughs and skins, or in caves; that
their food was fish and game, with perhaps roots and berries; that they
could manufacture a very rough sort of pottery; that their weapons and
implements were of the most crudely-worked stone. But of how these
ancients themselves appeared, whence they came, and whither they went,
we know nothing. It seems pretty certain that they were a different
people from the ancestors of the modern Scandinavians. Indeed, some
scientists have suggested that the midden people were members of the
yellow race, probably related to the Eskimo, or to the Lapp. And in the
absence of proof this theory will do as well as any other.
The people from whom the Scandinavians evolved came later, as I said
before—in Denmark’s New Stone Age. It would be more accurate, I
presume, to say that they brought the New Stone Age with them; for when
they reached the Scandinavian cradle-land they already knew how to chip
stone into accurately shaped implements and weapons, and how to put on
a finishing polish when the proper shape had been obtained. However,
these early immigrants learned much in their new home about working
in stone, and in Scandinavia the New Stone period attained unusual
perfection. This was because the isolation of the region delayed the
introduction of a knowledge of work in metals. With all due respect to
the Neolithic Danes, I feel bound to remark that, given a sufficiently
long period of apprenticeship and a reduction of the number of
distracting and discouraging elements, most people would be able to
reach a high standard.
Nevertheless, when one wanders through the archæological collection
one becomes quickly convinced that these primitive Scandinavians were
master workmen. On the shelves behind the glass doors are extensive
exhibits of stone hammers and axes and other objects, in a great
variety of graceful and beautiful patterns—wonderfully symmetrical
where symmetry was aimed for, and with a smoothness of finish that
has resisted the vicissitudes of thousands of years. In those early
handicraft days such work was an art as well as a science; and surely
the craftsmen loved their labor, else they could not have exercised
the patience necessary to the attainment of such excellence. When I
remember how simple must have been the tools with which they wrought, I
swell with pride over the skill of my Stone Age ancestors.
As the use of bronze in Denmark supplanted the use of stone, as a
material for the manufacture of implements and weapons, so the exhibit
from the Bronze Age, in the National Museum, comes next after that
from the New Stone Age. In one of the rooms in which the early Bronze
Age finds are displayed are the life-sized dummy figures of a man and
woman, dressed in the costumes of the time—in garments of sheep’s
wool, mixed with deer’s hair. I was tremendously impressed to find
that my great-grandparents of three thousand years ago actually wore
woven garments—of simple pattern, it is true, but woven garments,
nevertheless. Before visiting the Early Bronze room, I must have had a
vague impression that at this period my forbears clad themselves in the
skins of wild beasts—like Adam and Eve and Robinson Crusoe.
Lest you skeptically conclude, Cynthia, that the accouterments of
the lady and gentlemen in the Early Bronze room were merely highly
glorified reproductions of imaginary primitive costumes, I beg to
assure you that the garments are faithful copies, both as regards style
and material, of clothing found in graves belonging to this ancient
time. Isn’t it astonishing that such things should have been preserved
through the stretch of centuries? But it was due to no miracle. The
coffins were made of roughly hewn and hollowed-out trunks of oak trees,
and the tannic acid in the bark preserved not only the coffins but the
clothing and other articles buried with the dead.
Thanks also to the fact that the ancient Scandinavians were careful to
supply their dead with the necessaries and luxuries of the time, in
order that the departed ones might live in comfort beyond the Great
Divide, I was able to learn something about their knowledge of the
decencies of life. For instance, I found that “in the flesh” they used
horn combs, and that they expected to use them beyond the Divide. It is
such a comfort not to have to picture them with matted, tangled locks!
But by the Later Bronze Age the Scandinavians had become sufficiently
advanced to burn their dead; consequently, the graves of this period
throw less light upon their costumes and habits. The bronze articles,
however, which the fire could not harm, show the same perfection of
workmanship and the artistic beauty which one would expect to find in
the descendants of the people of the Scandinavian New Stone Age. And
like this age also, the Bronze Age was prolonged in Scandinavia; iron
did not come into general use until four or five centuries before
Christ; hence, the Scandinavians again had time for the practice which
makes perfect.
In the exciting days of the later time when the piratical raids of the
Vikings caused the nations to the south to pray “Protect us, O Lord,
from the fury of the Northmen!” simple burial was again introduced,
but cremation was not completely abandoned. The return to the more
primitive method of disposing of the dead was, I suppose, due to
imitation of Christian practice; for Christian observances had a strong
modifying influence in Scandinavia long before Christianity itself
was adopted there. It was undoubtedly imitation of their Christian
neighbors which led the Scandinavians of the late Viking period to
engrave runic inscriptions upon the previously bare stones erected over
the graves of the dead. But in the epitaphs the spirit of the departed
was commended to the protection of the warlike Thor, who was at that
time the favorite god of the North, and not to the gentle Christ. Such
heathen grave stones are found in abundance in the museum. Another
Christian practice which got the attention of the Scandinavians was
the wearing of the cross and the crucifix as emblems or charms; in the
pagan North this custom seems to have produced an enthusiasm for Thor’s
hammers, which were worked into ornamental patterns in jewelry and were
also worn about the neck in the form of little silver pendants.
Upon my first visit to the National Museum, I decided that I should
like to take photographs of a few of the objects there. An American
gentleman residing in Copenhagen whom I consulted about the matter
intimated that it was very doubtful whether I would be permitted to
use a camera in the building; and he advised me to repeat my request
through the American minister to Copenhagen, if the powers at the
museum remained obdurate after I had personally approached them upon
the subject. In consequence of this hint of coming difficulty, I armed
myself with all of the documents in my possession calculated to prove
me a responsible and respectable person, and set forth. At the museum
I asked to see the director, and was promptly piloted by a guard
through what seemed an endless series of corridors and passageways to
the office of the Formidable One. I expected to see a Dane of grim
appearance, curt manners, and an iron jaw. But the Herr Direcktor was
far from that; he was a mild, absent-minded, somewhat frowsy-looking
gentleman who would scarcely frighten a mouse. In spite of my surprise
and relief, I preserved sufficient presence of mind to blurt out my
request, at the same time placing my letters of introduction, passport
and diplomas in a jumbled heap upon the table before him.
The Power behind the National Museum gazed blankly and absent-mindedly
at the pile of documents for a few seconds, and then asked, “What are
those papers?”
“They are my credentials,” said I.
“Credentials? I do not care to see your credentials,” said he. “Take
all the pictures you want.”
And I did. Wasn’t the Herr Direcktor a nice man?
I have since learned that the Scandinavian people are surprisingly
generous and helpful toward all serious students who come to their
land for the purpose of working in their libraries and museums. They
are honest themselves and expect honest treatment from others, and
generally receive it, too, I think, else they would hardly continue
their liberal policy.
But I fear that I may have bored you with my ramblings in archæological
fields, haunted by the ghosts of ancient heathen Scandinavians. By way
of variety, you might like to hear about my visit to “Runde Taarn”
(the Round Tower), which is above ground, and modern and of Christian
construction. No pun was intended, but it happens that the tower was
really built by Christian IV of Denmark, who lived in the early part of
the seventeenth century. It was originally erected for an astronomical
observatory and—together with an important library—was connected
with a church, built at the same time, which was given the doubly
significant name, Church of the Trinity.
For a short time Tycho Brahe, who, because of his birth in southern
Sweden in the days when it was controlled by Denmark, is claimed by
both Swedes and Danes, worked in the observatory. Tycho had received
much kindness at the hands of Frederick II, Christian’s predecessor,
but it soon was evident that the new ruler, great though he was in
many ways, did not appreciate the genius of the astronomer, and not
only cut off the pension which had been granted to Tycho by the late
king, but also forbade him to continue his investigations. Before this,
Tycho Brahe had gained the hatred and contempt of the nobility, to
which rank he belonged, by daring to do anything so useful as to study
astronomy; he had been ostracised by his family as a result of his
marriage with a peasant girl; and had roused the jealous indignation of
physicians by free medical attendance upon the poor. Now, when his king
turned against him, the astronomer shook the dust of unappreciative
Denmark from his feet for good and all, and went to Germany, where
he taught the German astronomer Kepler, who became greater than he.
Kepler’s teacher, however, will be long remembered not only because of
the fundamental discoveries which he made, but also because his name
is fixed in the sky. Perhaps you will recall that in the old normal
school days when I gave “astronomy parties,” one particularly large
lunar crater stared down at us through the telescope like the eye of
a Cyclops. That one is named Tycho, for the Scandinavian astronomer,
Tycho Brahe.
Though Tycho Brahe went, the Round Tower stayed on; and it was used for
astronomical purposes until about fifty years ago. It might have been
so used still, except for its popularity as a general landscape-gazing
observation tower, in spite of the opposition of the professors, who
finally abandoned it for purposes of investigation.
The top of the tower is reached not by a spiral staircase, but by a
wide spiral roadway of brick, deeply grooved by the carriage wheels of
celebrities who drove to the top in days gone by. Peter the Great, for
one, seems to have found the ascent of Runde Taarn a favorite amusement
when he visited Denmark. It is stated that when he made his last ascent
it was in a coach drawn by six horses, and that Queen Catherine sat at
his side and held the lines. Until recent years also, in accordance
with time-honored custom, newly confirmed children climbed to the top
of the tower for a view of the surrounding land; thus they celebrated
their formal entrance into manhood and womanhood, and thus they were
introduced to the world in which they were thenceforth to play a larger
part.
With the coming of the flying machine, however, and other devices for
producing more exquisite thrills, Runde Taarn was left pretty much
to the ordinary tourist, who pays his ten-öre entrance fee and, like
myself, climbs laboriously along the worn roadway to the top. But once
up there under the fluttering folds of Dannebrog, the beautiful red and
white flag of the Danes, your tourist—meaning myself—gazes out over
the city feeling fully rewarded for her exertions. For the view is a
splendid one and reveals practically all of the famous buildings of the
city, with their peculiar towers and domes, spires and steeples, as
well as the parks and boulevards interspersed between, and the harbor
with its many ships, and the Sound beyond.
Around the edge of the platform at the top of the tower are double
railings. The inner one, I learned, was put up in the 1890’s, during a
suicide epidemic. Before it was erected several melancholy Danes had
taken arms against a sea of troubles and had ended them by a flying
leap over the solitary railing. Now, such a spectacular termination of
one’s earthly career is no longer possible.
Another monument to Christian IV’s interest in building is the Castle
of Rosenborg. Formerly this royal residence was well outside of
Copenhagen, but during the centuries the city has grown to such a
degree that now the beautiful royal park and castle are in its very
heart. Perhaps it was the magic of the day of my visit to it which
lent Rosenborg part of its fascination; for the sky was of the clearest
blue and the sunshine was wonderfully golden. Yet the castle itself,
irrespective of the day, looked just like the castles in all proper
fairy tales. With its red brick walls outlined in Renaissance softness,
it stood in its setting of grass and trees, looking indescribably
“homey” and inviting. About it clustered the great rose gardens
blooming so triumphantly and invitingly that as I approached across the
park I felt a stranger to my recent self. It seemed as if fairy tales
might be true, or as if I myself might be a child in a fairy book.
But to cross the threshold was to be disillusioned; for Danish kings
and queens and gallant knights and ladies fair no longer dwell within.
The castle is a museum; since 1863 it has been the repository of the
“Danish Kings’ Chronological Collection.” And royal “old clothes,”
though sometimes interesting, are incapable of working enchantment. The
collection of relics at Rosenborg, however, is one of the richest in
Europe, and is exceedingly varied. In it one may find royal souvenirs
ranging from the lock of hair of Christian I, who lived four hundred
and fifty years ago, to the couch upon which the late Christian IX was
in the habit of taking his noonday nap.
[Illustration: Rosenborg Castle, Copenhagen]
[Illustration: City Hall (Right) and Palace Hotel (Left), Copenhagen]
Before telling you about the collection more fully, however, I wish
to explain to you the time-honored custom of naming the Danish kings,
lest you become utterly bewildered among the Christians and Fredericks.
The system is really a very simple one; for, since the accession of
the Oldenburg house to the throne four hundred and fifty years ago,
all of the kings—with one single exception—have been Christians
or Fredericks, appearing alternately. The exception was the son of
Christian I who ruled as King Hans. Ideally, he should have been
named Frederick, for his successor was Christian; but, as it was, the
Christians got the start of the Fredericks by one reign; so the late
Christian IX was succeeded by the late Frederick VIII. And I suppose
that henceforth even to the end of Danish kings the alternation of
Fredericks and Christians will continue.
Every Christian and every Frederick is, I presume, represented at
Rosenborg by at least one relic, but I have no intention of boring you
with an exhaustive catalogue of them. However, a few of the objects
which for one reason or another caught my attention may not be without
interest to you. Christian IV, the builder of the castle, who is
generally considered Denmark’s best-beloved king, is naturally well
represented in the museum. It was this Christian, you will remember,
who led the unsuccessful Protestant forces during the Danish period
of the Thirty Years’ War. While the struggle was on, Christian had
a vision—or thought he had—with reference to the war. In one of
the show-cases at Rosenborg is a miniature painting of the vision,
accompanied by a description by the king. A further proof that
Christian IV had a part in the superstition of his time is a piece of
jade which he wore as a charm against gout.
After taking his turn in the Thirty Years’ War, Christian valiantly
fought the Swedes in the great battle of the Baltic; but in the
engagement one of his eyes was put out by a splinter. The cap which
he wore, with a green patch attached to protect the wounded organ, is
another souvenir of Christian IV’s reign to be found at Rosenborg. You
remember well, I am sure, Longfellow’s translation of Evald’s song,
“King Christian,” which is one of the favorite national songs of the
Danes. It begins:
“King Christian stood by the lofty mast
In mist and smoke;
His sword was hammering so fast,
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed;
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast,
In mist and smoke.”
That King Christian was Christian IV, and the battle was the battle of
the Baltic.
In the exhibit belonging to the period of Frederick III, the successor
to this famous Christian, are pieces of alchemical gold. I was
surprised at this, for I had not supposed that the attempts to change
the baser metals into gold lingered so late as the seventeenth century.
But perhaps the Danish “artificial gold” was not the result of any
serious attempt to find a short-cut to wealth.
It was during the reign of the next Frederick that Czar Peter of Russia
visited Denmark. Frederick IV and Peter were pretty good friends,
partly because of their common enmity for Charles XII of Sweden, “the
madman of the North.” In the Corridor of Frederick IV is the bust of
Peter, and also a goblet and a compass of ivory, both of which were
made by Peter, who knew how to use his hands as well as his head. In
the apartments of Frederick are also a bottle containing a little of
the oil with which the Danish king was anointed at coronation, and a
table and a chair of chased silver used by him and his successors at
the formal opening of the Danish parliament.
Frederick VI lived in the troubled period of the Napoleonic wars;
and as a result of his desire to remain neutral, he saw his capital
bombarded by the British fleet. This provoked the Danes to ally
themselves with France, against England, and they paid for doing so,
in 1814, by the loss of Norway to Sweden. A curious souvenir of this
Napoleonic war time is a ship of the line made by Danish sailors from
bones found in the soup served to them while they were prisoners of war
of the English.
I particularly wish, Cynthia, that you could have seen the grand
old banqueting hall on the top floor of Rosenborg. It restored to
me the atmosphere of fairy lore and romance which the museum of
relics of defunct royalty had dispelled. The great room is finely
proportioned, and is well lighted by large windows which give a fine
view of the park. On the pane of one of these windows was the name
“Alexandra”—scratched with a diamond—to which a guard near at hand
proudly called my attention. The dowager Queen Alexandra of England
is the daughter of the late Christian IX, you remember. The present
appearance of the room dates from the time of Christian V, two hundred
years ago. The ceiling is of dark oak set with panels painted by famous
artists. On the walls are twelve Gobelin tapestries, woven at the
order of Christian V in honor of some rather doubtful victories won by
him in southern Sweden. Tall silver candle-sticks have been placed at
intervals around the sides of the room; and, here and there, against
the walls are great arm chairs, and stiff, grand-looking, high-backed
ones, upholstered in rich embroidery. Before the fireplace are two
silver firedogs and a silver firescreen bearing Christian V’s monogram.
The royal thrones stand at one end of the room; that of the king was
constructed from the ivory of whales’ teeth in the 1660’s, while the
queen’s, which is of silver, was made in 1725. But to me, far more
impressive than these antique seats of the mighty were three couchant
silver lions, large as Newfoundland dogs, which stand in front of
thrones.
The lions represent the three divisions of Scandinavia, which, through
the Union of Calmar, were, in 1397, united by the great Queen Margaret
under Danish rule. In 1523 Sweden revolted against the tyranny of
Christian II, “the Nero of the North,” and established her independence
under Gustav Vasa; and Norway was finally lost to Denmark a century
ago. Nevertheless, these three particular lions are still used at
royal funerals, at special solemn audiences granted by the king, and
at the opening of the Danish parliament when the king is present. And
three lion emblems still appear upon the Danish coat-of-arms. Sweden,
however, has long since ceased objecting to the implied insult,
for she well knows that Denmark has no unholy designs upon Swedish
territory. Indeed, it is a case of tit for tat; for during the long
period of enmity and warfare between Denmark and Sweden, following the
separation, Sweden retaliated by placing three Scandinavian crowns upon
her shield; and there they are to-day, even though the two countries
are now the best of friends. Norway, on the other hand, is more
modest; probably made so by her four centuries of domination by Denmark
and her later unequal union with Sweden. Upon Norway’s coat-of-arms are
seen one solitary rampant lion and one solitary Scandinavian crown.
Rejoicing in her tardy freedom, Norway is satisfied merely to be free;
“Alt for Norge” (All for Norway), the motto which appears upon her
coins beneath the head of King Haakon, reflects only this intense
patriotic joy; the “Alt” carries no thought of unfriendly designs upon
the property of Norway’s neighbors.
CHAPTER II
MORE ABOUT COPENHAGEN; THE COPENHAGENERS’ COUNTRY GARDENS
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK,
July 26, 191—.
_My dear Cynthia_:
You have probably noticed that I have not as yet mentioned the art
museums of Copenhagen. That fact is due to the modesty of the amateur
in the presence of the professional. However, as I know that you will
want my “reaction,” I confess to having visited two museums of art.
Thorwaldsen’s I visited yesterday. It is a huge, ugly, tomb-shaped
building, constructed at the expense of the city of Copenhagen as a
permanent home for the works of the greatest of Danish sculptors. And
it is really a tomb as well as a museum, for Bertel Thorwaldsen, in
whose honor it was erected, lies buried in the court under a great
mass of dark ivy. As in ancient classical tombs, a frescoed border
around the outside wall depicts scenes from the life of the entombed
one. Among other events connected with Thorwaldsen’s successes is
represented his triumphal return to Copenhagen in 1838, after the
long, hard years of apprenticeship to his art in Rome. Above the main
entrance is the gift of the late King Christian—a Victory reigning
in her quadriga. This beautiful piece of bronze was designed by
Thorwaldsen himself, but was executed by another Danish sculptor,
Herman Bissen.
What impressed me most of all about the museum was the tremendous
amount of work which Thorwaldsen turned off. There are scores and
hundreds of sculptures, drawings and paintings by him. As you know,
most of his subjects are classical—as would be expected of the founder
of the neo-classical school. But there are really very few of his works
for which I care. Thorwaldsen’s people do not look as if they had ever
accomplished anything; they bear too few marks of life’s battles;
they are too passive, too gentle, too restful. The “Christ,” I admit,
possesses a benignance and serenity which is overmastering; and the
bas-reliefs of “Night” and “Morning” are exquisite. But the draperies
of some of his Greeks do look painfully like wash-boards. Judging from
the “Lion of Lucerne,” Thorwaldsen was more successful with animals.
The “Lion” is my favorite. He has kept his trust, has fought a good
fight, and is dying grandly—but in anguish of mind because even the
sacrifice of life itself was insufficient to save the lilies of France.
However, I do not consider the “Lion” characteristic of Thorwaldsen’s
work. Do you?
Unlike Thorwaldsen’s Museum, the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, which I
also visited, had its origin in individual generosity. Its founder
was Captain Carl Jacobsen, “Ph. D., Brewer,” who is the Carnegie and
Rockefeller of Denmark. He is a great lover of art, and his country
has profited accordingly. Jacobsen money has paid for the New and Old
Glyptoteks, two of the finest art museums in Scandinavia. Probably
you are shocked at the idea of the love of art being fostered by
“beery” money. I was at first, I acknowledge, and I still wish that
the “wherewithal” had been secured in some other way; but I have been
assured that the Carlsberg brew is of a particularly pure quality—as
beers go—and that the Jacobsens are really patriotic, public-spirited
Danes.
The New Glyptotek is a handsome building occupying a whole city block.
The interior is beautifully decorated with rare woods, colored marbles,
and frescoes. And it contains collections of paintings and sculptures
representing most of the countries of Europe. As you well know, I
was never orthodox in my preferences among works of art—especially
paintings. It was probably in consequence of this peculiarity that I
was drawn to a canvas which most people would, I suppose, pass by. The
picture is “Denmark,” by Elizabeth Jerichau-Baumann, and was painted
more than sixty years ago. Denmark is represented by a young woman,
strong, determined, and fearless, standing amidst sheaves of rye; in
her left hand she bears Dannebrog, the red-and-white crusaders’ flag
of the Danes, which she is prepared to defend with the two-edged sword
grasped in her right.
[Illustration: “Denmark” by Elizabeth Jerichau-Baumann]
[Illustration: Grave Monument by Rudolph Tegnér]
The sculptures in the New Carlsberg are, I think, finer than the
paintings. The French collection is the most complete to be found
outside of France itself. It is not necessary to tell you that in
plastic art France is far ahead of Denmark. Yet there were several
Danish pieces for which I cared very much—some by Herman Bissen, and
particularly some by Jens Adolf Jerichau. I was much attracted by
the latter’s “Little Girl with a Dead Bird.” It is in white marble.
The little girl, barefooted and simply dressed, is sitting upon a rock
with the bird tenderly held between her hands; and upon her face is an
expression of gentle pity which gives a peculiar charm to the whole
figure. But, to me, the most pleasing of all the Danish sculptures
was a grave monument by an obscure young artist, Rudolf Tegnér. It
represents the mourning figure of a young woman, whose face is left
buried in the original mass of white marble. There is an exquisite
delicacy about the slender, drooping form to which no picture that I
might send you could do justice. A similar figure, in bronze, marks the
grave of the artist’s mother at Elsinore.
Perhaps you would be interested in learning how I spent yesterday,
which was Sunday. Like all of my Danish days, this was crammed with
new impressions. In the morning I attended services at Vor Frue
Kirke—the Church of Our Lady. In this church are the greyish blue
marble originals of Thorwaldsen’s “Christ and Apostles.” The statues
are of heroic size and are exceedingly impressive. Besides myself,
there were six other tourists viewing the church—five alert-looking
boys and a middle aged man, evidently their tutor. One glance was
sufficient to tell me that they were Americans. I, too, must have had
a “Made-in-America” appearance, for before I had uttered a sound one
of the boys who happened to stand near me while I was studying the
“Christ,” began to address me in “American,” commenting intelligently
upon the beautiful figure. The unassuming friendliness of the boy quite
warmed my heart. When services began the party seated themselves in
the rear of the room and took notes and read their guide-books for a
time; and then tiptoed quietly out. I felt lonesome when they had gone,
and decided to go cousin-hunting the very next day.
Like the vast majority of Scandinavian churches, Our Lady is State
Lutheran. But the Scandinavians, though instinctively religious, are
by no means regular church-goers; and summer Sundays in Copenhagen
are more likely to be devoted to recreation than to formal worship.
Consequently, the congregation was a mere scattered handful; most
of the worshipers were old people who came early, wearing solemn
expressions, and carrying prayer-books. The preacher was a little old
man in black gown and white linen ruff, suggestive of pictures of Sir
Walter Raleigh. From a lofty and magnificent pulpit, reached by a
staircase, he preached his sermon. The solemn faces of the congregation
had led me to expect a self-righteous, theological presentation
containing conspicuous thanks to God that Danish State Lutherans are
not as other men; but I was much relieved to hear a live human message,
not read, but clearly and feelingly spoken, in which the pastor urged
his hearers to lives of loving service to their fellow humans. I liked
the little old pastor, and forgot that I was homesick for “my own
United States.”
I think that you would have enjoyed the music, Cynthia, for it
possessed a dignity and reserve conducive to reverence. You may be
interested to learn that the choir was composed entirely of women, and
that a woman played the pipe organ.
After the services were ended, I had luncheon in a restaurant close at
hand; and then I went for a long, rambling walk, visiting some places
which I had seen before and others that were new. I passed Runde Taarn
again, bound for Kongens Nytorv, one of the finest squares of the
capital, pleasant with shade trees, well-kept lawns, and an abundance
of flowers, among which the cosmopolitan scarlet geranium seemed as
much at home as in California. On the Nytorv is the Royal Theatre, an
imposing Renaissance structure.
Twelve different streets lead out of the square. I made my exit by
the most famous one, Bredgade (Broad Street), which for part of its
length is lined with handsome shops. Copenhagen shopkeepers have a
shrewd but gratifying way of keeping up the shades of their windows
on Sundays, thus enabling the worldly-minded to enjoy gratuitously
the beauty of the wares and to select the very articles which they
would purchase were they rich. As I long since learned to ‘name the
birds without a gun, to love the wood-rose and leave it on its stalk,’
I am particularly fond of this mental shopping; it is a pleasant
pastime, devoid of the worry and wear of the physical kind. The
display of antiques, pictures, and porcelains on Bredgade is unusually
interesting. Antiques, in general, but rarely attract me—except as
do curios in a museum—for many of them have little else than their
age to recommend them; and age, in itself, is no virtue. Some of the
old furniture, and the bronzes which I saw in the windows on Bredgade,
were, however, very handsome.
But the paintings and the porcelains especially caught my eye. To
my mind (and I believe you would agree with me), many of the works
by young Scandinavian artists would hold their own against modern
paintings in any European country. They are genuinely Scandinavian.
It is such a satisfaction to know that the Scandinavian lands have
really begun to make a distinct contribution to the art treasures
of the world. And as for porcelain, I am simply mad over the Royal
Copenhagen variety; it is almost as difficult for me to pass a display
of this ware without stopping, and gazing, and lingering, as it is for
a toper to resist a grog shop. The makers of the Copenhagen pieces are
high-grade artists, and their work beggars my attempts at description.
Much of the attractiveness seems to lie in the glaze; it is exquisite,
and it gives to the delicate colors an appearance of remoteness and a
subtlety of charm and refinement which seems almost to belong to the
realm of the spiritual. Compared with the Royal Copenhagen, most other
“China” impresses me as loud and bizarre. But the prices of the pieces
which I should have wanted to buy, had I been anything more than a
mental shopper, would pay for my whole Scandinavian tour; hence, I am
not likely to carry home with me very extensive samples of the ware.
In the course of my rambles I reached the Marble Church. This building
was begun more than a century and a half ago, but lack of funds
delayed its completion until within the last thirty years, when it
was finished at the expense of Herr Tietgen, a philanthropic Danish
banker. In architectural style and richness of material, this building
contrasts strongly with Our Lady, which is really conspicuous by its
plainness—except for Thorwaldsen’s sculptures. The Marble Church, as
its name implies, is constructed primarily of marble; and it is crowned
with a great dome—suggestive of Saint Paul’s in London—covered
with copper partially gilded. A large number of busts and statues of
ecclesiastics and saints also decorate the exterior. Outside, above
the entrance, are the words, “Herrens Ord bliver evendelig” (The Word
of God is everlasting). The main room beneath the dome is perfectly
circular and is rich with wood-carvings, colored marbles, mosaics,
paintings, and statues. There is a fortune of gold-leaf in the
crucifixes and candle-sticks.
The guard at the door to whom I paid my entrance fee recommended the
view from the dome and supplied me with a pair of opera glasses; so
after viewing the interior I mounted to the top. This I accomplished
by groping my way up a dark, narrow, winding stair-case, some parts
of which were as dark as a pocket—and in the darkest part bumping
squarely into a couple of women who were on their way down. As the
Marble Church is quite a distance from Runde Taarn, I gained a new
and different view of Copenhagen from its dome; and I also gained
considerable information about the most important buildings from a
friendly Danish lady whom I found at the top.
Amalienborgtorv, or square, which is near the Marble Church, was
my next objective point. It is a stone-paved place, ungladdened by
trees or grass or flowers, with a large bronze equestrian statue of
Christian V in the center. On each of the four sides is a royal palace
in rococo style, in which the king and queen and other members of
the royal family reside during most of the year. When I crossed the
Torv, soldiers in high, bearskin caps stood on guard at the street
entrances—a sign that the king was in residence.
After Rosenborg, Amalienborg seemed so dreary and
uninteresting—especially since common visitors get no glimpse of
the interior—that I did not linger, but walked on to Grönningens
Esplanade, where St. Alban’s, the first English church to be built in
Denmark, peeps out with a charm peculiarly English from a clump of
trees bordering an arm of the Baltic.
North of St. Alban’s is Langelinie, the most beautiful promenade in
Copenhagen. To the left of the promenade is a park, and to the right
lies the harbor, filled with all sorts of water craft bearing the
flags of many nations, including our own “Old Glory,” which looked
wondrous good to me. Great crowds of people—young and old, parents and
children—dressed in their Sunday clothes, were passing to and fro upon
Langelinie, all looking healthy and happy.
I returned through the beautiful, shady park. Upon the benches under
the trees I noticed many women serenely chatting, their fingers busy
with sewing, embroidery, or knitting. Would you call such a Sabbath
occupation scandalous and unseemly? I must confess that I was more
impressed with the women’s industry than I was shocked by their
desecration of the day.
Farther on, I took a peep into the Citadel. It dates from the
seventeenth century, and is of red brick, with tree-covered ramparts.
Soldiers were standing on guard at the entrance, and were passing
back and forth between the buildings. Unlike England and the United
States, Denmark, I regret to say, requires military service of all
of her ablebodied men. She maintains what is, in proportion to her
population, a large standing army.
This morning, true to the resolution made at Frue Kirke, I called upon
Cousin Lars. Cousin Lars is really my mother’s cousin, but as he has
always been her favorite cousin he has seemed a sort of an uncle to
me. Many years ago, when I was a tiny child, Cousin Lars spent several
years in California, which he expected to make his permanent home; but
his young wife suddenly died, and it was her dying request that he take
their children back to the home land and rear them. This caused him to
return to Denmark.
Cousin Lars still loves the United States, however, and, though “blood
is thicker than water,” I really believe that he welcomed me more
heartily as a Californian, recently “come over,” than as a cousin.
For he quickly convinced me that I was thrice welcome—and caused me
to regret keenly that I had delayed so long making known to him my
presence in Copenhagen. He wished to send immediately to the hotel
for my baggage; and without consulting me he asked his housekeeper to
have a room prepared for my reception. But when I informed him that
I was booked to sail from Copenhagen to-night he abandoned his plan,
stipulating, however, that I was to be his guest upon my return.
I made my call early this morning in order to be sure to find Cousin
Lars at home, for the Danes are fresh-air people and all who can afford
to do so spend their afternoons in the city parks or in the country.
And in consequence of my early call I enjoyed the pleasure of a real
Danish home luncheon with my cousin. Yet it was not so genuinely
Danish, after all, except the food, which, like all food I have tasted
in Denmark, was good. The luncheon was really Danish-American, for
Cousin Lars, in my honor, had the table set with the silverware bought
years ago in the Far West, and at one end of the table he placed a
little silk Dannebrog with the white cross on the red field, and on
the other my own Stars and Stripes. As a sign that this was a very
festive occasion, both flags were at the very tip-top of their masts.
Our conversation was also Danish-American. At times we spoke Danish,
my contribution being of a very bad quality; at others, we spoke
“American,” Cousin Lars’ efforts showing rust for want of use; and,
occasionally, when the borrowed languages seemed inadequate, we would
resort to our own respective mother tongues and exchange remarks in
Danish _and_ American.
After luncheon I learned that Cousin Lars had planned to spend the
afternoon in the country in his “garden,” and I urged that he execute
the plan and take me along. He did, and I had such a pleasant,
untouristlike time! We started on the street cars, but a strike of
carmen interrupted our progress; then we walked the remainder of the
way—as I preferred doing so to taking a carriage—and Cousin Lars
called attention to the places of interest which we passed.
Near the outskirts of the city, a “folke skole,” or elementary public
school, which was being repainted, caught my eye, and we went in to
explore. This was one of the free schools to which the poor people send
their children. The class rooms were well lighted and well ventilated
and generally comfortable. In fact, the building pretty closely
resembled those of our own elementary schools. A few good pictures,
including portraits of Hans Christian Andersen and Bertel Thorwaldsen,
were on the walls. Upon the second floor were completely equipped
departments for the teaching of cooking and sewing; and in another part
of the building was a manual-training laboratory.
Farther out along the street I noticed a bread-line of children. A
woman was handing out generous-looking sandwiches to twenty or thirty
little people as they filed past her in an irregular line. These were
children, Cousin Lars said, whose parents were not able to supply
them with proper food. While school was in session they were supplied
with luncheons at public expense; and now, during vacation, one of
their teachers, a noble-hearted young woman, had assumed the task
of keeping the active young bodies somewhat adequately nourished.
She herself is poor, but she solicits money from private individuals
with which to purchase food; and this food she personally distributes
daily. I am glad to be able to say, however, that such cases of want
are comparatively rare. The splendid spirit of cooperation shown by
the Danish people in their industrial life has produced a degree of
prosperity which is truly remarkable, in view of the resources of the
country.
And now for the garden—for we soon reached it. It is a tiny plat
of ground of about four thousand square feet, which Cousin Lars has
planted to the choicest kind of flowers, selected with the view to
securing an unbroken succession of bloom, beginning with the earliest
varieties and ending with the latest. There are also a few shade
trees, and along the fence are berry bushes. In the rear of the lot
is an arbor covered with a picturesque tangle of woodbine and climbing
rose; and close beside it is a one-roomed bungalow, so overgrown with
clematis, now in bloom, that the little building looks like a giant
purple bouquet. The bungalow room is furnished with a table, a couch,
two or three comfortable chairs, a case containing books and magazines.
Attached like a barnacle to the outside of the building is a tiny
kitchenette, containing an oil stove and a stock of provisions.
We were hungry, of course, after our walk, so as soon as we arrived
we proceeded to prepare a luncheon. I made coffee on the oil stove
while Cousin Lars fished all sorts of delectable canned and preserved
foods from the shelves in the barnacle and arranged them in artistic
confusion upon the table in the arbor—which is the dining room of the
establishment. And while we consumed the coffee and the delectables
Cousin Lars told me about the “garden.” It is his play place; he goes
out to work among his flowers almost every afternoon; and he and his
sons quite frequently spend their Sundays there, having a picnic
luncheon in the arbor. Until a few years ago, he had a house in town
set in the midst of a large garden; but when the din of the growing
city became too offensive, he sold the place, rented his present top
flat on a blind and, consequently, quiet street, and secured this
garden—an arrangement which he likes much better. Copenhagen is very
decidedly a city of flat-dwellers.
But the interesting and really splendid fact connected with the garden
is that Cousin Lars’s is only one of fifteen hundred little gardens,
all of which have sprung up around Copenhagen within the past ten
years. The land is leased by those who work it from the commune of
Copenhagen or from private individuals. Plats of as few as sixteen
hundred square feet may be rented from the commune for one-half to
three-fourths of an öre per square foot annually. Land owned by private
individuals rents a little higher. Water is piped to the lots by the
owners, who also furnish free wheelbarrows for use in gardening.
Several tiny lots form a block, as in a regular city, and between the
blocks run diminutive streets about ten feet wide. Some of the narrow
passageways have such picturesque names as “Rosen Allé,” “Odins Allé,”
and the like. The Christian Danes have not completely forgotten the
gods of their fathers, you see. The blocks, in tracts of ten acres or
so, are surrounded by the owners with strong open-work fences; and each
family holding land within the tract is supplied with a key to the big
gate. Over the gate appears the name of the tract, which is sometimes
“fancy,” like “Flora” and “Iris.”
The renters fence their own little plats to suit their inclinations and
pocket-books; and they build their houses after the same fashion. Since
the “gardens” are merely daytime and fresh-air institutions, generally
the buildings are one-roomed and tiny. In fact, they look as if they
might be the playhouses of an army of parent-tired little children who
had run away and set up for themselves. Many of the structures are
very cheaply built. One “playhouse,” which caught my attention, was an
abandoned street car masquerading under a luxuriant mantle of vines;
but it was every bit as much of a success as an orthodox bungalow, for
in the tiny yard several flaxen-haired, rosy-cheeked children were
shouting and playing. Instead of house numbers, the owner’s names,
as a rule, appear over the doors—generally the names of women; but
here and there I again noticed “fancy” names, such as “Johannes Haab”
(Johanne’s Hope) and “Christines Lyst” (Christine’s Joy), which suggest
how much the simple little recreation places mean to their owners.
Aside from the narrow walks, every square foot of soil in each plat is
just crammed with green things growing. In many cases where the houses
indicated poverty, the ground was largely planted to vegetables—one
garden was a single large potato field. Since the rent amounts to only
a few dollars per year, those who wish to do so can more than pay their
expenses by their vegetables; and in addition they have all of the fun
of the wholesome, out-of-door life. But most of the plats have been
converted into charming flower gardens; and of all of these Cousin
Lars’s is the most worthy of the prize.
Though many sorts and conditions of people are represented by the
fifteen hundred plats, most of the renters are poor “working people.”
As a rule, the families pass their Sundays in the gardens, and in many
cases the mother and children are there also during most of the long
summer days. After work hours the father joins them for supper in the
“playhouse,” and later the whole happy family returns to the city to
sleep.
I had heard of such “gardens” before; they have them in Germany, and
call them “Lauben,” or “Gärtchen”; and I was delighted at the chance to
see them in detail for myself. Now, I only wish that we might have them
around the great, congested cities in the United States. The population
would be so much healthier, both mentally and physically, if gardening
could be substituted for idle gossip, cheap society twaddle—or worse.
As Cousin Lars remarked on the way home, such wholesome, out-of-door
recreation would go far towards settling many problems arising from
city life.
After we had explored the place to my heart’s content, we walked to
the end of a car line and rode back to the city. Now I am again in my
room in the hotel, finishing up this letter to you, preparatory to my
departure to-night. Cousin Lars and his sons are to be at the pier to
wave good-by, so I shall not feel that I am in a “far country.” Whither
do you suppose that I am bound, Cynthia?
CHAPTER III
BORNHOLM AND THE BORNHOLMERS
RÖNNE, BORNHOLM,
August 6, 191—
_My dear Cynthia_:
“Bornholm!” I hear you exclaim. “Wherever in all Europe is Bornholm?”
Bornholm, I reply, is the “backwoods” of Denmark, the “pearl of the
Baltic,” and altogether the loveliest place in the world—next to the
choicest bits of my own fair land. Look on your map of Denmark, and you
will see in the extreme east, as if it had strayed away from the other
Danish islands and become lost, a trapezoid-shaped scrap of territory;
that is Bornholm—the birthplace of my mother. When a child, I was
very fond of reading “Robinson Crusoe” and “Swiss Family Robinson,”
in consequence of which my ideal terrestrial paradise was a desert
island near the Equator. And many were the dreams which I wove about
the tropical spot, well populated with talking parrots and chattering
monkeys. But if I could now, rich with my present experience, dream
them over again, I should substitute Bornholm, in the Baltic—at least
for summer residence.
I flew over here one evening more than a week ago, in the cabin of
_Örnen_ (The Eagle), the triggest little steamship you ever could
imagine. We left at about nine o’clock, and Cousin Lars and his sons
were at the pier to wave good-by, as planned. Contrary to even her
summer habits, the Baltic was again beautifully calm for my sailing, so
the crossing was made on schedule time, and we reached here at about
six o’clock the next morning.
As you may well imagine, I rose early, and was on deck to see the
arrival. When I came out of the cabin I saw a high, dark bank to the
east. That was Bornholm. It is higher than the other Danish islands,
and more rocky. In fact, geologically, it belongs to Sweden, for it is
a continuation of the rock-ribbed Scandinavian peninsula. Soon I could
distinguish trees and houses and windmills, and presently we glided
past the light-houses at the ends of the breakwater and were in Rönne
harbor, where a new cousin was on hand to bid me good-morning.
Rönne, which has a population of about nine thousand, is the capital of
Bornholm. So far as I have been able to learn, the little town is noted
only for its quaintness; and it is certainly quaint. Practically all of
the houses except the public buildings are long and low and box-shaped,
with red-tiled or slate roofs and brick or stone walls. Bay windows and
other architectural protuberances are conspicuous by their absence;
windows of the small “German” variety which swing open like doors are
in time-honored vogue instead; and their broad sills are simply crowded
with potted plants. But there are no flower-filled “yards” or lawns in
front to delight the passer-by. Gardens, the Danes seem to believe,
are primarily for the pleasure of the owner, and are to be enjoyed in
seclusion and privacy. Consequently, they are behind the houses and are
generally surrounded by a high, close fence. My great aunt Karen, to
whose home I went upon reaching here, has such a garden in her “back
yard,”—with patches of velvety grass, draperies of vines clinging to
the fence, hedges of roses, and brilliant beds of blooming annuals. And
in the midst of this “garden of delight” is the vine-covered arbor in
which we had our meals.
The shops, as well as the dwelling houses, are low and box-shaped; and
their show windows are small and crowded. There are no bold sign-boards
on the gable ends of the buildings, as in the United States; instead,
modest little “shingles” are generally stuck out by the tradesmen.
Dwelling houses, as well as shops, extend to the sidewalks, and many
encroach shamelessly upon them, even monopolizing the whole width, and
pushing the pedestrian out into the street. In fact, it is very evident
that the houses in centuries past were just placed “any which way,” and
that later the sidewalks were filled in, along as straight a line as
possible. Like the streets, they are of cobble stone, and are marked
off from the former only by being a few inches higher. After what I
have said, you would hardly expect these streets to be of the avenue or
boulevard variety, would you?
On my second day in Rönne I gained much quiet pleasure from wandering
about the little town, noting the places of importance, and gazing in
the shop windows at the rows of wooden shoes and other practical wares
intended primarily for the native; and at the models of Danish castles
and churches, and the exquisite displays of pottery and statuary, more
calculated to catch the eye of the opulent tourist. Such shops are
clustered around Storetorv, the Large Square, to which the country
people come in regularly to sell their produce. In the midst of the
“torv” is a queer old stone fountain decorated with gigantic bronze
snails.
Forming part of Store Gade, Rönne’s main street, are two small
stones, one of them bearing the date “1658.” All true Bornholmers
are as proud of these stones as New Englanders are of Plymouth
Rock, with its “1620;” for on this spot fell the Swedish commander,
Printzenskjold—shot, time-honored tradition says, by a silver button,
torn from the vest of the shooter and used as a bullet—when the
Bornholmers rose in revolt against Swedish domination. By the treaty
of Roskilde which followed Charles X’s unwelcome visit over the frozen
Great Belt, the Swedish king, you may remember, secured several Danish
provinces. Bornholm was one of these. But the Bornholmers had not been
consulted regarding the cession; and as they preferred to be Danes,
they did not “stay put.” That is how it happens that I am half Danish
in descent, rather than wholly Swedish—a distinction largely without a
difference. And the distinction hangs upon a silver button.
Bornholm still celebrates the anniversary of her victory over the
Swedes; and within the last few years, at Hasle, where the revolt had
its origin, a large monumental stone was erected, bearing the Danish
coat-of-arms and the names of the men who headed the revolt. Of these,
Jens Pedersen Kofoed, a Bornholmer who was a member of the Danish
army, and Paul Anker, the pastor of the church of Hasle, are the most
important.
At some distance from the “liberty stones” is Bornholm’s Museum,—the
special pride of all Bornholmers; and well it might be, for the
collection there, in view of the smallness of the island, is an
unusually large and fine one. The curator, a woman and a true
Bornholmer, proudly informed me that Copenhagen would be most happy to
possess the African collection. To me the objects of most interest,
however, were those throwing light upon Bornholm’s own history. These
range from rude stone utensils out of the shadowy past of the island
to an exhibit of graceful royal Copenhagen porcelain;—for Bornholm
it is that supplies the clay from which the beautiful ware is made.
The cost of manufacture seems to be too great to admit of the use of
the porcelain for distinctly practical purposes; consequently, its
functions are largely ornamental, and it appears chiefly in the form of
vases, plaques, and statuettes. The last-named class I gazed at most
lingeringly, for the subjects were varied and especially alluring.
There were wonderfully-glazed robin-red-breasts sunning themselves;
perky foxes with noses pointing skyward; sleepy, yawning tigers; cats
crouching to spring upon unconscious nibbling mice; kerchiefed Bornholm
old ladies carrying market baskets, and busily knitting as they walked;
and a fond pair of children, one of whom was hugging the very life out
of a tousled fat puppy. So skilful had been the artist that I caught
myself actually pitying the porcelain pup.
[Illustration: Bornholm’s Museum and St. Morten’s Street, Rönne]
[Illustration: Bridge Crossing the Old Moat at Hammershuus Castle]
In one room was an unusually large collection of “grandfather” clocks,
with elaborately and quaintly decorated faces, and with crude, clumsy
weights. Bornholm at one time was famous for the manufacture of this
style of time-piece. And in another room were glass-cases filled with
dummy Bornholm men and women and helpless-looking dummy babies, clad in
the fashions of various past ages. The garb of these dummies convinced
me that fashions are not actually growing worse; for surely clothes
cannot be uglier or more uncomfortable in appearance than the ancient
elegance behind the glass doors within the museum.
One souvenir of unusual historical importance, the key to old
Hammershuus Castle, is also on display among the exhibits. The castle,
Bornholm’s chief stronghold for centuries, was occupied by the
Swedish garrison for some months previous to the revolt in 1658. But
Hammershuus has now long been in ruins, and its key is resting from its
labors among the other antique relics in Bornholm’s Museum.
In the art collection are several paintings by famous Danes; and a
whole room is set aside for the works of Lars Hansen Tobiasen, the
portrait artist who was Bornholm’s own son. As yet, only a few of his
pictures have been placed in the room—including portraits of himself
and his parents, and of Oelenschläger, Denmark’s greatest poet. One
painting by Tobiasen seemed to me quite unique; it is the arm of a
young woman. That sounds cadaverous, doesn’t it?—like an anatomical
chart, or an illustration in a medical journal. But the portrait
suggested anything but that;—for a portrait it was—of the arm of a
Danish damsel instead of her face—expressive of individual character
as well as of beauty of color and line. Tobiasen spent twenty years of
his life in Sweden, where he painted the royal family, and some of his
pictures are there. Others are in Rönne, still in the possession of
relatives; but with the passing of this generation, the curator told
me, these last are by the artist’s will to go to the museum.
In a shed near the main building are the skeletons of moose and
reindeer which roamed through the forests of prehistoric Bornholm. And
outside in the yard are many runestones, graven by the hands of pagan
Bornholmers. The island seems to have specialized upon these stones
in times past, as well as upon grandfather clocks; for even to-day
they stand here and there by the wayside and are, in many cases, still
clearly marked with ancient runic characters.
After a short visit with my great aunt in Rönne, I spent a few happy
days with my Uncle Johannes and Aunt Ingeborg in the interior of the
island. My uncle and aunt drove to town to fetch me, and while Uncle
let the fat horses jog along on their homeward way at a pace to suit
themselves, I had a good opportunity to see the objects of interest
which Tante (the Danish for aunt), pointed out on the beautiful
landscape. That place with the black smoke stacks was the great pottery
factory; there, where the white walls shone between the trees, one of
my cousins used to live; the large, four-armed windmill on the right
did not pump water, as I had ignorantly supposed, but ground grist;
the handsome, cream-colored villa on the left was the summer home of a
wealthy Copenhagen merchant; and so on, until the journey ended.
As we drove into the court at Uncle’s, my cousins, a fair-haired,
rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed flock, came running out to greet us. These
children were so well-trained, and so natural and wholesome that they
were a real pleasure to me. But do not conclude from this statement
that I am implying a comparison invidious to the American child, or
that I hold up Danish children as models of deportment; for I have met
some _enfants terrible_ during the last week or two, even among my own
kith and kin. I attribute the superiority of these particular cousins
to their quiet country rearing.
And that reminds me to speak of the great interest and curiosity with
which they regarded me upon my first arrival. While I talked with
Uncle, my cousins sat silently by, completely absorbed in watching
me; and when he noticed them their father laughed and said, “Yes, my
children; this is a genuine, native-born American.” Then he explained
that I was the first native American that the children had ever
seen. Few aliens except _bona fide_ tourists reach the center of the
island—and they merely pass through. It would take an Eskimo or a
Patagonian to rouse a similar degree of interest in a country child of
the cosmopolitan Far West.
The manner in which I mutilated the king’s Danish was also a source
of much interest to them; for I suppose that they had never before
heard broken Danish. They were too polite to show amusement; even at
my most grotesque blunders not a smile crossed their faces; they were
simply alert and fascinated—and silent. But when it occurred to them
to try upon me the English which they had learned in the grades, we
were promptly upon a very sociable footing; they took turns practicing
their English vocabularies on me, and were delighted to find that
the formulae had worked—that their school-learned language was
comprehensible to me.
To the children of the neighbors I was also a whole menagerie of
interest. They referred to me as “de fremmede dame” (the foreign lady),
and whenever I opened my mouth to speak they waited around with bated
breath to see what liberties I should take with their native tongue.
* * * * *
Old-fashioned Danish farms are quite different from anything which we
have in America; therefore, you might like to know about Barquist,
my uncle’s place. On the afternoon of my arrival I went all over
it with Uncle as a cicerone, and with Astrid, the smaller of the
twins, clinging to my hand and practising her English whenever the
opportunity offered. Such a farm as Barquist is called a “gaard” (or
court), because of the fact that all of the buildings are arranged in
rectangular fashion about the stone-paved interior. The long dwelling
house forms one side of the quadrangle; the sides are made up of
machine shops and wagon sheds and store houses for hay and grain; and
at the other end are the stables in which the live stock are kept.
Roofed-over driveways separate the house from the other buildings.
When the gates to the court are shut, the quadrangle forms a complete
inclosure, and, consequently, furnishes much protection from stormy
weather. The back doors of the dwelling house open into the court, in
the middle of which stands the pump; and the front ones open into a
large flower garden, which, you see, is _outside_ of the quadrangle.
Brick and plaster form the building material for the walls, and all
of the roofs are covered with thatch of rye straw, which must, of
course, be quite frequently renewed. As you may imagine, the thatched
roofs lend a very picturesque air to the quadrangle, especially when
there is a stork’s nest in one corner. But straw roofs are going out
of use because of the danger of fire from lightning; tiles are being
substituted, and slate, and plain, prosaic shingles.
Surrounding the buildings on every side were fields of barley and
rye, golden unto the harvest. Dotted with silky red poppies and deep
blue cornflowers as they were, these grainfields presented a charming
picture. Uncle admitted the beauty of nature’s color scheme, but added,
“To us farmers, the poppies and cornflowers are weeds; they choke out
the grain.”
The interior of the house was a comfort, for it did not have the
“cluttered up,” junk-shop appearance produced in some American homes
by over-furnishing. There was plenty of room to walk around without
stumbling over, or knocking off, anything. The guest room, in which I
slept, was so large that I felt out of doors in it. And the furniture
was of corresponding proportions; the clothes-press could tuck away the
whole wardrobe of an ordinary family; and the bed was even nearer kin
to that in which Hans Christian Andersen’s true princess slept than the
one in my hotel room in Copenhagen. Cross my heart, Cynthia, there were
nearly a dozen feather ticks of various sizes on that bed. Taught by my
Copenhagen experience, I promptly dumped most of them on the floor,
where they remained until morning, when I replaced them and gave them
a poke or two, to produce a slept-on appearance, lest my aunt by any
chance be led to suspect that I was not partial to Danish beds.
In the brick-paved kitchen is a built-in oven, also of brick, such as
was used in New England in colonial days. Most of the baking for the
family is done here, but uncle also exchanges grain with the baker for
immense loaves of rye bread. And the baker, I suppose, transfers the
grain to the miller, in return for flour, in the placid, old-fashioned
way.
In the dining room was a very old grandfather’s clock which ticked
stolidly away, keeping more or less accurate time—mostly less. As a
time-keeper it was not much, but you, as a fancier of the antique,
would have loved the venerable case and the crotchety works. I wish,
too, that you might have seen the lovely potted plants on the broad
sill of the sunny dining-room windows. I never before saw such begonias
as Aunt Ingeborg can grow.
One morning shortly after my arrival, Uncle announced that we were to
go for an all-day picnic. I was quite willing, I assure you. My aunt,
who is of the plump, comfortable, bustling type, soon had two great
baskets packed with luncheon. These were stowed away under the broad
rear seat of the carriage. By eight o’clock we were off,—but the sun
was well on his way by that hour. There were objects of interest all
along the road, so Carle, my oldest cousin, and I studied my tourist
map, which names every highway, large farm, church, and windmill on
the island. Uncle laughed and called us “aegte turists”—genuine
tourists—but he was really as much interested in the harmless gossip
supplied by the map as any of the rest of us.
Bornholm is a great place for cycling; once or twice we passed
veritable flocks of cyclists. But I did not see a trace of an
automobile. When I remarked upon their absence Uncle said that it was
a mere accident that we had met none, for there were automobiles on
Bornholm. But they had not been there long. Originally, a few of the
Copenhageners who spent their summers on the island brought their
machines with them,—but only for a short period, for the automobiles
frightened the unsophisticated Bornholm horses quite out of their
wits. After the machines had paid their first mad, chugging, snorting,
honking visit to the island, and had left numerous splintered and
smashed vehicles and irate farmers in their wake, a local law was
passed prohibiting the desecration of placid little Bornholm by the
mechanical monsters. Recently, however, the ban had been removed (Even
the “pearl of the Baltic” follows in the wake of the procession), and
at present, Uncle triumphantly announced—Uncle is a progressive in
spite of his thatched roof—not only are tourist autos admitted, but
the island even harbors two or three naturalized immigrant machines.
At about ten o’clock we stopped for luncheon in a beautiful grove where
there were tables and benches under the trees. While Tante went to a
near-by inn for a pot of hot coffee, and the girls unpacked a basket
and set a table, Uncle cut huge slices of rye bread and fed them to the
horses. But please do not generalize from this last and conclude that
Danish horses regularly live on rye bread; it was merely an extra,
like an apple or a carrot in America, because we were picnicking.
And wasn’t it pleasant to picnic out under those grand old beeches?
And wasn’t I ravenously hungry, notwithstanding a seven-o’clock
breakfast? And didn’t Tante Ingeborg have the most delicious things to
eat?—pickled herring, for instance, and smoked salmon sandwiches, and
“rödgröd”—probably the most typical Danish dish—made by cooking sago
in fruit juice, in which have been dropped raisins, currants, spices,
and other tasty morsels, until the whole is of the consistency of
custard. But then I am always hungry in Denmark, and the food is always
delicious. Were I to stay here very long I should degenerate into an
absolute epicure.
As we neared Hammershuus Castle—our first goal—the road ran along the
northeast coast through Allinge, a pretty little summer resort. Here we
noticed a number of sun-browned women, wearing gay-colored bandanas on
their heads in Topsy fashion, and carrying alpenstocks in their hands.
They had been climbing over the cliffs. After passing Allinge, to our
left was The Hammer, an imposing promontory of granite, which is being
rapidly quarried away; and just ahead were the castle ruins. At the inn
near at hand the horses were unhitched and stabled, the lunch baskets
were removed and carried to a group of trees where there was a table
just the right size, and here we had another meal; and all were again
hungry.
Then we explored the ruins. Hammershuus was first built in the
thirteenth century and for much of the time since it has played an
important part in Denmark’s history. For a long time it, with the
remainder of Bornholm, was an object of dispute between the archbishops
of Lund and the Danish kings. During much of the sixteenth century the
German city of Lübeck controlled the castle; in the seventeenth, as
I have told you, Sweden for a short period held dominion over it and
the island. For some time after Denmark resumed control, Hammershuus
remained the stronghold of Bornholm; but presently the islet near at
hand, Christiansö, was fortified, and the old castle was permitted to
fall into ruins. Its destruction was hastened by the fact that stone
was taken from it for public buildings in Rönne; and subsequently
it became a sort of public quarry. Until within a century ago, the
domestic vandalism continued. Nevertheless, the Hammershuus ruins are
the finest in Denmark to-day.
The old pile had quite enough of the characteristics of the orthodox
mediæval castle to satisfy the most romantic student of feudalism and
chivalry. It stood on a high promontory with sheer cliffs on three
sides. On the fourth was a moat through which flowed an arm of the sea,
spanned by a draw-bridge. It is very easy to trace the whole ground
plan of the castle, for many of the great walls of unhewn stone still
stand, picturesquely overgrown with shrubs and trees. I was especially
interested in the dungeon, as I had never seen one before; but after we
had half climbed and half slid down into it, I found that it differed
very little from a deep, dark, windowless cellar. In this dungeon,
says tradition, the unhappy Eleonore Christine, daughter of Christian
IV, and her husband, Corfitz Ulfeldt, were confined while prisoners
at Hammershuus. Ulfeldt had committed treason against his country;
Eleonore Christine was merely guilty of loyalty to her husband. They
were imprisoned at the castle just two years after the Swedish garrison
sent over to hold the island was forced to surrender to the doughty
Bornholmers. Those were stirring times for little old Denmark.
Having explored the dungeon and identified the various parts of the
castle by means of the map in my guide book, we wandered around the
outer walls. What was once a moat is now a pretty, deep, little dell,
crossed by a gracefully-arched bridge of red brick. Below, and seaward,
near the base of the cliffs, are several queer, wave-sculptured rocks.
One of them, the Lions’ Heads, is especially well named. Beyond these,
far to the north, we detected the outlines of the coast of Sweden.
Bornholm, you see, is much nearer to Sweden than it is to any Danish
territory.
After leaving Hammershuus, we drove along the southeast coast to Rö, to
see Helligdommen Klippen (Holy Cathedral Cliffs). As it was about five
o’clock when we arrived at Rö, we first had supper under the trees,
with coffee, piping hot, obtained just across the way. Then, by means
of a winding stairway, we reached the base of the cliffs. Here was a
little gasoline launch which took us up and down the coast to see the
fantastic wave-worn rock, now and then puffing into the deep caves
dug out by the breakers. In some places the cliffs look as if Mother
Nature when in an angry mood had seized a mighty knife and slashed
right and left, working havoc with the solid granite; here were long
slices of rock; there were slender columns and spires standing alone
in the water; and occasionally there appeared a distinct variation
of pattern, bearing resemblance to natural objects. Our guide in the
launch made the most of these. “Look at the profile of the Bornholm
damsel, formed by that mass of rocks,” said he; and “There is St.
Peter; can’t you see his cross and keys?”—and so on.
On every ledge of the cliffs where soil could find place were velvety
mosses, delicate, plumy ferns, and flowers brightly blooming; gaily
colored fish darted about in the water; and—most beautiful of all—a
glorious sunset crowned and scene and the day with a blaze of orange
and crimson and gold and rose which covered half of the sky and was
reflected on the surface of the placid Baltic.
Perhaps, as compared with the wild, majestic sweep of our Western
scenery, all of this seems very miniature and very tame. But it is not
fair to compare it with anything so different. Helligdommen, when I saw
it, had a charm all its own—like an English landscape. I shall never
forget its beauty.
It would have been very pleasant to spend the whole summer at Uncle
Johannes’, but duty called, and the time for my other visits was short;
so I soon returned to Rönne, bound for the northeastern part of the
island. The railroad journey from Rönne to Nexö was one of the drollest
experiences which I have had in Europe. Generally speaking, there is
not anything funny about a ride by train;—but there are railroads
and railroads; and of her own particular variety little old Bornholm
certainly has a very exclusive monopoly. The cars are very small, as
if they were the half-grown children of American ones; and the trains
are almost incredibly leisurely. Positively, I believe that my train
spent two-thirds of the time backing and switching and waiting at
stations. During the remaining third it ambled and sauntered between
stopping points; and upon finally reaching one, the locomotive gave a
ridiculous, hysterical shriek, as if overcome by the prodigiousness of
the feat which it had performed. But this toy train suits Bornholmers
very well, for they have plenty of time; and it suited me, for it gave
ample opportunity for studying the landscape. An American express would
never do at all on that twenty-three-mile long island; it would be a
giant in dwarf’s quarters. The Rönne-to-Nexö line, which is the main
railroad line in Bornholm, is not sufficiently long to enable a train
of the American express variety to assume normal speed with safety.
From Nexö to Svaneke, whither I was bound, I had to go by post wagon. A
post chaise is just a sort of rudimentary stage coach, and as I am an
old stager—as you know—I immediately bethought me of a seat on top
with the driver, and lost no time before asking for it. Some one else
had got ahead of me, however, and I had to ride inside with two women
and two children; hence, I had only an occasional and fragmentary view
out of the dusty window in the rear.
Svaneke, which is picturesquely situated upon the northeast coast of
Bornholm, is a fishing town of about thirteen hundred inhabitants. It
is, if possible, quainter than Rönne. Its streets are crooked beyond
belief; they dip and turn, zig-zag, and run in circles;—at least, that
is the impression which I gained from wandering helplessly around in
them; for I never went out alone without becoming lost and having to
undergo the humiliation of inquiring the way to my destination. Another
baffling characteristic of the place is that the houses are more
completely duplicates of one another than are those at Rönne.
On a particularly crooked street, near the edge of the town, are three
of the typical Bornholm houses; all are low and box-shaped, with
red-tiled roofs, and with small German windows, the wide sills of which
are crowded with potted plants, beautifully growing and blooming. In
these three houses live three aunts of mine, all of them sisters and
all of them widows. To these aunts, my visit was an epoch-making event;
I came as a delegate from my mother whom they had not seen for forty
years. At a family congress held shortly after my arrival the time
which I had to spare for Svaneke was carefully divided up, in order
that each aunt might have a fair chance at her American niece; and in
consequence of this treaty, the niece vibrated somewhat like an erratic
pendulum between the three dear, quaint old homes. Breakfast at Tante
Hulda’s, luncheon at Tante Anna’s, dinner at Tante Laura’s, with one or
more of the appertaining cousins present,—thus ran the schedule, with
an occasional reversal or combination. Only the place where I was to
have afternoon coffee was left unprovided for; I had that wherever I
happened to be at coffee time.
My nights, however, were spent with my oldest aunt, Anna, who lives in
the middle of the row. All of her children have homes of their own,
except the youngest, who has followed the call of the Viking and is
away at sea. Her home is a perfect museum of souvenirs of him and his
voyages; there are Japanese curios, tapa cloth from the South Seas,
armadillo baskets, nautilus shells, South American parakeets, and I do
not know what else. Imagine squawking parakeets in little old Bornholm!
In its air of “foreignness,” the interior of Tante Anna’s house
contrasted interestingly with the homes of my other two aunts, which
are typical of Bornholm. But everything was interesting and charming
and everything was wonderfully quiet and restful. I recommend Svaneke
for all victims of nervous prostration.
One day, like Charles Lamb, I went cousin-hunting out in the
country,—but in the company of a cousin instead of a sister. We
cycled, Dagmar and I; and started early and had a long, lovely day. The
landscape in this part of the island is the most beautiful that I have
seen since my arrival here. The poppy-and-cornflower-strewn grain was
ripe, and here and there the harvesting had begun. Occasionally the
whirr of a reaping machine was heard, but very frequently I noticed
folk reaping and binding by hand in primitive fashion. The men led,
cutting the grain with their sickles; behind them came the women who
bound it into sheaves, which they piled ready for the hauling. The
colored dresses of the women contrasted brightly with the background of
fields and gave the touch of perfection to the picture.
But the passing landscape was made up of much more than harvest
fields and reapers. There was a rare variety. Patches of rosy
clover and of alfalfa, with blossoms shading from pale amethyst
to deep, dark purple—patronized by thousands of golden yellow
butterflies—alternated with the fields of wheat and barley, oats and
rye already mentioned. Some of the fields were unfenced; others were
inclosed by thick, green hedges, or by walls of unhewn stone, with at
times a waste corner given over to purple heather. Here and there over
the patches of pasture please imagine a few sleek dairy cows, and a
few more plump sheep. Add trees to the panoramic picture—some casting
broad, cool shadows across the finely-paved road, along which you cycle
in imagination with me, others grouped here and there between us and
the horizon—majestic oaks and beeches, and white-limbed birches, with
dainty, fern-like leaves.
And now put in the houses. Just coming into view on one side is
a mossy, thatched-roofed gaard, with dazzling white walls partly
concealed by clumps of trees; on the other side, a little nearer at
hand, note a red brick building peeping forth from the clustering
foliage; and yonder is a white one with red tiles substituted for
thatch. As you cycle past, there will be a constant shifting and
changing of styles and colors, according to whether the farms are new
or old, small or large. Tuck into the panorama a few large windmills
here and there, with long arms slowly and lazily grinding out Danish
grist; and finally finish off your picture by adding an occasional
church, at first just peeping its spire or tower over the rolling
surface of the ground, but as you approach looming large, in Lutheran
dignity conscious of State support.
We rode all day in the midst of this beautiful landscape, now and then
making a cousinly call. And always, for the sake of the cousinship,
these cousins welcomed their clanswoman from the Land of the
Setting Sun; and everywhere they insisted that we partake of coffee,
regardless of the amount of which we had already drunk; and always they
accompanied us to the main road when we departed, remembered the “Hils
hjemme” (Greet those at home for us) when the good-byes were said, and
were waving a final farewell when we took a last look at the turn of
the road. Verily, cousin-hunting in a foreign land may be a wondrous
pleasant pastime—if the foreign land be an ancestral homeland.
Near the end of our ride we came to Östermarie Church, of the parish
in which my mother lived as a child. And there in the church-yard were
many old grave-stones with family names; names that were familiar, but
strange—when found there. The ancient church is in ruins, but twenty
years ago a new one was built, after an old pattern, with a square
tower topped off with a gable. A memorial tablet to Jens Kofoed, who
helped save Bornholm for Denmark, has been carefully transferred from
the old building to the new.
[Illustration: Harvest Time in Bornholm]
[Illustration: Österlars Church, Bornholm]
Östermarie represents one of two characteristic types of Bornholm
church architecture. The other type which I have in mind is the
rotunda. These rotunda churches are among the rare sights of Denmark,
and date from well back into the Middle Ages. Österlars, the finest
sample, is Östermarie’s near neighbor at the northwest. The main part
of the building is a huge cylinder, capped with a cone-shaped roof.
Attached to the outer walls, like barnacles, with little regard to
symmetry or uniformity, are a number of buttresses. The whole structure
has a grotesque appearance, and is like nothing else I have ever
seen,—except, perhaps, as regards form, the grass huts of the South
Sea Islanders. But it is much more substantial than these; the walls
are thick and heavy; for in the old fighting days the rotundas served
as fortresses as well as houses of worship.
The northeastern part of the island possesses various reminders of
earlier days than those in which Österlars was built. Among these are
the sites of several burial mounds. During my mother’s girlhood some
of the mounds were leveled by bold farmers, unfearful of the hauntings
of outraged ghosts; and their contents—weapons, utensils, ornaments,
etc.—which the heathen Danes had buried with their dead, were brought
to light. Some of the objects reached the museum at Copenhagen in
safety; others, especially the ornaments of gold and silver, were
melted down by the thrifty but short-sighted country people. The
most famous mound of all was, however, carefully excavated by Danish
archæologists. This was on the large farm called Store Bakkegaard, not
far from my mother’s old home.
Most of the country people realized that the mounds were prehistoric
graves; and some of the farmers, for superstitious reasons, refrained
from leveling them. As you may imagine, many ghost stories grew
up around these—stories of mysterious lights which appeared and
disappeared in the trees on top of one of them; of a monstrous
three-legged cat which yowled from another; of a surpassingly beautiful
maiden with incredibly long golden locks who haunted a third. They
were “spooky” landmarks, my mother said—places past which the school
children hurried with bated breath in the early twilight of the short
winter days.
In my mother’s childhood also many believed in witches and wizards, who
were able to work destruction to their enemies, and against whom one
must be on one’s guard; and of “wise men” and “wise women,” beneficent
variations of the witch and wizard class, to whom one went with one’s
troubles, of whatever nature. Was a Bornholmer afflicted with boils or
ringworm, warts or “fits,” which failed to yield to home remedies, if
he was superstitious—as he often was—he would ignore medical advice
and consult a “wise” person, frequently with satisfactory results. A
lost sheep or a lost child, a guilty conscience or suspected disloyalty
on the part of a lass or a lover—all of these were cases which
called for the services of the “wise.” With the spread of scientific
knowledge, however, knowing ones, good and evil, tended to lose
prestige, and now, so far as I have been able to learn, they are no
more numerous in Bornholm than elsewhere; the “backwoods” in the Baltic
is becoming as hard-headed and skeptical as the remainder of the world.
On my return from Svaneke to Nexö I rode on the high seat with
the driver; and as the day was fine and the driver was affable it
seemed almost as if my old staging days had returned. One has such
a top-of-the-world feeling when on the driver’s seat of a stage
coach—even if the coach be only a post wagon. To the right hand was a
Bornholm landscape such as I have tried to describe; to the left was
the Baltic, edged by rocky cliffs, and dotted here and there with the
white or brown sail of a fishing boat.
A few miles beyond Nexö I stopped off to visit my cousin Thorwald, who
lives on a large gaard with quadrangular buildings of brick, arranged
on the same principle as Barquist, only on a larger and more elaborate
scale. While here, for the first time—I _hope_ it was the first
time—I disgraced my clan. This is how it happened. When I arrived,
Christine, my cousin’s wife, was up to her eyebrows in preparations for
a birthday party for their little girl; and promptly after my arrival
the cook fell ill. It was evident that a crisis was at hand, which I
determined to relieve. The intricacies of Danish cookery are quite
beyond me, so I knew enough to leave that to Christine; and I cast
about me for other means of helpfulness. As luck would have it, I saw
a row of milk pails near the kitchen door. Now, as you know, I was not
reared on the Far Western frontier for nothing; the mysteries of bridge
whist and the tango to me are mysteries indeed, but I _can_ milk a cow.
As the inspiration seized me, as promptly I seized a pail and went
forth to relieve the birthday party crisis. The cows were gentle;
I milked two, and returned in triumph with the brimming pail. I
acknowledge that I had had some misgivings with reference to just how
my particular form of aid would be regarded; but I was not prepared for
the sensation which my performance created. As I approached the house,
I met one of the maids who was starting out to milk. Upon seeing me,
she rushed into the house exclaiming, “De fremmede dame har malkede
köerene! De fremmede dame har malkede köerene!” And the awful tidings
spread.
Since Thorwald is not only a wealthy farmer but—what is vastly more
important—is also an officer in the Danish army, Christine has a
tremendous amount of dignity to maintain. When she learned what I had
done, she stood for a moment in petrified astonishment, and then burst
forth, “You have milked the cows! What will my friends say! What will
my friends say!” And then she left the room, utterly humiliated by the
conduct of her husband’s low-bred cousin. I am certain that she swore
the maids to secrecy, lest my exploit get abroad and she lose caste.
A scrap of consolation was offered to me, however, by Christine’s
cousin, who was also a visitor at the house. She, not being related
to me, could afford to be amused as well as scandalized. After I had
stoutly aired my views, this cousin told of a Danish high-school
teacher—a woman of phenomenal strength of mind—who had not only
shocked the whole community by milking a cow, but subsequently had
shamelessly announced that were she the queen she would milk cows if
she felt like doing so! Unfortunately, with all of her charm, little
old Bornholm is in some ways very conservative and very aristocratic;
there is much talk of “fine folk”; and her aristocracy is still
determined to a considerable degree by the mediæval qualifications of
position and wealth, rather than by intellect and character. She is
not so different from my own land, however; for there are plenty of
Americans who would sympathize with Cousin Christine’s indignation over
my plebeian performance.
Lest you be left with the impression, however, that the “pearl of the
Baltic” is far more back-woodsy and conservative than is a fact, I
wish to assure you before leaving it that Bornholm is, in many ways,
exceedingly progressive. It must be, since it is a part of Denmark,
which is in the front rank of the progressives of Europe. The farmers’
telephone system, for instance, is well established on the island,
and is well patronized; rural mail delivery also exists, the postmen
generally cycling over the smooth roads. Bornholm’s educational system
is excellent; you would be astonished at the subjects, besides English,
which are included even in the grammar school course. And I must
acknowledge—though as an American school teacher I am somewhat ashamed
to—that the teaching is more thorough than in our land; the Danish
children seem to retain and make practical use of what they learn,
as few American children do. The Bornholmers are intelligent too,
though isolated; they read and they think; all seem to make at least
one trip to Copenhagen during a lifetime, and many visit the capital
quite frequently. Also, Socialism gives evidence of being fairly well
rooted in the island, where it bids fair in future to play havoc with
time-honored aristocratic ideals.
Bornholm conservatism is in a sense a modified local patriotism; for
the Bornholmers are intensely attached to their mid-Baltic home,—a
fact, I presume, largely due to their isolation and to the consequent
necessity, to a considerable degree, for their fighting their own
battles in times past. Their love for the beautiful island naturally
makes them loath to change the old for the new, unless they see a
good reason for so doing. A cousin who is a fiercely loyal Bornholmer
is a good illustration of this. One day I asked her the Danish word
for “birch” and she replied, “The Copenhagen Danish is _birk_; the
Bornholm Danish is _burck_. I pronounce it _burck_, for _I_ am a
Bornholmer.” The Danish spoken in Copenhagen is generally considered
the best, and is charming to the ear; in my opinion, it has a dignity
which French lacks, and a beauty of sound foreign to German. The
Bornholm dialect, on the other hand, is a broad drawl which is
unqualifiedly ugly.
It must be recognized, too, that Bornholm possesses virtues which many
centrally-located places lack. Among the population of more than forty
thousand serious crimes are almost unknown. The people are friendly
and honest; they practice the Golden Rule pretty faithfully. I was
impressed with this fact while in Svaneke. We were going away to spend
the evening, and I, being the last out, proceeded to lock the door.
“Never mind to lock the door,” said Tante Anna; “just close it. There
are no thieves on Bornholm.” Later, fearful lest she had exaggerated
the honesty of the island, she discussed the matter with Tante Hulda;
and finally they remembered that some years before a man in Rönne had
been convicted of stealing a few kroners’ worth of something—I have
forgotten what.
I am writing these final lines aboard _Örnen_, sitting on a stool in
the cabin with my writing pad on my knee; for I am outward bound from
Bornholm. All of my Rönne relatives came to the boat and saw me off
with “Hils hjemmes” and repeatedly waved good-byes. I was just on deck
to take a last look. Ah, when I forget thee, Bornholm!—My nearest
cabin mate is a girl from the Faroes, who is taking a great armful
of purple heather home with her. The Faroes, you know, are a part of
Denmark. An old Norse dialect is the vernacular, but Danish is taught
in the schools, and my cabin mate, like most natives, speaks it. Hence,
we do not have to resort to a deaf-mute show in order to make ourselves
understood. The girl is stirring in her berth. I fear that the light
disturbs her, so I must put it out. As the Bornholmers say, “Farvel saa
laenge”—Good-bye for the present.
CHAPTER IV
AN INTRODUCTION TO SWEDEN: LUND, HELSINGBORG, GOTHENBURG
GOTHENBURG, SWEDEN,
August 15, 191—
_My dear Cynthia_:
As you see, I am at last in the land of the Swede,—a land even less
known to Americans than is Denmark,—which is saying considerable. The
sum total of information which most Americans possess about Sweden
seems to be that Swedish girls make good cooks. Consequently, they
appear to look upon all Swedish women as potential American “servant
girls.” To be sure, in view of the fact that my ancestral roots sink
deep in Swedish soil, I deserve no credit for such knowledge of things
Swedish as I have; and I claim none. But since my arrival here I have
been acquiring more knowledge, and I propose to thrust some of it upon
you; for I have no reason to believe that you possess any superfluous
information upon the subject; and, besides, it is impossible to write
_from_ Sweden without writing _about_ Sweden.
Though Lund was my first definite goal in the Swedish land, I went
there via Malmö, a commercial town on the sea coast, which I reached
after about an hour’s sailing from Copenhagen. So far as I have been
able to learn, Malmö’s chief claim to historic glory is the fact
that it was here, in 1533, that Christian Petersen, the “Father of
Danish literature,” set up the first printing press in Denmark. For
the province in which Malmö and Lund are situated, as well as other
provinces in southern Sweden, was at that time a possession of Denmark,
which had ruled over it since the days of Canute the Great. But in the
middle of the seventeenth century, by the treaty of Roskilde, the whole
southern end of the peninsula again came under control of Sweden, which
has possessed it ever since. And this is well, for, geographically
and geologically, the territory is Swedish. However, its long exile
under Danish dominion has prevented it from fully acquiring Swedish
characteristics—in so far as Sweden has characteristics different
from the other Scandinavian lands. Hence, in spite of the customs
inspection, and in spite of the fact that a blue flag with a yellow
cross was in evidence instead of Dannebrog, it was difficult for me to
realize that I was in a new land.
To me, Lund is an attractive place; the house of Tegnér, Sweden’s
greatest poet is there; and there also are one of the two Swedish
universities, and a fine old cathedral. Tegnér, you should remember
as the author of “The Children of the Lord’s Supper,” so beautifully
translated by our own Longfellow. “Fritjof’s Saga,” Tegnér’s greatest
work, is not so well known in America, though a large number of English
translations exist; but I have been fond of it for years. From it,
Longfellow got many a valuable hint for his “Evangeline.” Just read the
following description of Fritjof’s banqueting hall from the saga, and
then tell me whether it does not forcibly remind you of Longfellow’s
poem.
“Covered with straw was the floor, and upon a walled hearth in
the center,
Constantly burned, warm and cheerful, a fire, while down the
wide chimney
Twinkling stars, heavenly friends, glanced upon guest and hall,
quite unforbidden.
Studded with nails were the walls, and upon them were hanging
Helmets and coats-of-mail closely together; also between them
Here and there flashed a sword, like a meteor shooting at evening.
“Brighter than helmet or sword were the sparkling shields ranged
round the chamber;
Bright as the face of the sun were they, clear as the moon’s disc
of silver.
Oft as the horns needed filling there passed round the table a
maiden;
Modestly blushing she cast down her eyes, her beautiful image
Mirrored appeared in the shields, and gladdened the heart of
each warrior.”
In one of Lund’s narrow streets, squeezed tightly between other
buildings, is the box-shaped house with German windows and tiled roof
in which Tegnér lived from 1813 to 1826, while he was professor in the
university. Two of the rooms formerly occupied by him and his family
are now preserved as a museum in his memory. And these rooms presented
a real Tegnér personality to me, for many of the quaint belongings
within are things which came under the poet’s actual touch and eye, and
which preserve still some fragment of individuality, though crowded
together now in museum fashion. In the old family dining room are many
busts and portraits of Tegnér; also a screen made by his children; and
two show cases, one of which contains many letters and manuscripts
left by him, and the other, his spectacles and paper knife, and other
objects which he once owned. A large book-case displays the many
editions in which his writings have been given to the world. The walls
of the other room are pretty well covered with portraits of celebrated
contemporaries of the poet: men in plain lay clothes, men in clerical
frocks, men with military stars and bars. In the second room are also
the desk, study lamp and chairs which Tegnér used; and a queer old
“bridal stool” somewhat resembling a sofa—from the receptacle under
the seat of which the woman in charge pulled a bridal quilt, covered
with embroidered silk.
In Tegnér Place, a square shaded by great, characterful old trees, is
also a pleasing memorial of the professor-poet. It is a fine bronze
statue which represents him—very appropriately, since in his greatest
writings he sings of Scandinavia’s pagan past—as leaning against a
large rune stone. The square adjoins the university.
Lund University was founded about two hundred and fifty years ago;
but the present building, in handsome classical-Renaissance style,
is quite new. Inside, also, everything is spick and span, cosy, and
generally harmonious. The ceiling of the entrance hall is supported by
fine marble pillars, the walls are pleasingly tinted, and here and
there in the class rooms are paintings by Scandinavian artists. The
student body consists of about a thousand men and women. As in the
other Scandinavian universities, the women as well as the men wear a
black and white cap, with a button of the national colors in front.
The common emblem worn by the students may be taken as symbolizing
the equality of opportunity enjoyed at the universities by the women
and men alike. The women of Lund University, unlike the women in many
co-educational institutions in other parts of Europe, are not merely
_tolerated_; they _belong_; they have equal rights there with their
brothers; they attend classes, receive degrees, and come and go with a
quiet air of independence and dignity which carries with it no apology
for existence.
The cathedral of Lund is a grand old romanesque pile—the finest of
the sort in Scandinavia—dating from the twelfth century. The old gray
stone walls and the great square twin towers give it an appearance
both venerable and majestic, which attracted me very much. A crowd of
tourists had gathered to view the building; and presently a wide-awake
looking woman, shirt-waisted and straw-sailor-hatted, came and showed
us through it. On the restored brick and plaster walls are many
tablets—some more than three centuries old—erected to the memory of
past and gone Scandinavians. The pulpit dates from 1592, and is of
black marble and alabaster, beautifully worked—but suggestive of death
and mourning. Surrounding the pulpit are arranged the coats-of-arms
of the nobles who gave it to the cathedral. The choir stalls, or monk
stools, as our guide called them, are more ancient than the pulpit.
They are very quaint, with grotesque, grinning faces carved on the
arms. Above the backs of the stools are scenes from the Bible: in one
Jehovah is represented as a very round-faced young man in the act of
creating the earth; in another, he is bringing the sun into being; in a
third, he is creating the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air.
Surely the mediæval wood-workers did not pursue their labors with very
deep seriousness or reverence; they _must_ have given their sense of
humor play while they wrought the funny clumsy figures.
But the cathedral is especially famous for its crypt. This is more
than one hundred and twenty feet long and is about one-fourth as wide.
Twenty three heavy pillars support the round arches, which in turn bear
up the ceiling. This great space is dimly lighted by ten small windows.
In the right arm of the crypt is an old well with a circular stone
curbing, upon which, long centuries ago, some humorist cut quaint,
satirical figures and inscriptions. Down in the crypt, long before the
Reformation, Roman Catholic monks said their prayers and kept their
fasts. Their cells are still in the walls. Down there, too, under the
floor, are buried many ecclesiastical worthies, including the bishops
of Lund who once held under their dominion all of the churches of
Sweden. Also, and finally, the giant Finn and his family are prisoners
in the ancient room beneath the cathedral—in bas-relief on the
everlasting stone. And I must confess that I was more interested in the
frivolous story of the ill-fated Finn than in all of the holy monks and
domineering bishops.
Our cicerone told us the story, about in this wise: In the year 1080
the good Saint Lawrence set the giant Finn to work to construct the
cathedral. Since it was to be a mighty building, a giant’s labor was
needed to construct it. St. Lawrence, however, lacked foresight, and
failed to have a contract signed before the work began. Consequently,
the giant had him at his mercy when the task was completed. Finn
demanded an exorbitant price for his services—the sun and the moon, or
the eyes of the impractical saint. The only chance of escape which St.
Lawrence had was to guess the name of the builder; failing to do that,
out would go his eyes, for, obviously, the sun and the moon were beyond
his reach. But giants, as you know, are stupid, and the Finn family was
no exception. When the price was almost within their grasp, Mrs. Finn,
while crooning her baby to sleep, from force of habit mentioned her
husband’s name in the song.—Presumably the lullaby was the ancestor of
the “Father-will-come-to-thee-soon” one.—That minute the game was up;
all was lost. For St. Lawrence, who was snooping around, overheard the
builder’s name.
In the despair and rage consequent upon their failure, the Finns tried
to pull down the church, evidently—like Samson at Gaza—welcoming
suicide in the general destruction. However, St. Lawrence, who now had
the upper hand, prevented, and disposed of them for good by turning
them into stone. There they are even unto this day, a part of the
pillars supporting the great vault of the crypt. But, in my opinion, a
dastardly crime is also recorded against St. Lawrence by the carvings
on the two pillars; for the innocent was made to suffer with the
guilty; the little Finn baby was petrified with its parents. There is
the poor, helpless infant on the column with his mother, flattened out
in pitiless bas-relief, to the eternal disgrace of the Church. Here
endeth the story of the bas-reliefs on the pillars of the crypt. He
that hath credulity to believe let him believe.
Helsingborg was my second stop in the land of the Swede. You will
find Helsingborg on the map where southwestern Sweden almost touches
Denmark. Indeed, here the Sound is only a little more than two miles
wide, so it is not at all difficult to understand why in centuries past
Swede and Dane fought so many and such bloody battles over the control
of the commerce which passed through this important gateway. The town
has only about thirty thousand inhabitants, but it offered me a number
of objects of interest. On the quay was a tablet commemorating the
landing of the Frenchman, Marshal Bernadotte, on October 22, 1810, when
he came to Sweden as heir of the childless Charles XIII, and founder
of the present royal Swedish house. Farther on was a statue of Count
Stenbock, the warrior who saved southern Sweden from recapture by the
Danes during the Swedish reverses suffered under Charles XII.
But of all the attractions offered by Helsingborg the palm should go
either to Swedish hard bread or to Kärnan—preferably, I suppose, to
the latter; for Sweden has only one Kärnan while hard bread may be
obtained anywhere within her borders. It happened, however, that I
had somehow missed my chance at hard bread in Lund, so I shall always
associate the gustatory pleasure obtained from it with this particular
Swedish town. As its name implies, the bread is hard; it is also
dry and brittle and brown, for it is made of rye meal and is baked
in thin, round cakes about as large as a dinner plate. On the tables
in the open-air café where I had luncheon were great piles of this
delectable morsel. This bread, spread with slightly-salted Swedish
butter and partaken of with coffee such as the Scandinavians know how
to make, supplies a luncheon fit for the gods of Scandinavia. Nectar
and ambrosia, I am persuaded, would take only second prize in any
international exposition. Frankly, however, Cynthia, I fear that you
would vote for the fare of the Greek gods, in preference.
Since the café in which I first partook of Swedish hard bread was
very near to Kärnan, where I went immediately afterward, I also
associate the bread with Kärnan. This latter is not edible, though from
association and sound it may seem so. Yet Kärnan is a “kernel”—the
kernel or core of a Swedish fortress built something like six hundred
years ago. Its actual date of foundation is lost in the past. Around
it were once heavy battlemented walls and towers, all of which played
a part in the bloody struggles of the centuries. But to modern times
there descended only the great square central building, dismantled
and falling into ruins—until recently restored. The restoration has
transformed the fragment of the ancient fortress into a handsome red
brick observation tower, the newest of the new, from the top of which
floats the flag of Sweden. The approach up the hill to Kärnan is a
right royal one, and is very fitly named for the good King Oscar. After
ascending a series of broad, shallow staircases and passing under three
arches, each more majestic than the preceding, I reached the door of
the tower. Then there were nearly one hundred and fifty steps of a
spiral staircase to climb before reaching the platform under the sky
blue flag with its golden cross. But the view from there was well worth
a much harder climb. Do not miss it if ever the _Wanderlust_ should
carry you to the land of the Swede.
Helsingborg, itself, as I learned as a result of my climb, is a very
pretty town with bright, clean buildings, magnificently situated upon
the shores of the Sound through which many ships were passing. Below
me, up and down the clean, well-paved streets moved the busy Swedes,
intent upon their daily tasks. But as it was a clear day I also
secured a fine sweep of the surrounding Swedish landscape, and—most
interesting of all—had a clear view of the nearest corner of Denmark,
Helsingör, as the Danes call it, but the Elsinore of Hamlet to all
English-speaking peoples. Helsingör looked less than a good stone’s
throw away. Its largest buildings were plainly visible; and Kronborg
Castle, which guards the Sound in behalf of the Danes, loomed up in the
foreground, grand and majestic. I shall be certain to see it nearer on
my return to Denmark.
After a day and a night in Helsingborg I left by rail for
Gothenburg—or Göteborg, as known to the Swedes. The landscape through
which I journeyed is more rolling than that around Lund; and it is
exceedingly stony. In one little valley which we crossed the stones
were piled up into walls, evidently not so much for the purpose of
forming fences as to clear the soil. Indeed, as it was, these fences
covered a large portion of the ground. It was harvest time in Sweden;
and kerchiefed women were working with the men in the fields, binding
and piling the sheaves. The farm houses here were quite different from
those in Denmark, both as regards material and style of architecture.
The gaard arrangement was exceptional; instead, the buildings, which
are generally of wood, painted dark red, with white trimmings, were
unconnected, and frequently arranged parallel to each other.
As we neared Gothenburg the scenery improved; the rolling territory
with its stones and stone walls gave place to a more hilly landscape
with great rugged rocks and beautiful trees. On entering the town
we passed Göta Lejon Fort, which stands on the summit of a hill. It
is a large, round tower—very old but recently restored—built with
exceedingly thick stone walls. It is surmounted by a rampant bronze
lion wearing a golden crown and bearing a sword; hence the name. The
mate of this fortress, Kronan, which is now a military museum, is
topped off with a golden crown. Kronan is on a hill nearer the heart of
the city, and is reached by a stairway of about two hundred steps.
[Illustration: Ezias Tegnér]
[Illustration: Statue of Gustav Adolf, Gothenburg]
A large bronze statue of Gustav Adolf—no true Swede would use the
Latin form in these days—has the place of honor in the main public
square. This Protestant warrior king was the founder of the town;—or,
more strictly speaking, the inviter of the founders. Under his
direction and at his invitation it was settled by Dutch people who
were commercially inclined and saw great possibilities in a city built
at the mouth of the Gotha River. Gothenburg has prospered since its
foundation and now ranks second in size to Stockholm; but it still
bears traces of its origin, in the form of the broad streets and the
canals suggestive of Holland. Another peculiarity of the town is the
numerous staircases for ascending and descending the granite hills.
These staired streets are a great boon to pedestrians, who have the
complete monopoly of them.
Slottsskogen, Gothenburg’s natural park, is on high ground outside
of the city. It is a large woodsy stretch, with here and there great
patches of purple heather, through which granite boulders peep. In the
pretty, tree-rimmed lakes black and white swans were sailing, and in an
inclosure were soft-eyed deer. From a cream-colored stone observation
tower on the highest point in the park I secured a fine view. To the
west was the broad mouth of the Gotha into which were steaming European
merchant ships; for this burg on the Gotha is far-famed for its
manufactures and its commerce. On to the northeast, like a silver-blue
ribbon, the river curved, bearing other vessels bound for Stockholm,
via the Gotha Canal.
I cannot leave Gothenburg without telling you about the “automat”
and its possibilities. In Copenhagen I had noticed tempting-looking
buildings conspicuously labeled “Automat,” but, fearing that they
might be a new variety of “gilded halls of sin,” carefully avoided
them. In Gothenburg yesterday, however, I saw a tremendously
respectable-appearing woman, accompanied by a little girl, come out of
an automat, and, thoroughly convinced that there was nothing immoral
about the place, I went in to explore. An automat, Cynthia, is an
_automatic restaurant_, non-alcoholic and immaculately respectable;
it is the cafeteria idea carried to its logical conclusion. I have
never seen automats in our own land; but they are wonderfully
convenient, and do away with that survival of mediæval highway robbery
called “tipping.” They are operated on the money-in-the-slot and
the touch-the-button principle. Taking a meal in one of them is an
interesting performance, partaking somewhat of the qualities of an
adventure.
In one wall of the dining room are various slots and electric buttons,
slides and faucet-like spouts, all properly labeled. Perhaps you would
like a cup of cocoa. If so, place a cup and saucer, from the table
near at hand, under the proper spout, drop a five-öre piece into the
neighboring slot, and immediately cocoa will gush forth into your cup,
stopping at just the right degree of fullness. The cocoa will be as
good as the best and will cost less than two cents in American money.
You will want a sandwich to eat with your cocoa, I am sure. There are
almost as many kinds of sandwiches in Scandinavia as there are foods;
and all are good. A veritable rainbow array of them is on exhibition
in a round glass case divided into compartments. Rotate the case until
the dish containing the variety which you would like most to sample
is before the little metal door, drop your five-öre piece into the
slot, and the door will open and out will slide the desired dish. You
can supply yourself with the most delicious little cakes and tarts in
the same way. Should you want something hot, roast beef and browned
potatoes, for instance, or lamb stew, you will have to return to the
wall. Put your money in the slot, press the button, and as soon as ever
it can be dished up your order will come out through the side, piping
hot and mighty good. Carry your spoils to one of the little tables,
which are set as in a cafeteria, but supplied with hard bread in
addition; help yourself to knife, fork and spoon and paper napkin from
the side table; and—fall to.
You are convinced by this time, I presume, that I have become a
perfect gourmand. Perhaps I have; but you would be too, under the same
circumstances. I marvel no longer that the Scandinavians eat five times
a day. And I hope that Stockholm for which I depart this morning is
well supplied with automats. I shall write you from there. Meanwhile,
as the Swedes say, “Adjö! Adjö!”
CHAPTER V
JOURNEYING ACROSS SWEDEN; STOCKHOLM
STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN,
August 20, 191—
_My dear Cynthia_:
I do not mind admitting now that I was distinctly disappointed with my
first glimpses of the Swedish landscape. You probably noticed that in
my last letter I ‘demned it by faint praise.’ But since writing that
letter I have crossed the peninsula from Gothenburg to Stockholm, and I
have found that—at least so far as the eye will reach on either side
of the railroad track—Sweden is far more beautiful than I had ever
dreamed. It was such a satisfaction to the Swedish half of me to learn
that.
The country was woodsy and rolling and rocky all the way; and it was
more than that. As we journeyed, conifers, particularly fir and pine,
were added to the dainty white-limbed birches and the oaks. Between
Lakes Vennern and Vettern for many miles we passed through dense
forests, largely evergreens. The trees pressed closely in on both sides
of the track, so that I could almost touch their plumy green arms with
my hand. There were plenty of rocks, too, but in the form of sightly
crags or rugged bluffs which were really a contribution to the picture.
Here and there were houses, mostly the typical dark red with white
trimmings, which added a pleasant bit of color, peeping from between
the openings in the forests, or well exposed and surrounded by fields.
In some of the fields were men plowing with teams of oxen; in others
were sheaves of rye or oats stuck on long, pointed stakes to dry. These
spitted sheaves in some cases bore ghostly, grotesque resemblance to
human beings. The railroad stations were mostly of red brick, with neat
grounds frequently planted to flowers.
I have not yet mentioned the water. That deserves a paragraph by
itself. If I had not already given you to understand that between
Gothenburg and Stockholm there are houses and fields and forests and
crags, I should be tempted to state that there is water everywhere.
While this is not strictly true, water is astonishingly plentiful and
is all mixed up with everything else. It has been said that when, in
the act of creation, Jehovah parted the water from the land, he forgot
Sweden. It certainly looks as if someone had forgotten. There are
ditches between the fields to draw off the water; and lakes, large and
small, from which brimming rivers flow, are scattered about in the most
extravagant manner. Near Stockholm the lakes are closer together than
at the Gothenburg end of the line. With their framing of gray, rocky
bluffs and tall, dark forests reflected on their silvery surfaces,
occasionally dotted with water lilies in full bloom, these lakes are
charming indeed. Swedes have been fond of water since Viking times,
you know. And last Friday they seemed to be enjoying their lakes to
the full; some were swimming, and splashing and diving, like genuine
amphibians; others were in boats—proud little steamers which made the
reflected landscape tremble and quiver as they puffed and snorted about
with a self-important air, and simple rowboats which glided modestly
over the mirrored landscape. The train grazed the margin of one lake in
which was a boat-load of laughing white-kerchiefed girls, rowed by a
brown-armed young man, laughing, too. They were gathering pond lilies.
As the train entered the city by way of a bridge across the Gotha
Canal, we noted a little Gothenburg steamer making its way between
the green banks. It had taken about forty-eight hours longer than
we to make the trip to the capital. But the trip by canal is a most
delightful one, I have been told.
When I used the pronoun _we_ in the foregoing, I did not have in mind
the sum total of passengers who traveled in the same train with me
from Gothenburg to Stockholm, but rather a woman who occupied the same
compartment as I, on the train.
My lady, Fröken Nordstern—which, being interpreted, means Miss North
Star—boarded the train at Gothenburg. Her air told me on the instant
that she was a kindred spirit, so I responded as cordially as possible
to her pleasant “God morgon.” After that it was easy to find an excuse
for conversation. I soon found that the fröken was wide-awake and
interested in the best things of the present, and zealous to contribute
her share to the onward and upward progress of humanity. She spoke
English very well; therefore, with my mongrel Scandinavian—which she
was so good as to call Swedish—we had ample linguistic media for the
expression of our thoughts.
We had exchanged remarks upon the subject of Gothenburg, where she is
at the head of a small business house, and had branched out slightly
in other directions, when she suddenly turned to me and announced that
she would like to ask some rather personal questions. As I liked her, I
replied that I was willing, and she proceeded.
Was I a vegetarian?
Theoretically, I stated, I was; the thought of devouring my fellow
animals for food was abhorrent to me; but actually I was carnivorous in
my habits—a piece of inconsistency made possible by dwarfed powers of
imagination.
Was I interested in the peace movement?
Yes.
Did I belong to some organization working to banish from the earth the
possibility of nation taking up arms against nation?
No; but I was a teacher of history, and I never lost an opportunity to
point out the superiority of plowshares to swords and pruning hooks to
spears.
Why didn’t I belong to a peace society? Did I not think that I could be
more useful to the cause of peace if I belonged to an organization?
I had never given the matter serious thought, I replied.
Would I join a peace organization when I returned to my own country?
Yes; and I was grateful for the jolt.
My North Star lady now looked more hopeful. Lastly, did I believe in
equal suffrage?
Here was my chance to come out strong. I was _born_ a suffragist, I
declared.
Fröken Nordstern grasped my hand and gave it a hearty squeeze of
comradeship. The last answer evidently counted at least fifty per cent.
I judge that I passed the examination with about B+.
After that we got on famously. The fröken gave an interesting account
of what the Scandinavian people—the very great grandchildren of the
warlike old Vikings—were doing to effect permanent peace and good will
among the nations; and they are doing much, considering their numbers.
Later in the summer she expected to attend the Scandinavian peace
congress to be held in Christiania. It would be pleasant, she said, if
I could spare the time to attend. It would, indeed, said I. And then I
took the opportunity to express the gratification and relief which I
had felt that no Scandinavian blood had been shed when Norway separated
from Sweden in 1905. Characteristically, _after_ this was spoken, it
occurred to me that I might be skating on pretty thin ice; but my
pacifist friend showed her breadth of mind by promptly and warmly
expressing not only her sympathy with my view but also good-will and
best wishes for Norway, adding, however, that she was a loyal Swede.
But equal suffrage was her dearest interest, for she believed that it
would greatly increase the weight of the women’s wishes in connection
with other reforms; and we talked long upon the subject. Iceland,
Finland and Norway had full suffrage, she pointed out; Danish women
could vote on many questions; the women of Sweden had had municipal
suffrage since 1862, and the lower house of the Swedish parliament had
recently passed the bill giving women full suffrage. King Gustav had
shown his sympathy towards the reform. The delay was due merely to the
conservative upper house. But Scandinavia, she declared, was easily
leading Europe in the emancipation of women. This I knew to be a fact;
I had swelled with pride over Scandinavia’s progress in this regard
long before touching Scandinavian soil. But I did not know, until
Fröken Nordstern told me, that Fredrika Bremer, the Swedish novelist
whose books I long have loved, was a pioneer in the movement. Swedish
women owe much to Miss Bremer, and in token of this, the great national
organization for the enfranchisement and social betterment of women was
named the Fredrika Bremer Association.
If you secure a chance to read Selma Lagerlöf’s “Ma’mselle Fredrika,”
Cynthia, do not let it pass. The story is in the collection entitled
“Invisible Links.” My fröken had a copy of the volume with her and took
pleasure in reading over again with me the charming, mystical tribute
of Miss Lagerlöf, in behalf of Sweden’s “bachelor women,” to the
services of Miss Bremer. The story was new to me, but it is certainly
one of the finest that Selma Lagerlöf has produced.
We talked also of Ellen Key. I suppose that she is best known in the
United States by her book on “The Century of the Child,” which is
an attempt to educate parents up to a proper sense of their duty to
their children; for Miss Key believes that the education of parents
is of far more importance than the education of children. But her
books, “The Woman Movement,” “Love and Marriage,” etc., have received
considerable American attention, as you probably know. She differs from
most feminists in that she constantly emphasizes the mother quality of
woman as well as her humanity. In this, I think, she performs a great
service. However, there seems little doubt but that Ellen Key’s radical
views upon love and marriage have contributed much towards giving the
word “feminist” an uncomplimentary connotation. My North Star lady was
gratified to learn that I was not scandalized over Miss Key’s views
to the point of denunciation; but we agreed that hers seemed rather a
dangerous doctrine to preach at the present stage of moral evolution.
However, I suppose that prophets are occasionally far ahead of their
times.
Some Swedes accuse Miss Key of spreading impure and immoral ideas,
Fröken Nordstern said; and they feel that they must apologize to the
world for her. Yet many of her critics, when it comes to the question
of real nobility of character, are not worthy to tie her shoe strings.
For that Ellen Key is a woman of rare character—as well as rare
intellect—no one can doubt who knows the facts of her life—a life
devoted to the uplift of humanity by teaching, writing, lecturing, and
_living_.
Upon the shores of Lake Vettern, near which our train passed, Ellen Key
now lives—lives an abundant life. In fact, the motto over her doorway
of “Strand,” her home, is “Memento vivere”—Remember to live. And by
her will she has provided in a lovely way to contribute the influence
of her personality for mortal good as long as possible after she has
gone to join the “choir invisible.” Her beautiful home is to be left
just as it is, except for her physical presence, in control of a body
of trustees who will invite working women, sufficiently intelligent to
appreciate the culture of “Strand,” to come, four at a time, each to
spend a month there between April and October, as “the guests of Ellen
Key.”
My memory of the long journey across Sweden will always be pleasanter
because Fröken Nordstern had a part in it. She was on a very
hurried—for Sweden—business trip to the capital and I have not
seen her since we parted at the station here. It would be a distinct
pleasure to meet her again some time.
Now for Stockholm. It is perfectly charming, whether seen by night or
day; but I saw its night beauty first. When the train pulled in, though
it was past nine o’clock, darkness had scarcely settled down. The city
lights, however, had been turned on, and they glimmered in zig-zag
lines across the many canals over which the train rumbled, producing
a weird, fairyland effect which quite excited me and promised new
interests.
At the station, hotel agents were lined up in three rows, but they
were so numerous that I was bewildered and sought help of a helmeted
policeman who stood near at hand. “Temperance Hotel”! he called, and
a properly labeled agent popped out of a line. In a twinkling I was
seated in a drosky and on my way. The horse wore an arch of bells
which tinkled festively as we drove through the dark, high-walled
“foreign-looking” streets; the memory of the long, pleasant day
was in the background of my mind; the charm of the first sight of
the glimmering, zig-zag lights of Stockholm was in the fore; and I
felt exactly as if I were some one else—a character, perhaps, in a
story-book with a good ending.
But when the next morning dawned golden and glorious I realized to the
full that I was something more enviable than that; I was a happy woman
on a vacation in the land of the Swede.
Stockholm has not such a marked personality, such charming quaintness,
as Copenhagen; but it is more, much more, beautiful, than Denmark’s
capital. If the site had been selected, and the city all planned out
by a modern landscape architect, it could scarcely be more charming.
The place, however, is nearly seven centuries old and its founder,
the Swedish warrior, Birger Jarl, was primarily looking for a good
harbor, easily defended, when he selected the passageway between Lake
Mälar and the Baltic, and proceeded to fortify the rocky, woodsy
islands. It is this alternation of rugged, heavily forested island and
mainland, and lake and river and sea which has given this “Venice of
the North” a setting much more beautiful than Venice itself. But the
hand and brain of the beauty-loving Swede has contributed greatly to
the natural attractions. Most of the streets are wide, well-paved, and
clean. Here and there, carefully distributed over the city, are little
parks, bright with grass and trees and flowers, and further adorned
by handsome fountains and by statues of men who have contributed
toward the up-building of Sweden. The tasteful bridges which span the
broad canals also add their share to the variety. And the buildings,
especially the public ones, in many cases combine in an interesting
manner an artistic charm with a dignified reserve characteristic of the
Scandinavian north.
When in Germany I think that I told you about the “trinkhallen.” The
more temperate Swedes have “vattenbutiker” (water shops, or stores).
These are little booths, generally at street corners, where one can
buy mineral waters, and various other temperance drinks, and little
cakes; and may consume them out in the open air, perched on the high
seats beside the counter. Vattenbutiker are as strictly respectable as
automats, with which Stockholm is adequately supplied.
Are you surprised to learn that Sweden has preferred “water shops” to
“drinking halls”? If so, I must tell you that from being among the most
drunken and intemperate parts of Europe, as they were fifty years ago,
the Scandinavian lands have become temperate and are the leaders in
the European “dry” movement. Under Gustav III, who reigned in the last
part of the eighteenth century, the manufacture of alcoholic liquors
was made a government monopoly. This made the Swedes heavy drinkers,
and soon a state of affairs existed which was heading Sweden rapidly
towards destruction. In the other Scandinavian countries drunkenness
and demoralization were almost as prevalent. But, in 1865, through the
efforts of Peter Wieselgren of Gothenburg, the so-called Gothenburg
system was introduced. This system provided that the monopoly of liquor
distillation be given over to responsible philanthropic companies which
controlled the sale and were permitted to retain only five per cent.
of the profits from the traffic; the remainder must go to objects of
public service. Norway, shortly afterwards, introduced a similar method
of regulation and restriction. To me, one very interesting fact about
the system is that part of the profits goes towards teaching the evils
of intemperance. In Norway, the profits also go towards the building
of better roads, the support of the National Theatre in Christiania,
the upkeep of children’s hospitals, and other similar useful purposes.
The other Scandinavian lands were promptly influenced by the reform
movement in Sweden and Norway; and all over Scandinavia increasingly
severe restrictive laws were passed from time to time. The Scandinavian
countries are all now well on the highroad towards total prohibition.
Indeed, Iceland, Greenland, and the Faroes are teetotalers. Norway
is almost completely under local option; Sweden is well in line;
and sentiment is rapidly growing in Denmark. What is of special
encouragement to a democrat from the “land of the free” is the fact
that the Scandinavian people themselves have come to see the evil of
the drink habit, and have cooperated to abolish it. In the Scandinavian
lands, you must know, the government is “of the people, by the people,
and for the people,” about as completely as in the United States. I am
not at all certain that it is not more so.
Lest I have deluded you into believing that, in consequence of their
freedom from evil practices, the Scandinavians have fully qualified for
the harps and crowns of the New Jerusalem, I hasten to inform you that
Scandinavia is in the grip of the tobacco habit; the people smoke like
bad chimneys. And what is worse, the cigarette is the favorite form of
the “weed.” All seem to smoke it except the babies. Small boys scarcely
in their teens puff lustily at cigarettes; and I have seen several
respectable-looking women smoking in the open-air cafés. Among women,
however, the practice is limited to the upper middle class and the
upper class.
Now, to return to Sweden’s capital. Riddarholmen, or the Island of
the Knights, was one of the first three islands of the city to be
fortified. On a square on this island is a statue of Birger Jarl
mounted on a lofty pillar, from which he gazes over the happy city
whose foundations he laid. This chieftain also conquered Finland
and, hence, secured the basis of the later “Greater Sweden.” Though
never crowned King of Sweden himself—largely because he was absent
fighting the Finns when a vacancy occurred in the kingship—he was,
nevertheless, the “father of the Folkungar Kings” and was really the
power behind the throne during the rule of his son Waldemar. As a
member of the “gentler sex” you will be interested to know that Birger
had laws passed which gave to daughters half as much of the property of
their parents as sons received, which, though still leaving room for
amendment, was a decided improvement upon nothing.
For nearly a century and a half after the rise of Birger Jarl to royal
power, Sweden remained an independent nation; but, in 1397, by the
union of Calmar, she, with Norway and Denmark, became a member of
the Scandinavian federation. This was in the days of Queen Margaret,
daughter of the Danish King Waldemar IV, and widow of Haakon VI of
Norway. At first Margaret ruled the two countries as regent for her
son Olaf, but in her rule she showed such wisdom that when Olaf
died, though there was no precedent for a female sovereign in the
Scandinavian lands, the Danish nobles elected her as their “sovereign
lady, princess, and guardian of all Denmark”; and the Norwegians
followed suit. But the Queen herself adopted the modest title,
“Margaret, by the Grace of God, daughter of Waldemar, King of Denmark.”
It happened that Sweden was at the time under the rule of Albert of
Mecklenberg, who was far more German than Swedish in his interests.
Albert was also one of the early “antis”; he poked fun at Margaret’s
sex and gave her to understand that in exercising sovereign power she
was out of her “sphere.” Meanwhile, through the oppression of his
Swedish subjects and the favor which he showed to the Germans, Albert
made himself so hated in Sweden that the Swedish nobles appealed to
the Danish queen to be their ruler. Here was a choice opportunity for
revenge which Margaret did not let slip; she invaded Sweden, overcame
Albert and his German army and took Albert himself prisoner.
[Illustration: Statue of Birger Jarl, Stockholm]
[Illustration: Museum of the North, Stockholm]
Then came the Union of Calmar, formed in the name of Eric of Pomerania,
Margaret’s grand nephew, who was chosen her heir; Margaret, however,
was the real ruler of the Scandinavian lands as long as she lived.
The treaty stipulated that the union should be a merely personal one
and that each kingdom should retain its own nationality and laws. But
Margaret had a vision of a Scandinavian nation; consequently, she
worked towards the amalgamation of the three peoples by appointing
Swedes to local offices in Denmark and Danes to similar positions
in Sweden, and by other welding devices. It was a magnificent idea,
and worthy of the great stateswoman that Margaret was. But it was
doomed to failure. Though the Queen apparently tried to be prudent and
tactful, the patriotic Swedes naturally viewed her as the usurper of
their national liberties. Under the stupid Eric and his successors,
dissatisfaction increased; the fifteenth century was punctuated with
Swedish revolts. None proved successful, however, before the monster
Christian II of Denmark had massacred in the Stockholm market place
nearly one hundred Swedish nobles, _after_ they had sworn allegiance to
him.
This Stockholm “blood bath,” as the Swedes say, “drowned the union of
Calmar”; and it nerved Gustav Vasa, son of one of the murdered nobles,
to become the George Washington of Sweden. Supported, first by the
mountain people of Dalecarlia, and later by the Swedes as a whole, he
drove out the Danish oppressors, gave back to Sweden her independence,
and in 1523 became the first king of the powerful house of Vasa.
But to return to the square guarded by the statue of Birger Jarl. Near
the high-pedestaled figure is Riddarholms Kyrkan, the Westminster
Abbey of Sweden. Here rest many of the Swedish celebrities, royal and
otherwise, good and bad together. The building itself is handsome—in
Gothic style with rich windows. The floor is largely composed of slabs
marking tombs of notable Swedes, in some cases three centuries dead. In
places on the pavement the carved reliefs have been nearly obliterated
by the tread of feet of intervening generations. Around the sides
are the chapels in which are buried many Swedish rulers. As I looked
at the tombs behind the gratings, I remembered what happened to the
royal French remains at the time of the Revolution and made a new and
stronger resolution in favor of cremation.
The famous grandson of Gustav Vasa, Gustav Adolf, who lost his life on
the battlefield of Lützen in the Thirty Years’ War, after he and his
valiant Swedes had struck the decisive blow for Protestant freedom, is
buried there in an elaborately carved coffin, surrounded by standards
captured from the enemy, tattered and torn, but still gay in color. In
the chapel opposite to that of Gustav Adolf are the huge coffins of
Charles X and Charles XII. Charles X, you may remember, was the king
who adventured into Denmark over the ice-bridged Great Belt two hundred
and fifty years ago. Charles XII, the “last of the Vikings,” while
a mere boy was able for a time to hold at bay and even to chastise
severely the sovereigns of Russia, Poland and Denmark, who, presuming
upon the youth of her king, were plotting to rob Sweden of her Baltic
lands.
The chapel of the present dynasty, the Bernadotte, is near the door.
Here is the sarcophagus of the founder of the line, Charles John, of
red marble with claw feet. The plain blue marble tomb of the great and
good Oscar II, the late king, is also here. Beside it is a wreath tied
with white ribbon, bearing the names of the present king and queen,
Gustav and Victoria.
I went to “Skansen” in company with Fröken Söderquist, from whose
sister in Chicago I had brought a letter of introduction. Skansen is
one of Stockholm’s most characteristic institutions—a natural park
and a museum combined. It is really a branch of the Museum of the
North, which is near at hand. The exhibit in the park consists mostly
of runestones, Lapp huts and Lapps themselves, and houses furnished to
show how the Swedes lived in ages past—even as early as the sixteenth
century. The houses, which have been moved in from the country and
set up in the park, are _bona fide_ old buildings dating from the
periods which they illustrate. I inspected several of them and found a
considerable degree of similarity existing between them, though their
original occupants had lived in different centuries and different parts
of Sweden.
The building materials were boards or logs and the architectural style
simple and much like the present. There were also the same small-paned
German windows which characterize the country homes in Denmark as
well as in Sweden; and their sills were filled with potted plants
just as in the Scandinavian houses of later construction. The walls
and ceilings were covered with quaint paintings or with embroidered
linen hangings. The floors were bare but well scoured. The furniture
was usually of simple pattern, but in some cases it was elaborately
and grotesquely carved, especially the heavy oaken chests which stood
along the walls. The bed in one of the houses was topped off with a
wooden canopy, and a shallow wooden clothes closet took the place
of the foot-board. In the poor cottages the beds were built into a
recess in the wall, one above the other like berths, and concealed by
a curtain. Ancient clocks—tall, severe-appearing timekeepers of the
grandfather variety—held positions of honor. The fireplaces were large
affairs with high, square hearths and square hoods, one corner of which
projected out into the room. The pewter plates and tankards on display
were genuine old-time utensils and also the spoons of pewter and of
wood. On a table in one of the cottages were models of different
varieties of seventeenth century cakes and breads. They looked as if
their originals might have been very edible and appetizing. In each
house was a man or woman dressed in the costume of the period to which
the house belonged, ready to answer questions or sell post cards, as
the case demanded. A quaint old Swede with a long gray beard, a long
white coat, long red stockings, buff knee breeches and a funny round
white cap was especially picturesque. He would have made an admirable
Scandinavian Santa Claus.
These exhibition homes from Sweden’s past are scattered in a natural
manner among the trees and rocks of Skansen as if they had been there
through all the centuries. But it is not for the houses alone that
the park is remarkable. It has other attractions—exclusive of the
conventional zoo and the swan lake. A great May pole all decorated
with festoons and stars and wreaths of various patterns stands near
the ancient Swedish homes—a pretty relic of the days when the heathen
Scandinavians worshiped the forest tree; and a handsome observation
tower with many yellow and blue flags occupies an eminence. The tower
is called “Bredablik” (Broad View). From its top, Fröken Söderquist
pointed out the important buildings of the city, and the canals and the
islands and the “Salt Sea.” This bird’s-eye view helped me more fully
to realize what a really superb site Stockholm has, and how very much
more beautiful this city is than Copenhagen. But Copenhagen is _so_
quaint and charming and generally lovable.
[Illustration: Selma Lagerlöf]
[Illustration: Interior of One of the Ancient Swedish Houses at
“Skansen,” Stockholm]
Just before sundown twenty or thirty children from the public schools,
dressed in the national costumes of various Swedish provinces,
danced folk dances and sang folk songs in the park. Their dress alone
was equal in interest to a small-sized museum. Some of the boys wore
embroidered jackets and short buff trousers fastened at the knee with
red worsted cords ending in pom-poms; one little chap cut a quaint
figure in long red stockings and buckled shoes and a white coat with
tails extending almost to his heels (he was the Scandinavian Santa
Claus in miniature); several of the girls wore gaily embroidered
bodices, with white blouses fastened with large brooches, short, very
full, pleated skirts, and brightly colored stockings; some wore little
fringed and embroidered woolen shawls across their shoulders; others
wore the shawls on their heads; while still others wore stiff white
linen caps, or pointed ones of black velvet trimmed with red. The
platform upon which the children played was decorated with many flags,
multiplying the rainbow array of color.
Near at hand was an open-air café with bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked young
women, dressed also in peasant costume, receiving and filling orders.
Here we had refreshments, and sat lazily during the lingering twilight,
listening to the music, provided, not by a phonograph, or auto-piano,
but by a large band; and the Swedes are no tyros at band-playing.
When darkness had shut down, we watched an open-air play illustrating
country life in Sweden. The stage scenery for the play included the
humble home of a poor cotter and the mansion of a wealthy nobleman; the
plot turned upon the rich young aristocrat’s falling madly in love with
the peasant’s pretty daughter.
Verily, the Swedes have learned to enjoy out-of-door life to the full,
both in summer and in winter. In the winter they have their snow and
ice sports, and in the summer during the long, lovely spring-like
days, they work and play out of doors as much as possible. This love
for fresh air and sunshine, combined with their excellent in-door
gymnastic system, their cleanly, temperate habits, and their cheerful
dispositions, have made the Swedes the longest-lived people in Europe.
On Sunday, Fröken Söderquist and I went to services at the Church of
Saint Nicholas, or Storkyrkan (the Great Church) as it is generally
called. This, the oldest in Stockholm, was founded by Birger Jarl
in 1264. Like almost every other Scandinavian church, it is State
Lutheran. And it is appropriate that at the rear of the building should
stand the statue of Olavus Petri, the apostle of Lutheranism, who on
this spot stood in defiance of Catholic opposition and preached his
faith.
The present building is nearly two hundred years old. The exterior is
plain and rather ugly—of gray stone, with a clock tower and chimes.
But the Gothic interior, which has been recently renovated, is really
attractive. The slender clustering pillars and the interlacing arches
which support the ceiling are of rosy brick, while the walls are of
white plaster bordered with gold. The pews also are white with gold
trimmings. In the walls are empty niches, which, in the old Roman
Catholic days, three hundred years ago, were occupied by statues of
saints. As in all old churches, there are plenty of tombs under the
floor and in the walls. The two altars at which the anointing of newly
crowned sovereigns takes place occupy a conspicuous position. They are
upholstered in velvet of the Swedish national blue, gold embroidered;
and above each is a canopy of gold topped off with a large golden crown
supported by floating cherubs.
The sermon, read by a gowned and banded clergyman from a high pulpit,
also in white and gold, was of a commonplace, prosaic character. When
it was finally ended, the preacher read announcements handed to him by
the clerk—marriage banns, notices of coming baptisms, of deaths, and
of political elections.
In the afternoon we went to the National Museum. Here are fine
exhibits from the prehistoric period and also from the historic, as
well as an excellent collection of foreign and domestic art. Like the
archæological museum in Copenhagen, this one has a beautiful display
of tools and utensils from the New Stone Age. In fact, the similarity
of the prehistoric collections of the two museums proves that the
Danes and Swedes had an identical culture. And even yet their culture
is almost identical. In the Stockholm collection from the Later Iron
Age, however, gold ornaments are much more common than in Copenhagen.
In fact, they are astonishingly numerous. One is led to the conclusion
either that in the Sweden of those days there were a few people who
loaded themselves down with jewelry, or that the wearing of jewelry was
very general. Three of the gold collars or necklaces which I observed
were positively massive, but were beautifully wrought. In this museum
is the runestone upon which is the pictorial representation of the saga
of Siegfried and the serpent. Siegfried is there roasting the dragon’s
heart; Grani, Brunhilda’s horse, is tied to a near-by tree. Among the
branches of the tree perches the bird which has told Siegfried of the
attempted villainy of his foster father.
In the historic exhibits are many relics of interesting Swedish
sovereigns: the spinet and the medicine chest of Gustav Adolf; a
beautifully jeweled prayer book which belonged to his daughter, the
eccentric Queen Christina; and the crown and sceptre of Charles X.
But I cared most of all for the picture gallery. It was such a
surprise. Sweden has an astonishing number of great living artists
now—men and women who are attracting the attention of the world by
contributing something new and truly Scandinavian to the art of the
world. Until the last century, you will remember, Scandinavia had done
practically nothing in the fine arts; and some concluded that she never
would do anything; that her race was run. But in the Stockholm gallery
are quite sufficient examples to prove the danger of hasty conclusion.
It was pleasant to talk the pictures over with Fröken Söderquist. We
both greatly enjoyed Bruno Liljefors’ charming animal sketches; and
also the quaint Dalecarlian scenes by Anders Zorn and Carl Larsson.
Larsson works mostly in water colors; and his wife and children are
very frequently his subjects; but he does not ignore the children of
his neighbors. Recently he published, with notes, under the title
“Larssons,” a most delightful collection of family glimpses; and
another volume, more beautiful still, entitled “Andras Barn” (Other
People’s Children). Cederström’s “Bringing Home the Body of Charles
XII” is, I suppose, well known. I had seen copies of it, but did
not care for them. The original, however, I think fascinating; and
what most attracted me was not the central object, the body of the
king, borne by his officers, but the grief depicted on the face of
the hunter who stands in the snow by the roadside, bowed in sorrow.
To him Charles is not the “madman of the North,” who, after saving
Sweden from international highway robbery, nearly lost it through his
foolhardiness; he is the great and brave king of the Swedes.
Portraits in crayon of Selma Lagerlöf and of Ellen Key also interested
me. Both women have fine, strong faces, but Miss Key’s face is more
than merely strong. It shows the high serenity of a courageous spirit
with a gospel which it feels called upon to preach, even though to do
so means social ostracism. On the frame above the placid countenance
the artist had regretfully inscribed the words: “Could I but have
represented your purity of soul!”
Some of the apartments of the stately royal palace are open to
visitors. I viewed them yesterday. The rooms occupied by the late king
were of special interest. The billiard hall is hung with beautiful
tapestries—not orthodoxly made in Paris, but in Saint Petersburg at
the manufactory established by Peter the Great in 1716. Some of the
other rooms, however, contain tapestries of French workmanship. In
Oscar’s study is his desk, as he left it, with his writing materials
and the portraits of his family still upon it. The State apartments
are tremendously elegant, with carvings and frescoes, brocades and
paintings, tapestries and sculptures, gold and silver; but I have
lived in many a California bungalow that I am sure was more pleasingly
furnished and more artistic, as well as decidedly more comfortable.
I tried to see the apartments of the dowager Queen Sophie, which I
understood to be open to the public, but the guard at the door in the
blue and gray uniform and the cocked hat of the period of Charles XII
stood firmly at his post and emphatically repeated a word foreign to my
Swedish vocabulary: “Stängt! Stängt!” The soldier’s determination not
to let me pass was obvious, so I soon abandoned all plans to pry into
Queen Sophie’s privacy, and went to the Museum of the North instead.
“Stängt,” as I learned from my dictionary later, in Swedish means
“closed.”
On the way to the Museum I stopped for a few minutes at an institute
for the development of the Swedish manual arts. The object is to
preserve the peasant knowledge of old-time weaving, needlework, and the
like, and to create a demand for such work—an excellent purpose. I
wish that you might have seen some of the woven pieces, Cynthia. They
were beautiful, both in color and in composition. Some of the heavier
ones reminded me of the finest work of the Navajo Indians. I am almost
as charmed with the Scandinavian art weavings as I am with the Royal
Copenhagen porcelain.
In contrast to the industrial institute, the Museum of the North deals
with things distinctly past and gone. It is filled with Northern
antiquities of all sorts, including a tremendous amount of royal “old
clothes”—military uniforms, coronation robes, and the like. Among
these relics are a pair of silk stockings embroidered in silver, which
belonged to Gustav Adolf, and the embroidered collar and cuffs and the
shirt—still blood-stained—worn by him on the battlefield of Lützen,
where he met his death. The bay horse (I had always supposed that it
was white) which the king rode at Lützen is also there, carefully
stuffed and mounted, with the old saddle—the gift of Gustav’s
queen—on his back. This horse, my museum guide-book informs me, was
led in the king’s funeral procession, and died in 1639, seven years
after his master. The remains of the faithful old steed were kept in
the palace and were somewhat damaged by the great fire which destroyed
the royal residence in 1697. That accounts for their present rather
tattered and moth-eaten appearance. The collection of ancient armor
and weapons is very complete, and includes a sword, shield, and helmet
which belonged to Gustav Vasa, five centuries ago. In the armory are
also long rows of coaches and sleighs richly decorated, which have
borne Swedish royalty on journeys, ill-fated and otherwise.
And now I, too, must journey on. Mine will be a mere tourist
pilgrimage, and will be in the present-day, happy Sweden, so I have
pleasant anticipations. Again “Adjö! Adjö!”
CHAPTER VI
THE TWO UPPSALAS; GEFLE AND SÖDERHAMN
SÖDERHAMN, SWEDEN,
August 25, 191—
_Dear Cynthia_:
From Stockholm I went to Uppsala, which is a short distance to the
north—only an hour and a half by train; and Swedish trains are slow
affairs. At Uppsala is a fine Gothic cathedral of red brick. It is
the largest church in Sweden, and its high buttressed walls as well
as its twin spires tower grandly above all of the other buildings of
the town. Red brick, I know, does not _sound_ beautiful, but it is—at
Uppsala—especially when it comes after a whole gallery of mental
pictures of gray stone churches. Like many other things in Sweden, the
church was founded in the thirteenth century. But the present building
is quite new; it was completed only about twenty years ago. Uppsala
Cathedral, like Riddarholmen Church, contains the ashes of many of the
greatest Swedes; but those buried at Uppsala were more truly great,
in the best sense of the word, than most of the noted ones buried at
Stockholm. Practically all made worthy contributions to the world.
One of them, Saint Eric, is buried behind the high altar, in a
sixteenth century shrine of silver, shaped like a church, with gables
and turrets. So far as I have been able to learn, King Eric—for he was
a king as well as a saint—won his canonization by forcing Finland and
the more remote northern part of Sweden to accept Christianity. But
he is also called Eric Lag-gifvare in an ancient saga which credits
him with giving to his people “King Eric’s Laws.” If he was really
the giver, he gave them an excellent code, which did not overlook the
Swedish woman. To every wife was granted equal power with her husband
over locks, bolts and bars; and by this code she also gained the right
to a third of her husband’s property after his death. In view of the
fact that King Eric lived nearly eight hundred years ago, I think that
an excellent beginning. He was one of the pioneers of the equal rights
movement.
Speaking of saints brings me to the Finsta Chapel, also behind the
altar, where are buried Prince Birger Pedersson and his wife, Ingeborg
Bengtsdotter. These two people—Birger, the son of Peter, and Ingeborg,
the daughter of Bengt—were the parents of Saint Birgitta, who was
obviously named for her father, Birger. To the Swedes she is always
the great and good Birgitta, but among English-speaking people she is
generally called Bridget, which has led to her being confused with the
Irish Saint Bridget, or Brigid, who was born more than eight hundred
years before. The Irish saint is responsible for the popularity of the
name Bridget among the Irish; while the very common Swedish name Britta
is, I suspect, a condensed survival of the old pre-Reformation Saint’s
name Birgitta.
Saint Birgitta was born in 1302 in Vadstena, on Lake Vettern. On the
night of her birth, says legend, there appeared a bright cloud in
the sky on which stood a maiden who announced: “Of Birger is born a
daughter whose admirable voice shall be heard over the whole world.”
We may question the authenticity of the legend, but it is a fact that
Birgitta was the most important Swede of the Roman Catholic era. In
1346, with the aid of King Magnus, she founded upon her Vadstena
estate the first abbey for men and women existing upon a distinctly
co-operative basis. Her daughter, St. Katherine, became the first head
of this mother abbey of the Brigittine order, which later had houses
scattered all over Europe.
But Birgitta, if contemporary accounts may be believed, did not limit
her energies to the encouragement of monastic life. She was a leader
in long religious pilgrimages, going once even to Jerusalem. And so
daring was she and so convinced that she had been given the right to
speak with authority that she did not hesitate to point out to the pope
himself the error of his ways. By some she was hailed as a prophet; by
others she was denounced as a witch. Certainly she was a woman of high
ideals and great ability. It was fitting that the emblem on her crest
should be white angel’s wings. Saint Birgitta herself and her daughter
were buried at Vadstena; their portraits, however, are on the walls of
Finsta Chapel.
The greatest of all Swedish mystics, Emanuel Swedenborg, is also buried
in the Uppsala Cathedral, to which place his remains were brought in
1908 from England, where for long years they had lain. Did you know
that Swedenborg was a great scientist, a man who in various lines of
science made predictions and discoveries far in advance of his time?
He was born in 1688. It was not until he had reached middle age that
he abandoned scientific research and took up the study of religion,
which led him eventually to believe himself divinely commissioned
to preach a new gospel of the New Jerusalem. There is no doubt that
Swedenborg was perfectly honest with himself and with others. Those who
knew and talked with him felt that he was “truth itself.” And though
his theology may seem unacceptable, his religion gave much which the
world will always need. “The life of religion,” he taught, “is to do
good”; and “the kingdom of heaven is a kingdom of uses.” This prophet,
however, was one who received but little honor in his own country.
There are many more adherents of the Swedenborgian teachings in the
United States than in Sweden, in proportion to population.
The ashes of Carl Linné, the greatest of modern systematists, rest at
Uppsala; and it is appropriate that they should, for Linné spent the
best years of his life at Uppsala University, teaching and carrying
on the researches which laid the foundation for all modern biological
study. I have always been much impressed with the daring which this
Swede displayed by classing humankind, together with apes, with the
“_quadrumana_ in the order of _primates_.” In view of the fact that
Linné lived a century before Darwin, that was a pretty long stride; and
I am so grateful to him for making it. When I reflect that we humans
are developed animals, I feel that—all things considered—we are doing
pretty well, and can keep up my courage; but were I dependent upon the
“fallen-angel” theory, I should frequently despair utterly over the
seemingly hopeless depths of evil into which the angel has descended.
Gustav Vasa, whose memory all lovers of justice and liberty delight to
honor, is buried in the oldest chapel of the cathedral, which stands
directly behind the altar. The windows of the room are of beautiful
stained glass, and on the walls are seven frescoes by Sandberg,
representing incidents in the life of the great king. To me, the most
interesting of these were the ones calling to mind the adventures of
Gustav intervening between his imprisonment by King Christian II of
Denmark and his triumphal entrance into Stockholm as king of free
Sweden. One of these frescoes represents the king while in hiding from
the Danes working as a farm laborer and threshing out grain for a
Dalecarlian peasant.
Lest all of this talk of dead Swedes give you the impression that
Uppsala is a veritable city of the dead, I must not delay longer in
telling about Uppsala University, the place of youth and fulness of
life. It is the older of the two Swedish universities and was founded
in 1477. It is co-educational and has a student enrollment of something
over two thousand. The University House, so called, is a stately
new building of brick and stone. Near the main entrance is a large
statue of Geijer, the greatest Swedish historian. In the vestibule are
several more statues of eminent Swedes. The ceilings of the vestibule
are supported by pillars of black granite, while in the corridors the
columns are of beautiful green marble, which the guard pointed out
with considerable pride. The stone was “made in Sweden.” The aula, or
assembly room, is large and airy, well lighted and well equipped, and
has a seating capacity of about two thousand. I noticed good paintings
upon the walls of several of the class rooms; and in one large lecture
room was a mammoth work in oils by Mas-Olle—of a young Swedish woman
standing on the edge of a dale blowing her lure. The evening shades of
purple and amethyst in the valley were unusually well done.
In the faculty rooms were several interesting old portraits. That of
Queen Christina especially held my attention. Christina, the daughter
of Gustav Adolf, was, I suppose, the most freakish and eccentric of
all of the sovereigns of Sweden. She had, among other peculiarities,
a love for scholarly pursuits, to which she subordinated her duties
as a sovereign. Moreover, she had no sympathy with the warlike spirit
which dominated Sweden at the time. The uncultured Swedes could hardly
regard such a successor to the great Gustav Adolf with enthusiasm.
Consequently, Christina was permitted to resign in favor of her cousin,
Charles X, who, you will remember, left little to be desired in the way
of qualities as a warrior. The ex-queen then shook the dust of Sweden
from her shoes, and later she abjured the faith for which her father
fought and became a Roman Catholic, spending much of the last part of
her life at Rome. The portrait at Uppsala, which was done by Abraham
Wuchters, seems faithfully to reflect the dominating will and the
brilliant but poorly-balanced mind of the queen.
“Carolina Rediviva” is the name of the University library—a name
having its origin in an old university building, which in the time
of Gustav Adolf was called Carolina Academy. Carolina Rediviva is
decidedly the largest library in Sweden, and contains many treasures of
various sorts. Among these are beautiful examples of illuminated work
from the eleventh century on. One of the manuscripts has every initial
letter in gold. A copy of the first book printed in Swedish, from about
the middle of the sixteenth century, and a copy of a Bible of Martin
Luther, containing his autograph and that of Melanchthon, are there
also.
But the distinctive gem of the collection is the “Silver Bible” (_Codex
Argenteus_), of Ulfilas. It is by far the oldest example of the Gothic
language in existence, and is a thing of great beauty as well as a
priceless treasure from a philological viewpoint. It was a real joy to
me to see it; I have wanted to do so for years. The guard turned over
the book in order that I might view both the cover and the parchment
pages. Originally the parchment was of a purple color and the lettering
was of silver; but the purple has long since faded into a beautiful
rose, and the letters have oxidized black. The cover, however—from
which the Bible gets its name—is of bright, richly worked silver and
is only three centuries old. The cover was made in Sweden. This Gothic
Bible was rediscovered to the world in Germany during the sixteenth
century. Later it was carried away to Sweden by the soldiers of Gustav
Adolf, and subsequently was given to Queen Christina, shortly after
which it reached its present abode.
I am not a defender of international highway robbery, nevertheless I
feel that there is a decided appropriateness in Sweden’s being the
guardian of this oldest relic of Gothic culture. For Scandinavia is
commonly recognized as the cradle-land of the Teutonic peoples, of
which the Goths were a branch, and the Scandinavians are the purest
blooded existing descendants of the ancient Teutons. Of the three
Scandinavian countries, Sweden, too, seems the best entitled to the
honor of possessing the Goths’ Bible, for one of her provinces is still
named Gothland—a survival of the name applied in historic times to the
whole south of Sweden, whose inhabitants were called Goths, as their
neighbors to the North were called Swedes. It almost seems as if the
bringing of the Bible of Ulfilas to Sweden were a restoration—a return
to the home of its remotest origin.
The handwriting of a person who has passed from this life helps me, far
more than does his tomb, to a realization of his personality and of the
force of his one-time existence. Hence, the sight of the collection of
autographic writings of some of the greatest figures of Sweden’s past
which occupy the room with the Silver Bible, was a real contribution to
my contact with the humanity of the ages. The strong, bold autographs
of Gustav Vasa and Gustav Adolf, the signatures of Swedenborg, and
Tegnér, and Linné spoke eloquently to me of giant achievement; as did
also the delicate, modest hand of Fredrika Bremer, a giant too, whose
spirit still lives mightily in the women of Sweden. This closer contact
with Miss Bremer made me want to read again “The Home” and “Strife and
Peace,” and other works of hers which contributed to the pleasures of
my girlhood.
Before taking final leave of Sweden’s oldest university, I want to
remind you that it was this university which conferred upon Selma
Lagerlöf the honorary degree of doctor of letters in 1907; and she
stood beneath the monument to Carl Linné in the Uppsala cathedral
when the laurel wreath was placed upon her brow. Two years later she
received the Nobel prize.
My last remark moves me to ask: Did you know that Alfred Nobel, the
founder of the Nobel Prize Fund, was a Swede? And did you know that he
was the inventor of dynamite, smokeless powder, and other explosives,
by which he made his fortune? His arrangement for the prize fund
reminds me of the Gothenburg temperance system; the money made from the
invention and manufacture of war materials contributes not only toward
a prize fund for those who have excelled in science and literature, but
also for those who have done most in the interest of universal peace.
My pilgrimage from the famous modern Uppsala to Gamla or Old Uppsala
will always be one of the choicest of my Scandinavian memories. Gamla
Uppsala was the ancient capital of Sweden and the last stronghold of
the pagan cult of Thor and Odin. In the dark forests of this Uppsala
during heathen times lives of men as well as of beasts were sacrificed
to the mighty gods of the North.
The old town is less than four miles from the new, and the road
stretched so smooth and inviting that I decided to walk there. And I
promptly realized that my decision was a wise one, for the landscape
was charming—suggestive of dear old Bornholm, and yet with a Swedish
stamp. Patches of woods in varied greens and of golden fields with
bright farmhouses here and there furnished perfect backgrounds for
the harvesters near at hand; and the pinks and blues and reds of the
dresses worn by the white-aproned and white-kerchiefed women working
among the sheaves gave just the needed touch of color to the foreground
of the picture.
After I had passed the turn in the road, the famous mounds of Gamla
Uppsala came clearly into sight, with the steep, gabled roof of the old
church peeping above them. As I wished to take a picture of the mounds,
I turned off the highway and followed the railroad track, from which
approach I could obtain a more unobscured view.
I did not take to walking the railroad ties, however, with perfect
security of mind, for my observation of affairs European had convinced
me that but rarely are passengers permitted to stand on car platforms,
even “at their own risk.” Consequently, I quaked inwardly upon
perceiving a brass-buttoned man on the track ahead; but I walked past
him with my best American air, and proceeded to adjust my camera.
Presently the official approached me, and suddenly I remembered that
“ignorance of the law excuses no one.” Visions of arrest and disgrace
loomed large. With a waist-deep Swedish bow, the man of the shining
buttons handed me a paper. It was a black strip from the film-pack
of my camera which I had thrown away, and which had blown in his
vicinity! After I had thanked him and explained that I had discarded
the paper, he politely asked a question or two about the operation of
my camera, executed another ninety-degree bow, and withdrew. Obviously
the man was not so unsophisticated as really to think that strip of
paper of any value. He simply used it as an excuse for attempting to
satisfy masculine curiosity roused by the foreign-looking person upon
his railroad track. Swedes do occasionally stoop to such depths of
diplomatic cunning!
The three so-called burial mounds of Frey, Thor, and Odin, the
mightiest gods of Northern paganism, stand in a row, Odin’s being
nearest the church. They are real burial mounds, as was proved when
they were opened some years since and were found to contain the
remains of human beings, with the usual pagan equipment of weapons,
and utensils, and other objects intended to contribute to the welfare
of the Asgard-bound traveler. From the top of Odin’s mound I obtained
a good view of the surrounding country. Near at hand was a lower and
flatter eminence. Upon it in heathen times the Swedish parliament
assembled and under the open sky enacted the laws; and even as late as
the sixteenth century Gustav Vasa addressed his people from the mound.
This good old custom of holding open-air parliaments seems to have
existed in times past wherever Scandinavians ruled. The Thingvellir
of Iceland got its name from the fact that the Thing, or parliament,
met there for its deliberations; and the quaint ceremonies by which
the newly-enacted laws of the Isle of Man are still promulgated by the
House of Keys from the top of Tynwald Hill on the fifth of each July
are a vestige of the same custom, and are Scandinavian in origin.
Gamla Uppsala church is of such substantial construction as to suggest
that in ancient times its functions, like those of the rotundas of
Bornholm, were military as well as religious. Its walls are very thick
and are of rough, irregular stone, built up with cement which gives
them the appearance of conglomerate. The church is very old; in fact,
its origin is lost in the mists of the dawn of Swedish history. But
this history states that Uppsala was made a diocese early in the
twelfth century, and it is believed that the church was established
nearly a hundred years before that. Some parts of the present building
certainly date well back toward the eleventh century.
A note on the church door informed me that admission could be gained
by applying to the schoolmaster or organist, so I went around
the parliament mound to the white wooden school building. The
schoolmaster’s family lived on the upper floor, and the schoolmaster’s
wife responded to my knock, and called her boy—a little chap of nine
or ten years, barefooted and close-cropped—who went forth with me,
carrying two mighty keys. The smaller of these was about as large
as that regularly and conspicuously carried by Saint Peter, and the
larger was ponderous indeed. My little boy was, of course, accompanied
by another little boy—one about two sizes larger. The ponderous key
belonged to the outside door of the church, which was of dark oak, very
worm-eaten and old and possessed of decorative wrought-iron hinges with
handsome scrolls spreading over its venerable oaken surface. But the
key was so large and the boy so small that he had difficulty in turning
it in the lock, even though he caught his toes in the scrolls of the
hinges and climbed up the side of the door, monkey fashion, to get a
purchase upon the key. Through our united efforts, however, the door
was finally opened. It admitted us into a tunnel-like, white-plastered
vestibule at the end of which was the door for which the smaller key
was designed. This key being more nearly the boy’s size, the inner door
was opened without difficulty.
The walls of the main room were plastered white, and the altar and
pulpit looked quite new; but the church contained many ancient relics.
The small boy was evidently the regular exhibitor of these; and he
recited his explanation of them with a perfectly expressionless face,
and in the mechanical tone of an unimaginative book-agent. “That,”
said the infant (in Swedish), “is a Christus from the twelfth century.
Those”—pointing to a hideous row of carved and painted wooden
saints—“are from the fourteenth century. There is a bridal stool from
the Middle Ages.” Back against a wall was a chest which looked many
centuries old, made from an unhewn tree trunk, iron bound. When I asked
what it contained, he opened the little door or lid on top and fished
out a wooden Christus, which consisted only of a very rudely carved
body and head. The limbs had been broken or worn off. The figure, the
boy announced, dated from the eleventh century. In a little room off
the main one were portraits of ancient Swedish clergymen, and censers
and other ecclesiastical utensils dating from Roman Catholic times.
There was also a copy of the first Bible printed in Swedish. Our round
of the church being completed, I paid the boy the fifty-öre fee at the
outside door. He uttered the customary “Tack så mycke” (Many thanks),
grabbed off his cap with a crisp, business-like “Adjö,” and scampered
off, the larger-sized boy close at his heels.
[Illustration: Gamla Uppsala Church]
[Illustration: Choir of Gamla Uppsala Church]
Late in the afternoon I returned to the new Uppsala; and just before
sunset I left for Gefle, which is farther to the north, and is the port
and metropolis of Norrland. In Gefle nearly four score years ago my
father was born; and some Swedish relatives still live there. These
were the attractions which brought me there. From the ordinary tourist
point of view the place has little of interest. It is a clean, pretty
city, however, with a population of about thirty-five thousand. Gefle
is really the oldest town in Norrland, as the northern part of Sweden
is called, but it looks very new and modern with its broad tree-planted
boulevards and its handsome stone theatre and school and municipal
buildings. This is because it has been almost completely rebuilt since
1869, when it was swept by a fire which destroyed all of the landmarks
of my father’s boyhood days.
Gefle has one possession of which she is very proud, and justly so.
This is her park—one of the finest of the sort in Sweden. It has all
of the features which characterize the Swedish park—thick clumps
of evergreens and birches, with velvety stretches of grass between,
blazing flower beds, graceful fountains playing here and there,
artistically bridged mirrorlike streams upon which the lilies grow—and
in addition it has a palm garden. There they were growing, evidently in
perfect contentment—a large number and variety of palm trees. Gefle,
you should know, is north of the latitude of the southern extremity of
Greenland; therefore, I marveled greatly and could scarcely believe my
eyes. But it was no miracle, as my cousin who was walking through the
park with me explained. Those enterprising Swedes set out the palms
every spring and dig them up and return them to the greenhouse every
autumn.
As time pressed, my visit in Gefle was very short. Early last Wednesday
morning I left there to the accompaniment of Swedish cousinly bows
and cordial “Adjös” and “Hälsa hemms.” My destination was Söderhamn
(South Haven), my present address, which, like Gefle, is on the Gulf
of Bothnia, but still farther north. For my journey here, through a
mistake, I selected a freight train which carries lumber, instead of an
express. But it was really a very fortunate blunder, for the trip was
much more interesting than one in the orthodox express would have been.
To the north of Gefle is Sweden’s great lumbering district, which we
soon entered. It is a rugged region covered with magnificent evergreen
forests, dotted here and there by small clearings brightened by the
typical red-painted houses with white trimmings. The oat and clover
hay grown on the cleared patches was hung on wire clothes-line-like
racks to dry. Occasionally I noticed farmers hauling hay in long, very
low-wheeled wagons. These vehicles, as compared with the American hay
racks, have a decidedly Dachshund appearance. The object of the small
wheels is evidently to lower the centre of gravity, and thus prevent
the wagons from upsetting upon the steep hillsides. The little barns
in which the hay is stored are queer cage-like structures with walls
sloping outward from the floors. They are apparently so built to guard
against damp weather.
As we journeyed north, the country became more rugged, and the forests
grander. The painted board houses gave way to a considerable extent
to rough-hewn log ones, and the people took on a more back-woodsy,
mountaineer appearance. Among the forest homes I saw several women who
were both barefooted and bareheaded. They were at work under the pale
slant rays of the Northern sun and seemed perfectly healthy and happy.
While I am dwelling near Sweden’s broad northern frontier, I wish
to digress sufficiently to tell you what I recently learned of the
work-cottages of Norrbotten, the most northern province of Sweden.
These cottages originated in a threatened famine in the region, due
to failure of crops, in 1902. The people of the isolated district
called upon their neighbors to the south for help; and they did not
call in vain. Even Swedes living in America contributed to the relief
work; and, thanks to the far-extending railroads, food reached the
starving people in time. In the remotest and most seriously afflicted
parishes temporary homes were established for the feeding of more than
four hundred children. After all danger of starvation had passed, the
leaders in the relief work came to see that such children’s homes
were a continual need in the region. Dirt and disease, indifference
and ignorance, had long ruled in the far-northern land. This state of
affairs was a result of the isolation and the depressing effect of
the long, dark, cold winters, as well as of the lack of educational
facilities; for in this bleak, sparsely-populated territory the regular
compulsory education laws cannot be enforced.
Partly through private benevolence, partly through State contribution,
the work-cottages, now eight in number, were put upon a permanent
basis. And there they are now, engaged in a splendid work. They are
educational institutions of the first order—doing for the backward
frontiers people what the settlement houses do for the slum in the
American city—and more. The needy children remain at the work-cottages
for nine months of the year for a period of four or five years,
during which time they undergo a transforming process. They are taught
personal cleanliness and orderliness, and love and patience and
self-control; they are taught to work with their hands and to think
with their heads. And when their course is finished, they return to
their homes and bring the salvation of intelligence to dark places.
More than half of the children thus befriended are Lapps, and speak
the Lapp tongue; but they learn Swedish in the work-cottages. For the
more nomadic Lapps, Norway, as well as Sweden, has provided ambulatory
schools which migrate from camp to camp with the pupils.
Thus Scandinavia is doing for her remote Northern population, both
Mongolian and white, a work such as we should be engaged in in the
interest of the mountain whites and the Negroes of our Southern States.
At Kilafors, where I changed trains for Söderhamn on the coast to
the east, it was necessary to wait two hours. Kilafors is tiny but
interesting. The great dark trees press in on every side so closely as
to give the little village the appearance of having been made to order
and lowered with derricks into a deep hole cut in the forest to receive
it. When we reached Kilafors it was well past noon, and, as there was
no dining car on the freight train, I was about starved upon arriving.
There seemed to be but one eating house in the place, and that was
a large wooden hotel, already closed, as it was past the hour for
the noon meal. Hope sprang again, however, when I saw a plain little
bakery sign up the trail-like street, and I lost no time in reaching
it. Swedish bakeries—at least country ones—are arranged rear part
before, the work room opening upon the street and the salesroom being
at the back, where the wares are mostly stored away in boxes, and not
displayed in show-cases, as in the United States.
I bought some nice little cakes and some zwieback, and when I had paid
for my purchases, the bakerman, his curiosity evidently roused by my
bad Swedish and my foreign appearance, asked whether I was a Russian.
I promptly replied that I was not.
Was I a German, then, he asked.
I replied more promptly and more emphatically that I was not a German.
Then, as his repertoire of possible nationalities seemed to be
exhausted, I volunteered the information that I was an American.
His face lit up with vivid interest. “Ja så!” he exclaimed. (“Ja så,”
is an interjection employed by Scandinavians to express almost the
whole range of emotion.)
“Yes,” said I, “I am a Californian.”
California, the Land of Gold! The bakerman’s excitement increased many
fold.
“Ja så!” he cried again, and stared me over from top to toe. I started
toward the outer door, and had to cross the workroom on an oblique line
in order to do so. Three men were rolling dough in the corner. With my
first move to go, the bakerman hurried toward his three colleagues;
and as neither side of a triangle is as long as its hypothenuse, he
reached the men before I gained the door. He whispered excitedly. The
three dropped their rolling pins, and in the few seconds before I made
my escape all four stared at me, as frankly and naturally as do a group
of youngsters before a cage of monkeys. This was scarcely a result of
bad manners; it was rather due to the temporary and legitimate waiving
of the code of etiquette in the interest of science, so to speak. An
opportunity to see a “genuine Californian” does not often present
itself in this north country, which is far from the beaten track of
tourists. Probably nothing short of a Patagonian or an Ainu could
produce equivalent excitement in the country districts of the United
States. I suppose, however, that, had the bakermen known that I was of
Scandinavian parentage, their interest in me would have been much less
keen.
I took my bakery wares and some additional ones obtained at a grocer’s
into the forest and had a picnic luncheon under the trees. After that,
I walked around and explored the place. On the outskirts of the village
I found to my astonishment a large merry-go-round, all fitted up with
wooden steeds of many colors, ready to rear and prance when the power
should be turned on. The merry-go-round was “made in America”!
On the wall of the waiting room in the railroad station was a “Prayer
of the Horse,” which had been put up by the Society of Swedish Women
for the Protection of Animals. It is needed up in that forest region
where the labor of the horse is heavy.
As train time approached, a crowd of men gathered outside of the
station. I judged them to be from the lumber camps, for they were
rather a rough-looking group. While they waited they talked noisily and
indulged in horse-play, punctuated by a very free use of profanity. One
burly, overgrown youth seemed to possess a particularly rich vocabulary
of “swear words,” and exhibited it with great gusto. Just when the
noisiness had reached its climax, a neatly dressed, gentle-faced woman,
who had been standing near me, stepped up to the men and handed several
of them pieces of white paper which looked like handbills. Then she
walked quietly away. The champion at profanity received a paper. “Svär
icke!” (Swear not at all) was printed on it in staring black type. The
voices of the men immediately dropped considerably, and after a few
scattered remarks to one another, they separated. As the burly Swede
walked away, he caught my eye and saw that I had been watching them and
had noted what had taken place. Evidently mistaking me for a native, he
came straight up to me.
“Say,” he asked, “did you see what that paper had on it?—Swear not at
all!”
“Yes,” I replied, “I saw.”
He stared blankly at me for a moment or two as if he expected me to
say something further, and then he moved off. This concrete method
of teaching the second commandment seemed to have knocked the ground
out from under his feet. I am not ready to conclude, however, that as
a result of the lady’s missionary efforts he now is a candidate for
membership in an anti-profanity society.
Presently the train for Söderhamn arrived, and I climbed aboard
and journeyed toward the coast. The territory between Kilafors and
Söderhamn is the heart of the lumbering region. Here I found the
forests larger and denser, the streams filled with logs, and along the
railroad tracks large piles of lumber covering many acres, awaiting
transportation. We passed several saw-mills, near which were great
mounds of bark and sawdust, saved for the sake of valuable by-products
to be secured from them, such as charcoal, perfumes, and dyes.
Söderhamn has a population of several thousand, and is an important
lumber-shipping harbor on the Gulf of Bothnia. My cousin Gunnar, whom
I came to visit, is customs officer for the port. He lives half way up
one of the pretty woodsy hills, in an orthodox Swedish house—dark red
with white trimmings. As my Swedish kindred are mostly town dwellers,
there is not much to say about them which would interest you, for they
live very much as town dwellers do in all countries where the culture
is of European origin. But there were a few things at Cousin Gunnar’s
which got my special attention. One was the potted tomato plant growing
in a sunny window of the dining room. It had several ripe tomatoes
upon it, in which my cousin’s wife took such pride that she hesitated
to gather them for the relish for which they were intended. When I
reflected that the tomato vine was in the latitude of south Greenland,
my respect for the small red fruit was profound. Another thing which
impressed me was the courtier-like qualities of Swedish manners as
illustrated by my cousins. Cousin Gunnar has six grown sons, some
married, with homes of their own, and others still under the paternal
roof. One or the other of these seven men seemed constantly to be just
arriving or just departing, and always with bows numerous and profound.
Before these replicas of Sir Walter Raleigh I felt myself to be a
person of at least the importance of Queen Elizabeth.
Like Gefle and all other Swedish cities which I have visited, Söderhamn
has clean, tree-shaded streets, handsome public buildings, and a
beautiful city park. Whenever possible, the Swedish park is a hilly
tract, rugged and woodsy. Such is the one at Söderhamn. And it was
beautiful indeed when I saw it a few days ago. There were the dark old
evergreens, dainty, silver-barked birches, rowan in abundance dotted
with ripe red berries, and heather in purple bloom trailing over the
gray rocks. On a high point of ground is a stone observation tower,
built in the style of a castle and named Oskarsborg in honor of the
late king. From this tower I had a fine view of the little city at
our feet, and a panoramic sweep of the tiers of forested mountains,
and of the gulf to the east. Siegfried, Cousin Gunnar’s son, who was
with me, pointed out the elevation near the coast where, in the time
of the wicked King Christian II, a Danish fort stood for the purpose
of holding the Swedes in subjection. Christian II dominated even so
far north as Söderhamn. Once, also, Siegfried told me, in Sweden’s
old warring days, the Russians had sailed up the harbor and burned
Söderhamn. May such a war-cursed time never again come near to the land
of Sweden!
ON THE TRAIN EN ROUTE TO FALUN.
P. S.—The above letter was supposed to be closed and ready for posting
at my next stop; but I am adding this to tell about a funny man from
whom I just parted company. He happened to be in the same compartment
with me when the train left Söderhamn this morning, and when the
conductor struggled to understand my bad Swedish, he kindly came to
the rescue and answered my question in English. As the gentleman
seemed quite mild and entirely harmless, I was glad of an excuse for
conversation. Nearly twenty years ago, he told me, he spent several
years in the United States as the secretary of a Swedish legation
or consulate—I have forgotten which. His English pronunciation and
grammar were remarkably good, but whole tracts of his vocabulary seemed
to have dropped out of his memory. However, I supplied the words as
needed, and we got on swimmingly for a time.
After he had given me much interesting information about the region
through which we journeyed, I, wishing to say something particularly
pleasant about his country, turned with my usual tact to the subject
which had impressed me most wherever I had been in Scandinavia—the
advanced position of the women. The gentleman acquiesced courteously
in my view; and I, much encouraged, praised the Scandinavian men for
their broad-minded attitude toward woman suffrage. Then I suddenly
found that what I had taken for mildness in the Swede’s face was really
conservatism. He promptly made it clear that he was opposed to the
enfranchisement of women. I asked for his reasons, curious to know what
a Swedish man’s objections would be like. In preparation for a crushing
argument, he mobilized his English vocabulary.
“What is the word that goes with publicans?” he asked.
“Sinners,” I replied promptly, remembering my New Testament and
wondering what was coming, “publicans and sinners.”
“Oh, yes, publicans and sinners,” said he. “Well, women are natural
born sinners” (I gasped), “or socialists,” he added, “which is the
same thing, and men are natural born publicans.”
“Democrats” was the word he had groped for—“democrats and
republicans!” I explained that I had misunderstood, and supplied the
proper words; and then the conservative gentleman proceeded to expound
his theory—that woman suffrage would produce strife in the family,
perhaps even divorce! Men folks are much alike the world over, after
all, aren’t they? As are women folks. Other arguments were marshalled
forth by both sides, but of course both of us remained of our original
opinions; and the discussion ended by my quoting the retort of Mrs.
Poyser in “Adam Bede”: “I’m not denying women are fools, God Almighty
made ’em to match the men,” whereupon my opponent laughed and found
another topic of conversation.
He was very gallant, however, and when I had to change trains at
Storvik, where he did not, he insisted, at the peril of having his
train depart without him, upon carrying all of my bundles into the
waiting room for me, and upon obtaining detailed information regarding
the train which I was to take for Falun. He was evidently used to the
“clinging-vine” type of woman. I wonder how he supposed I reached
Northern Sweden all alone.
CHAPTER VII
DALECARLIA AND THE DALECARLIANS
FALUN, SWEDEN,
August 28, 191—
_Dear Cynthia_:
If you will look upon the map of Sweden about halfway up the western
boundary line, you will see Dalecarlia, or Dalarne. There is where I
am. It is the land of my father’s father, and is the most interesting
part of the country, for here was born the national liberty which all
Swedes hold dear.
Dalecarlia, which gets its name from the Dal River, is a charming
territory, mountainous and forest-covered; and in the very heart of it
is beautiful Lake Siljan, “the eye of Dalecarlia.” The land itself is
very attractive through its beauty; but the people are more interesting
still; they are positively unique, and seem always to have been so. If
you have ever read the history of Sweden—I fear you have not—you will
remember that certain of the Swedes were always revolting against the
established order of things. These were the Dalecarlians. Sometimes
they were in the right, and other times they were not; but they never
lacked the courage of their convictions. With sufficiently strong
convictions always came revolt.
Even as late as the fourteenth century the Dal-people were
semi-independent of the central government; for the Swedish kings, in
order to guard against insurrection, permitted them to retain certain
ancient rights and privileges unknown to the other parts of Sweden.
With the establishment of foreign rule subsequent to the Union of
Calmar—an arrangement quite unsatisfactory to the Dalecarlians, who,
however, had not been consulted—came still greater sensitiveness to
unjust imposition and greater provocation to rebellion. It was not
until 1435, however, that, goaded by the oppression of the Danish
viceroy, they first made their début as insurrectionists on a large
scale. Their leader was one of themselves and bore the interesting
name of Engelbrekt Engelbrektsson. This man was undersized and
insignificant in appearance, but he was a little giant, and is one of
the greatest—as he was the first—of Sweden’s patriot heroes.
Under the stimulation of the Dalecarlians the revolt quickly spread
to other parts of Sweden; the peasant army closed around Stockholm; a
parliament, which was the first really representative parliament of
Swedish history, was called; and Engelbrekt Engelbrektsson was elected
regent of the land of Sweden. King Eric was forced to promise to govern
Sweden according to its laws; but as he regarded promises merely as
convenient makeshifts and subterfuges, to be broken when the crisis
was past, the struggle did not end there. By the time it was over Eric
had lost his throne, and in his stead was placed the good-natured King
Christopher, who permitted the native nobles to govern Sweden about
as they chose. Nevertheless, these were hard times for Sweden; crop
failures were frequent and the taxes bore heavily; and Christopher
came to be called the “Bark King” because poverty forced the Swedes to
mix pulverized bark with their flour to save themselves from starvation.
But this device was not restricted to the reign of Christopher. In
times past famine appears to have frequently threatened Sweden, and
then the Swedes would become bark-eaters. The old ballads which my
father’s mother used to sing tell of those dreary days of bark bread.
The Dal-people next appeared in their favorite rôle under the lead
of Gustav Vasa. I have spoken of him already, but it is really only
by constant repetition of the name of this Gustav that one comes to
realize what an important part he played in Sweden’s history. In the
days of his boyhood at Uppsala University, when the Danish yoke bore
heavily upon the Swedish people, Gustav Vasa is said to have announced:
“I will betake myself to Dalecarlia, rouse the Dalecarlians, and
batter the nose of the Jute.” And he did. After the Dal-people had
once got the idea of driving out the Danes, they fought stubbornly and
effectively, bark-eaters though they were. Indeed, a Danish bishop of
the time attributed their strength to their diet. When urging that
Denmark abandon all further attempt to reconquer Sweden, he is reported
to have argued: “A people that eat bark and drink nothing but water the
devil himself cannot master.”
But the major part which they had played in putting Gustav Vasa
upon the Swedish throne did not deter the Dalecarlians from being
the first to revolt when the policy of the new king did not suit
their very decided ideas of governmental administration. Twice they
revolted against the great Gustav, the second revolt being caused by
the oppressive taxation which the king found it necessary to levy in
order fully to establish the independence of his realm and to put it
on a stable basis. In order to pay a debt owed to the Hanseatic city
of Lübeck, it was decreed by the king that the church bells should be
collected and melted down. The Dalecarlians violently resisted the
tax, and wrote to the king expressing in language which could not be
misunderstood their opinion of his methods. Gustav, however, suddenly
appeared in their midst with an army and put an end to the insurrection.
When the death of Ulrica Eleonora without heirs raised a dispute with
regard to the succession, the Dalecarlians, in 1742, cooperating with
the peasants of Helsingland, once more revolted and demanded Crown
Prince Frederick of Denmark as king, a succession which would again
establish a personal union between the three Scandinavian countries,
and, they believed, secure Sweden against the enmity of Russia. Their
opposition was put down; but subsequent events seem to have proved the
wisdom of their demands. For in 1809 Finland was seized by Russia,
which is to-day considered Sweden’s most dangerous enemy.
Falun, capital and the largest city of Dalecarlia, has a population of
about ten thousand. It has all of the elements of solid worth possessed
by the other Swedish cities which I have visited, and because of its
location it has more of charm and beauty. It nestles in the valley of
Lake Runn and has a beautiful framing of wooded hills. There is the
usual natural forest park, and there is also a fine birch-bordered
promenade. And within the city itself trees are so numerous as to give
the impression that the city was planted in a forest, as it really was.
Falun is the home of Carl Larsson, the famous Swedish artist. Through
the exercise of Larsson’s talent, the beautiful scenery and picturesque
life of Dalecarlia is coming more and more to be known to the world
outside of Scandinavia.
To me, however, the special attraction of this Dalecarlian town is the
fact that Selma Lagerlöf, the queen of modern romanticism, lives here.
Miss Lagerlöf, however, is not a native of the Dal-country, but of
Vermland, lying just to the south. I have long worshiped Miss Lagerlöf
afar off, and while in Paris became acquainted with a friend of hers
who had seen “Nils Holgersson” in the making. This led me to become
more interested in her, and, in consequence, I wanted most dreadfully
to call upon her while here, but Dr. Selma was spared the visit of an
additional lion hunter by my reflecting that doubtless all others who
journey to Falun have similar longings, and that they have as great
a claim upon her as I. Therefore, I contented myself by purchasing a
copy of “Nils Holgerssons Underbara Resa” in the edition studied in the
schools of Sweden, and walked up the street and took a good look at the
restful hillside home of the lady of my admiration. The house is of the
usual dark red with white trimmings, only it is larger and handsomer
and “homier” than the average Swedish house; but then the house in
which Selma Lagerlöf lives must always possess an unusual degree of the
home quality. Surrounding the house is a characterful old garden with a
hedge of lilacs by the fence and spreading shade trees, through which
the red walls peep forth invitingly.
If you have not already done so, when opportunity offers it seize upon
“The Story of a Country House,” which is translated into English.
It contains a “Dalarne man” and is one of the best examples of Miss
Lagerlöf’s touch of romantic magic. When held by the spell of the tale,
it seems the height of naturalness and probability that an insane
Dalecarlian who courtesied to cats—mistaking them for goats—should
rescue a Vermland damsel from the grave in which she had been buried
alive and carry her off to safety in his pedler’s pack; that under her
tuition he should learn the distinction between cats and goats, and
should finally recover his mind and marry the damsel and “live happily
ever after.” By the time you are ready to lay down the book, you know
that the whole thing happened exactly as Selma Lagerlöf has told you,
and you wonder how doubters can doubt.
It is a far cry from modern romanticism to a Swedish copper mine; but
as this is “Grufvan,” a very special mine, you will want to know about
it. Grufvan is on the slope of a mountain on the outskirts of Falun—or
probably it is more correct to say that Falun is on the outskirts of
the mine, for the mine is centuries older than the city and really
brought the city into being. Out of this mountain copper has been dug
since time immemorial: I presume that the copper that went into the
composition of some of the beautifully wrought bronze objects which I
saw in the museum at Stockholm was dug by pagan Swedes from this same
Kopparberg.
The environs of the mine are so covered by hillocks of the red earth
from which the ore had been extracted that, when I went up to see
Grufvan, for a while I was lost in the maze; but I soon met a woman,
with a little girl, coming from there, and inquired the direction. The
woman promptly offered to accompany me for a distance and to show me
the road; and though I protested that I did not wish to trouble her and
would have no difficulty if she would merely direct me, she insisted,
and did not turn back until we were in plain view of the mine.
Grufvan is a great crater-like hole which ages of mining have dug out
of the hillside. The crater is about a quarter of a mile long and deep,
and about half as wide. The rich mineral colorings of the steep walls
faintly suggest the Grand Cañon of the Colorado to my Far Western mind.
The great mass of copper ore which has been gradually extracted from
the interior of the mountain had, originally—so I was informed—the
shape of an inverted cone. Through lack of proper engineering, about
three centuries ago the roof fell in, resulting in excavation which
produced the present crater-like opening. Now the mineral is extracted
by means of tunnels and shafts. As I leaned over the railing around the
walls of the mine, I could see, far below, many openings into which car
tracks ran.
While at Falun I learned why the great majority of Swedish houses are
painted dark red. The paint of this color is unusually cheap, for it
is a by-product of the copper mine. The fact that the dark red homes
peeping from a winter mantle of snow or a summer framing of green
foliage add charm to the Swedish landscape appears to be only a lucky
accident.
It is possible to see the Dalecarlia of the past in the present
land, for the Dal-people are very conservative; but in order to do
so it is necessary to go into the mountain country back of Falun.
Here the peasants retain many of the ancient customs, and to a
considerable extent they still dress in the style of their very great
grandparents—not for the sake of tourist trade, but simply because
they have not yet seen fit to bow their necks under the dominion of
the tyrant, Dame Fashion. In order to see these conservative democrats
I went into the back country to Rättvik, on beautiful Lake Siljan. It
was but a short journey through a rugged forest district with tiny
scraps of farms on hillside clearings where hay hung out to dry. And
before I arrived at my destination I discovered several of these
old-type Swedes; they were on the same car as I. Even if they had not
worn the national costumes, I should have picked them out. For what do
you suppose they were doing? Taking snuff!—at least, the men were.
While the great progressive majority of the Christian world is firmly
established in the cigarette habit, those poky Dalecarlians are still
lingering in the snuff stage!
At the Rättvik station I gave my suitcases to a boy from an inn
with a hospitable-sounding name, and walked up with three women who
were teachers in girls’ schools. They had been in attendance upon
an educational convention which had just closed at Falun, and had
gone up to spend the week-end at Rättvik. During the walk I received
considerable light upon the educational “problems” which these women
have to face. The little woman who walked next to me explained all
about it in excellent English. It seems that the Swedish “common
people”—whoever they are—are demanding that the public schools give
their children instruction in the languages and all sorts of, “for
them, useless branches.” These children want an opportunity to get
into the professions, to teach, to be secretaries—and “everything.”
(Forsooth! thought I.) “And that is what we are fighting,” concluded
the little lady. “Why, we cannot even get servants because these people
want to do other things!” A servant problem added to the educational
one! I must admit, Cynthia, that my charming Sweden is in many ways
quite aristocratic; it is, in fact, the most aristocratic of the
Scandinavian lands.
You may be sure that the grievances of the lady struck no answering
chord in my democratic Far Western soul. However, as I did not come to
Sweden to inculcate my peculiar principles, I refrained from calling
attention to the fact—which is very patent to all who have any sort
of knowledge of Swedish history—that a large proportion of the men
and women who have made Scandinavia the truly great land that it is,
and whose memory _all_ Scandinavians delight to honor, were of the
so-called “common people.” They came to their own by thrusting aside by
main strength the “thus-far-shalt-thou-go” barriers such as the little
aristocrat was stubbornly defending. I might have mildly suggested
also that so soon as the poky old world should decide to abandon the
mediæval attitude toward “servants” and become modernly humanitarian
and scientific in this regard, just so soon would the “servant problem”
disappear in thin air. But the profile view which the twilight gave me
of the very firm chin of my companion warned me that any such remarks
from me would fall upon soil barren indeed; so I merely told her
briefly of our system in America; and by that time we were at the inn.
A pleasant-faced, gray-haired woman in black silk met us at the door
and bade us welcome with Swedish cordiality. She was Fru Carlson, our
hostess—not even the most presumptuous would call her a “landlady.”
This pleasant reception gave me the restful feeling of a tired child
who has finally reached home after long wanderings.
As I had dined before leaving Falun, I went to my room very promptly;
and it was just the sort of room that a returned pilgrim would wish to
occupy in old Dalecarlia. On the floor was a rag carpet; on the walls
were Swedish prints, including one of a boat-load of quaintly garbed
Dalecarlians rowing across Lake Siljan to church; my bed was narrow
and spotlessly white, and of just the sort that all wanderers are
supposed to have occupied in the days of their childhood; instead of
an electric light there was a tallow candle. The large French window
opened upon a garden, bordering the lake, which looked soft and silvery
in the lingering twilight. Across the flat surface of the water I could
see the gleaming white steeple of the Rättvik church. With the gentle
murmur of Lake Siljan in my ears, I went to sleep, and knew no more
until the glory of the summer sunshine had supplanted the twilight, and
Siljan was rippling and sparkling under a fair blue sky.
This new day was Sunday, and, as I wished to see the Rättvikers
gathering for church, I hurriedly dressed and went to breakfast—a
sort of picnic meal set forth in a large, sunny room overlooking the
garden and the lake. It was served in an informal cafeteria style
common in all Scandinavian countries; but whether peculiar to them, I
cannot say. On one end of a long table were great piles of hard bread;
a bewildering variety of unnecessary, but delicious, appetizers in the
form of “smörgåsbord”; several dishes filled with hot food—though
how kept hot I do not pretend to know—and a capacious urn of coffee,
piping hot too. The breakfaster was expected to secure a tray, napkin,
and dishes from a side table, pre-empt a small table, and serve himself
to the abundance set forth according to the dictates of his appetite,
utterly unmolested by obsequious waiters.
Breakfast over, I walked down the deep, woodsy road along the lake
toward the church. Many worshipers were already on the way. Some
walked, while others rode in queer, heavy two-wheeled carts drawn by
chubby Swedish ponies. The people of Rättvik no longer employ the
picturesque church boats, though they are still used in some of the
remoter parishes. Practically all of the people whom I noticed wore
complete peasant costumes of the old style, but a few wore daring
combinations of the ancient and modern. Every parish in Dalecarlia
has a distinct fashion in dress, I understand. The Rättvik costume
I recognized as one which had seemed especially quaint upon the
children who took part in the folk dances in Stockholm. The men wear
a dress somewhat suggestive of the garb of the English Puritans of
the seventeenth century. Their hats are black, high-crowned, and
broad-brimmed; their long coats of the same color reach about to the
knees and are made with high, standing collars, and with inverted
pleats in the back to increase the fulness of the skirts; beneath
these they wear large, brightly colored waistcoats, and buff-colored
trousers reaching to the knees; and at the knee the trousers are
finished off with looped cords of bright red worsted ending in pom-poms
which bounce merrily against the surface of the dark home-knit
stockings as the wearer walks; the shoes are of the low, broad, buckled
variety. The boys, even the tiny ones, wear garments which are the
counterparts of those of their fathers and their grandfathers—except
that in inverse proportion to the smallness of the boy is the length
of his coat-tails. The characteristic dress of the women seems to be
high, pointed black caps bordered with red, and with red pom-poms
dangling from the back and playing tag on the shoulders; white blouses
and colored bodices heavily embroidered with wool and fastened with
large silver brooches; full black skirts reaching to the ankles;
woolen stockings and low shoes. The chief glory of the Rättvik woman’s
costume, however, is her long apron, woven of wool in bright horizontal
stripes. The apron is generally attached to a wide red woolen belt,
from which hangs a gaily embroidered bag of wool. Some of the older
women wear kerchiefs or white linen caps. The garments of the little
girls closely follow the fashion of their mothers. These little women
looked quaint indeed in their long, full skirts. But they seemed not to
be lacking in either health or happiness.
As I walked up the hill, I met a young woman, costumed as I have
described, coming down. I asked whether I might take her picture,
explaining that I would pay for the privilege. She consented, posed as
I requested, and I took a couple of exposures; but when I attempted
to pay her, she emphatically refused the money, declared with quiet
dignity that I was welcome, courtesied, and went her way. After the
everlasting cry of “money for the peekture” from the tourist-spoilt
Dutch of the Island of Marken this experience was certainly refreshing.
That was the only time that I risked insulting a Dalecarlian by
offering money for the friendly favor of posing for a picture;
subsequently I merely asked permission, which some granted and others
courteously but firmly refused.
[Illustration: A Quaint House in Rättvik]
[Illustration: Rättvikers on the Way to Church]
Around the church is the burying ground filled with neatly-kept graves
most of which are marked with plain crosses. The morning services had
not yet begun and a few old women, wearing white linen caps upon their
heads and plaid woolen shawls about their shoulders, were busying
themselves with the flowers growing upon the mounds. Down beside the
gateway which faced the water were two orthodoxly clad men, talking
sociably. Near this gateway Gustav Vasa stood four hundred years ago
and addressed the people of Rättvik, as they streamed from the church,
calling upon them to help him free the land from the Danish tyrant. The
place is marked by the Gustav Vasa “runestone,” to which one of the men
called my attention. It is a great rough slab of granite upon which,
in letters graven in imitation of the ancient runes and filled in with
gold, are briefly recorded the exploits of the George Washington of
Sweden. Encircling the main stone are a number of low granite slabs.
These bear the names of the Dal-people who particularly befriended
and aided Vasa while he was in hiding from the Danish spies. And this
service was not restricted to men; some of the stones are marked with
the names of women, one of whom, Barbro Stigsdotter, aided Gustav
Vasa in defiance of her husband’s wrath. While her husband had gone
to betray him to his enemies, the independent-spirited Barbro lowered
Vasa from an upper story window by means of a long sheet, thus enabling
him to escape and free his people from the Danish yoke. At Ornäs,
near Falun, the home of Barbro Stigsdotter still stands, now a museum
belonging to the Swedish nation.
The Swedish peasants are an unusually fine class of people. They have
always been free and have always constituted the backbone of the
nation; they have participated in the government and have owned the
land which they tilled. The same homesteads have been in the possession
of some of the peasant families for many centuries.
And the qualities which one finds in the Swedish peasants in general
are noticeable to a marked degree in the Dalecarlians, who are regarded
by scientists as the purest representatives of the old Swedish type.
They are exceedingly independent and democratic. They seem to feel
that they are second to none. In times past, in recognition of their
services in establishing the freedom of Sweden, they had the privilege
of shaking hands with the king whenever they met him, and they regard
themselves as his equal. They have a reputation for saying “thou” (du)
instead of “you” (ni) to all men, regardless of rank; they ignore
titles of nobility and call even the king “Mister” (Herr). Hans
Christian Andersen in his “Pictures of Travel” gives an instance of
the Dalecarlian viewpoint. Once when a grandson of King Carl Johan was
in Dalecarlia an old peasant came up to him, shook hands, and said:
“Please greet thy grandfather for me at Stockholm.”
So far, I have mostly mentioned the characteristics which make the
Dalecarlians unique. They are far from being freaks, however, and
have many qualities more generally distributed over the world than
those to which I have called attention. They are really an excellent
people. In their plain, sensible faces one can read little of which
the Dalecarlians need feel ashamed. There is self-complacency, indeed,
which in them is only self-complacency, but which in a smaller and
meaner people would become contemptible egotism. But there are also the
strength and firmness which in times past gave the Dalecarlians the
courage of their convictions. United with this are kindness and good
nature, a strong sense of personal dignity, and a saving self-respect.
And, writ large over all, is that stern and uncompromising honesty
which clearly distinguishes between mine and thine and prefers the
unvarnished truth to the polite lie.
But time presses, Cynthia, the train on which I am to leave Falun is
almost ready. With me, you must say good-by not only to the land of the
Dal-people, but also to the whole pleasant land of Sweden, a land which
I leave with regret, and to which I shall return with pleasure. Now, it
is Ho for Norway!
CHAPTER VIII
TRONDHJEM AND MOLDE; THE NORWEGIAN FIORDS
AALESUND, NORWAY,
August 31, 191—
_Dear Cynthia_:
My last letter to you was posted at Falun. Aalesund is well down the
coast of Norway, so you see that I have zig-zagged quite a distance
since last I greeted you.
My exit from Sweden’s back door was as pleasant as the entrance
at the front. The long journey toward the northwest furnished the
familiar—but never monotonous—alternation of grand forests, and
tiny hay farms, and lakes and rivers filled with logs on their way
to the saw mills. Bräcke is on one of these lakes, with the woods
pressing close on the other three sides. Here we waited three hours,
during which I breakfasted; and then we began our real climb toward
the Swedish border where the mountains were more rugged and were
flecked with snow. During the early part of the journey I shared a
compartment of the car with a charming Swedish woman who busily knit
white linen lace while she chatted with me. She was pleased to learn
that I had been at Falun, and spoke with deep pride of Selma Lagerlöf.
Strindberg’s best dramas, she hoped, were also known and appreciated in
the United States. Some of his writings, it was true, showed traces of
insanity; but didn’t I think “Swan-white” charming? The lady was very
obviously a conservative, however, for she, as a woman, felt apologetic
for Ellen Key, who is, however, I think, better known and appreciated
in America than either August Strindberg or Selma Lagerlöf. She seemed
inclined to attribute to Miss Key an unhealthy mind and questionable
morals, which led me to recall the words the artist had put above Ellen
Key’s portrait: “Could I but have represented your purity of soul!”
At Storlien (Great Line), very near the national boundary, we stopped
for luncheon, which I obtained in the railroad restaurant all set forth
in cafeteria style. The meal was as good as Swedish “home cooking,” and
the cost was ridiculously slight as compared with the prices which one
must pay in similar places at home.
As I was leaving the restaurant, whom should I see but my North Star
lady! When we parted at Stockholm, she had remarked that she meant
to cross the mountains to Trondhjem before returning to Gothenburg,
but I had thought little about it, as I felt that there was no chance
of our plans synchronizing. However, there she was, and I greeted
her as an old friend. Her companionship added much to the pleasure
of the remainder of my journey, and of my stay in Trondhjem. We
secured a comfortable compartment and in a few minutes we had made our
entrance into Norway, by Norway’s back door. Fröken Nordstern called
my attention to the Great Line as we crossed it; it is a broad strip
of deforested territory standing out in sharp contrast with the dark
forest line on either side, and extends as far as the eye can reach
over hill and dale to the north and south. This simple line separates
the land of Sweden from the land of Norway; no blood-thirsty cannon
punctuate its length. Preparations are being made to erect upon the
boundary instead a fine monument in commemoration of the century of
peace which is nearly complete between the two nations.
Soon the Norwegian customs inspector came into the car, but upon our
assuring him that our suitcases contained nothing dutiable, he lifted
his cap and passed on without asking to see their contents. I do not
know whether his action was due to conviction of our honesty or of
our poverty. Norwegians, however, like the other Scandinavians, are
anything but liars; they generally tell the truth themselves and have a
stimulating way of expecting the truth from others, and of getting it.
Do not let my calling the Storlien route Norway’s back door mislead you
into the impression that the part of the land which we entered had the
appearance of the average American backyard; on the contrary, it was
grand. The Scandinavian Alps, which we crossed, remind me of my own
Far Western High Sierras. They are not quite so rugged or majestic,
but their beauty stirred me deeply, especially glorified as they were
by the enchantment of the summer sun. The mountains not only offered
the ever-attractive Scandinavian forests of evergreens and delicate
birches and rowan with its cheerful bunches of red berries; there were
also tender, golden-green ferns, strange sweet wild flowers—so near
as almost to be plucked through the car windows—and trickling streams
and waterfalls. That is, the streams trickled near their sources at
the summit, but as our course descended, they united and widened and
became Gudsaaen, which is, being interpreted, God’s Rivulet or River.
And if the things of God are of especial beauty, the stream is well
named. God’s River flows through Meraker Dal, or Valley, which, in the
grip of bleak winter, is, I presume, anything but attractive. That
golden afternoon, however, the place reminded me of Björnson’s “Synnove
Solbakken,” and appealed so strongly that I wanted to stop off and
spend a few weeks in one of the simple, homelike houses upon its sunny
green slopes. Had I taken a vacation in Meraker Dal, I should have
ridden over the mountain paths upon one of the shaggy little Norse
ponies which frisked and played in the pastures. Perhaps I might have
experimented upon the democracy of the Norwegian mind by milking one of
the sleek cows!
But the train rolled on at a good speed toward the west, carrying me
along. And soon we were near Trondhjem, which, five centuries ago,
before Norway went into her four-hundred-years’ bondage to Denmark,
was the Norwegian capital. The old saga accounts frequently mention
the place as the destination or starting point of Norse chieftains,
for Trondhjem Fiord, around which the city curves in a crescent shape,
forms an excellent harbor.
Fröken Nordstern and I secured rooms at the same hotel, and were up
bright and early the next morning ready for a busy day. We first went
to the cathedral, a fine granite building in Gothic style, which
was badly damaged by the Swedes in 1814, but is now being gradually
restored. The cathedral is noted for the great number of gargoyles
decorating its exterior and interior—hideous, grinning, fascinating
faces which peer out at one from roof, and wall, and lofty, vaulted
ceiling. Far above the high altar is a colored image of Christ. It is
very common to see such images in the Scandinavian Lutheran churches;
they are simply one of the relics carried over from Roman Catholic days.
Both of us were much interested in the Industrial Museum, to which
we went from the cathedral. Like museums in Sweden and Denmark,
this one contained rooms furnished in the Norwegian styles of past
centuries. There were quaint old utensils, too, hand-carved cheese
tubs and painted antique smoothing boards—the remote ancestors of
modern electric flatirons. The boards somewhat resemble carpenter’s
planes. Round rollers, which were placed under them, evidently took
_some_ of the wrinkles out of the clothes. One room which was a
real joy to my heart contained a rare display of the most exquisite
Scandinavian porcelain. But I was especially attracted to the woven
woolen tapestries which are copies of George Munthe’s paintings of the
scenes from the sagas. The weaving stitch, as I remarked of the stitch
used for hand weaving in Sweden, very much resembles that used by the
Navajos in their blankets; but the work is much finer in texture and
color.
My look at the artistic contents of the Industrial Museum was as near
as my limited time permitted me to get to the fine arts of Trondhjem.
I only recently learned that the three famous Sinding brothers,
Christian, Otto, and Stephen—the musical composer, the painter, and
the sculptor—were born in the ancient capital. I think, however, that
most of the paintings and sculptures produced by Otto and Stephen are
to be found farther south in Norway.
King Haakon and Queen Maud spend a month or two of every year at
Trondhjem, living in the Residential Palace. This palace, which is said
to be the largest wooden building in Europe, is painted white, with the
coat-of-arms of Norway emblazoned over the doorway, and has numerous
Norwegian national flags—red, with a cross of white and blue—flying
from the roof. About sixty of the one hundred rooms are furnished,
and we saw a large number of them. A nice old Norwegian, with a
smooth-shaven face and a fringe of beard under his chin, which reminded
me of the sailor in the “life buoy” soap advertisements, showed us
around. He took a tremendous pride in every detail of the furnishings,
and seemed to love the king and queen as much as if they were his own
children.
The palace was really very plainly furnished. Some of the walls, it
is true, were covered with silk brocade, which the guard lifted aside
the protective hanging to display; but many were merely covered with
ordinary paper. The furnishings of most of the rooms were no more
elaborate or expensive than those of most middle-class houses in
the United States. In the bathrooms, for instance, were plain white
enameled tubs of the conventional American type. One unusually dainty
and charming apartment was the Queen’s boudoir, which was furnished
in pale blue. Here and there, upon the walls and about the room, were
pictures of Olaf, the little crown prince, smiling and happy. The old
guard called attention to these pictures of the little boy with a
delightful grandfatherly air which was truly touching. Some of the
pine floors were bare, and remained so, the guard said, even when the
royal family was in residence. In fact, the guard appeared to take
pride in the simplicity of the palace as well as in its elegance.
The ballroom was rather richly furnished. Gleaming crystal chandeliers
hung from the ceiling; the walls were covered with brocade; and against
them were arranged chairs and sofas upholstered in crimson silk plush.
At one end of the room were the seats of the king and the queen, of
the same general style as the others, but larger, and embroidered with
gold. When we reached the royal seats, the friendly old guard said,
“Now you may be queen for a while.” So Miss North Star and I took turns
at sitting in the Queen’s chair. Queen Maud would not have objected, I
am sure.
In the evening, over a final cup of coffee, we discussed the sterling
qualities and the widening future of the Norwegians. Then Fröken
Nordstern went down to see me off on the _Haakon Adelstein_, which was
to leave for Molde at eight o’clock. As she waved good-by from the
pier, I knew that I was parting from one of the finest souls in the
whole Scandinavian land. It is through the efforts of my Lady of the
North Star, and others like her, that these lands of the far north are
coming to be the greatest in Europe. And when true greatness—that
of superiority of character and intellect—shall be made the test of
national worth, instead of political power gained through commercial
control and militarism, Scandinavia will come to her own. I say
this, Cynthia, not as a descendant of the Scandinavians, but as an
American of the Americans, born and bred—one who has had opportunity
in her own land as well as in theirs to become acquainted with the
Scandinavians.
The sun sank behind the mountains just as the _Haakon Adelstein_ left
its moorings. There followed a succession of glory and gray in the sky,
and of wonderful blues and purples in the mountain shadows. Darkness
seemed to advance slowly and reluctantly; the mystical, silvery
twilight lingered long; I could read ordinary print, as I sat on deck,
until past nine o’clock.
When darkness had finally closed around, I went down to the women’s
salon, where I found four women and a man—all Norwegians. One of the
women was a Roman Catholic nun, and one of the others was traveling
with her. The two other women were mother and daughter; the young man
was evidently aspiring to become the husband of the daughter. All
were so frank and friendly that we were soon acquainted. Though the
man was a true son of the Vikings—tall and straight and fair, with
strong features—I noticed what I must call, for want of something more
descriptive, an “American” expression on his face; so I was not at all
surprised when he told me that he had spent several years in Washington
State.
“Do you like the United States?” I asked in English.
“You just bet I do,” he replied, in first-class American slang.
He expected to go back to the Far West, he said; and it was quite
evident that he had no intention of returning alone.
After leaving Trondhjem Fiord, we followed the coast of Norway pretty
closely. Norway’s shores, you will remember, are mountains which stand
with their feet in the sea. And near the shores are detached mountains
which rose as islands on our right hand. Before retiring I went on deck
to take a good-night look at sea and sky, expecting to find sea and sky
only; and I was surprised and given “quite a turn” by the effect of the
huge, weird, black, shadowy-looking mountain masses to right and left,
with the lapping, gleaming ocean waves between. There was something
about the scene which suggested bats and owls in forsaken houses at
night.
The next morning the fiords were still there, but before the glory of
the summer sunshine the “spooky” aspect had fled, and the mountains
stretched away green and purple and wholesome and living and real.
We reached Molde, which is on Molde Fiord, in time for a late
breakfast, of which I partook at a charming “pensionat,” set both
picturesquely and precariously upon the dewy, green hillside. Here was
served a genuine Scandinavian breakfast, Smörgåsbord and all. But here
I met also a new delicacy—goats’ milk cheese. It looks like brown
laundry soap—only more opaque and inedible—but it is fit fare for the
divinities of Asgard. At least, so thinks one who likes Scandinavian
cookery.
Breakfast over, I explored Molde, which is called “the City of Roses,”
and it is appropriately named, for roses as well as other flowers
were blooming in great abundance. From the natural park far up on the
hillside—rocky and woodsy, with an abundance of ferns and flowers—I
gained a beautiful panoramic view. At my feet lay the little town,
peeping forth from its setting of tender green, bright with blossoms;
beyond lay the fiord, dotted with woodsy islands; and, blending
with the wonderful colors of the fiord, were the rugged, encircling
mountains, shading from greens and purples, flecked with snow, in
the foreground, to misty violet, or dazzling white, marblelike peaks
outlined against the summer sky.
On the way down the slope I crossed the cemetery, filled with
neatly-kept graves covered with smooth, rank grass and flowers as
delicate as maiden hair, with the morning dew still upon them. Near
the walk down which I passed was a neatly-dressed old woman with
a white kerchief upon her head, working among the flowers. The
country cemeteries of Scandinavia seem never to fail of gray-haired,
white-kerchiefed old women with characterful, dignified faces who work
among the flowers in loving memory of their dead.
While in Molde, I learned that the original of Axel Ender’s “He Is
Risen” was an altar piece in the Lutheran church there; so I went to
see it. But it happened that a wedding ceremony had just begun in the
church when I arrived, and the sexton did not want to admit me. I
was immediately fired with a desire to see the wedding, however, and
after some coaxing he good-naturedly said that I might take a seat
in the rear of the church. The service had just begun, I found. The
white-ruffed, black-gowned clergyman was launched upon a sermon rich
with good advice to the contracting parties, and calculated to impress
them with the solemnity of the step which they were about to take. The
sermon was followed by the conventional questions and replies and
the exchange of rings; the priest offered prayer; the clerk sang a
chantlike song; hand shakes and congratulations came next; and then the
bridal party made their exit.
For its very _usualness_ the bridal party deserves special mention.
When I asked permission to see the wedding, I had visions of a bridal
pair in native costume; but what I saw possessed no element of the
picturesque. The couple looked just like the figures one sees on
wedding cakes in third rate baker’s windows in the United States. The
groom was in the conventional black suit and had very waxed mustaches
and very shiny shoes; the bride wore the orthodox silk dress and tulle
veil, and carried the usual bride’s bouquet of white blossoms. The only
witnesses to the ceremony, besides the interloper in the back seat,
were four young men and a young woman who looked as if they might be
relatives of the bride. They wandered out in the wake of the bride and
groom. It was a very tame, uninteresting wedding.
Speaking of weddings calls to my mind a mystery which my North
Star lady cleared up for me. I had been constantly surprised since
reaching Scandinavia at the unhesitating way in which people to
whom I was an utter stranger addressed me as “Fröken” (Miss) rather
than as “Fru” (Mrs.) and had been roused to deep admiration at the
perspicacity which enabled those people to decide after a mere glance
that I was a bachelor woman. But when I expressed to Fröken Nordstern
my appreciation for this evidence of the superior quality of the
Scandinavian mind, she swept aside the delusion with: “Why, they look
at your hands; _all_ married women here wear wedding rings.”
In my disappointment over the conventional quality of the wedding,
however, I did not forget what I went to the church for. The “He
Is Risen” was in a good light, and I enjoyed seeing it. The facial
expressions of the three women are fine I think; but I do not care for
the angel. I am very particular about angels. You know the picture
very well, I am sure, for copies are common in American homes. But you
will be surprised to learn that the artist is a Norwegian and that
the original is in little old Molde, high up along the fiord-indented
coast. Ender did a work on the same subject for one of the churches of
Christiania, but the Molde altar piece is generally considered much the
finer of the two.
Outside the church were three little booths on wheels in which
Norwegian girls with “ratted” hair sold tinted and plain photographic
copies of Ender’s painting. Farther along, on the main street of
the village, were several curio shops, in the windows of which were
displayed objects calculated to attract the tourist:—tiny copies
of Viking ships in silver; silver jewelry in imitation of old Norse
handiwork; genuine Norse antiquities; Lapp slippers of reindeer skin;
ancient furniture upholstered in the richly decorated Jutland leather;
carved wooden bridal spoons joined in pairs with carved wooden chains,
in imitation of the spoons with which in times past bridal couples
ate their “wedding breakfast”; beautiful Scandinavian porcelain; and
hideous mugs and other trinkets, made to sell to souvenir-collecting
fiends—bearing the legend, “Hilsen fra Molde” (Greetings from Molde).
All were jumbled in the windows together.
In the afternoon I left Molde by a little boat for Naes, on Romsdal
Fiord. The beauty of the fiords will dwell with me always, for they
are by far the most impressive scenery which I have viewed in Europe.
Assuredly, the Swiss and Austrian Alps are grandly beautiful, but to
one reared among the mountains of the Far West they seem little more
than beloved old friends with slightly changed faces. Fiords, on the
other hand, were something new in my experience, and I was tremendously
impressed and delighted. The Romsdal I consider the most beautiful
fiord that I saw, and, therefore, I will try to convey to you something
of what it was like. You must bear in mind that, as our old geographies
pointed out, fiords are “drowned valleys”; and the mountains rimming
the valleys are frequently very sheer and high. Even upon the steepest
of them, though, some vegetation manages to find a foot-hold. In many
places I noticed trees growing out of what looked like solid rock.
Have you read that most charming first chapter in Björnson’s “Arne” on
“How the Cliff Was Clad”? Repeatedly, when gazing admiringly up at some
particularly daring tree clinging sturdily to the steep, rocky walls,
I thought of this chapter—of the conference between the Juniper, the
Fir, the Oak, and the Birch, which ends in the plucky little Birch’s
exclaiming: “In God’s name, let us clothe it!”
Much of the pleasure of my fiord voyage came from the shifting of
color. As the boat neared one shore the other receded, and golden green
turned to blue-black in the deep shadows, and royal purple where
there were high lights; and where the sun shone through the rifts in
the mountains the slopes were transfigured into deep amethyst and rosy
gold; and beyond these, near the high horizon, rose still loftier
crests, of the faintest violet, misty and uncertain against the gray
sky—like haunting ghosts of pre-glacial ranges. Waterfalls there were
in abundance, tumbling over the dark, shadowy walls and sparkling where
the sun found them out; perhaps dashed utterly into spray by the sharp
ledges, but reuniting into torrents again before reaching the bottom.
The deep water of the fiord, too, was beautiful, showing great patches
of blues and greens, purples and blacks, and occasionally silver
grays. Near the shore were brilliantly-colored jelly fishes, large as
breakfast plates, tumbling about. I was sorely torn between my desire
to watch these marine blossoms and the wonderful colors of the water,
and my wish to absorb the beauty of the mountains. I will not presume
to describe the sunset on the fiord; such an undertaking is too rash
even for one with my daring.
[Illustration: Gargoyle on Trondhjem Cathedral]
[Illustration: Romsdal Fiord, Showing the Horn]
I spent the night at Naes, a little village on Romsdal Fiord, but rose
early and resumed my zig-zag voyage. As we steamed away from Naes, I
secured a fine view of Romsdal Horn, a horn-shaped, snow-crowned peak
with veils of mist festooned about its purple slopes, rising far above
the other mountains at the head of the fiord. At Vesternaes I left
the boat in order to cross by team the neck of the peninsula which
separates Stor Fiord from Romsdal. This method of travel is called in
Norway, journeying by “skyds.” The vehicle in which I rode is called a
“cariole.” This is a rather clumsy two-wheeled cart, with room for
one passenger. Sticking out at the back of the vehicle is a saddle-like
seat for the driver, who is generally a boy. The conventional cariole
seems to be drawn by a fat little Norwegian pony, cream colored with
brown trimmings. My pony was correct as to color, but it was very thin,
and its harness was so large that it rattled like castanets when the
little animal raced down hill.
As soon as I had taken my seat the skyds boy tucked the rubber storm
robe around me, snapped it fast, leaped into his saddle, uttered the
queer whirring sound which all over Scandinavia means “Git up,” and we
were off. The road was smooth, but it ran either up hill or down all of
the distance. Where the way was steep the boy dropped from his seat and
walked until we reached the top of the hill, when he sprang into the
saddle again without slowing up the pony. If the other side of the hill
was a gradual decline, the pony trotted; if it was steep, he galloped.
The drive covered about twelve English miles and was interesting
or beautiful all of the way. Shortly after we started, we passed a
Norwegian country school house, which resembled the plain district
school houses in the United States. It was the recess period, and the
children were outside. There were several large girls all of whom wore
small, black-fringed shawls around their heads. About half of the
children had little books, which looked like catechisms, in their hands
and were studying. The Lutheran religion is taught in all of the common
schools of Scandinavia.
Farther on was a hay field which looked like merely an overgrown lawn.
An old man had cut part of it and was putting handfuls of the short
grass upon a wire “clothes line” to dry. In another place I noticed
grass hay drying upon a rack or tray arrangement made from the slender
branches of trees. Surely it is but little exaggeration to say that the
Norwegians do not let a single blade of grass go to waste.
As the pony was slowly climbing a hill, he surprised a roly-poly little
boy and a roly-poly girl, mere infants, who were playing on the road.
As the children tried to scurry out of the way, the little sister, who
was the smaller and chubbier of the two, fell down upon the road. The
little brother, fearful for her safety, did not stop to help her to her
feet but rolled her, as if she were a little barrel, out of danger’s
way. He worked like an expert and was a plucky infant, considering his
very evident fear; but the spectacle was so funny that the skyds boy
and I both laughed heartily. At this the infant cavalier pulled from
his pocket a battered tin horn and blew a loud blast of triumph and
defiance at us; whereupon we laughed again. I am persuaded that the
little knight of the tin horn is no common child.
For a time we followed an arm of the fiord, but soon we began to climb
more directly towards the summit. Though the mountains were rugged,
we were seldom out of sight of houses. In fact, houses and mountains
seem inseparable in Norway. Upon perfectly impossible hillsides clung
Norwegian homes, near which were tiny scraps of hayfields with hay
hung out to dry, or with shaggy ponies grazing upon the stubble,
lifting their heads now and then to neigh friendly greetings to their
fellow doing service in the cariole. The houses were generally plain
buildings, sometimes painted red or yellow, but frequently unpainted.
Tiles or slate or shingles formed the roofs of the better houses,
but the poorer were often thatched, or roofed with sod which quite
frequently bore a pretty crop of moss and grass, ferns and flowers.
And, as in Sweden and Denmark, the windows of even the humblest homes
were as a rule made cheerful by rows of blooming plants.
Presently we passed the timber line in our upward climb, and the
mountains took on a desolate look; but soon purple heather relieved
the desolation; and some blue-colored berries caught my eye, growing
in profusion by the roadside. My skyds boy helped himself to them and
gathered some for me.
After a climb of about two and a half miles we came to a high valley
rimmed with mountains. Near the roadside were a half dozen buildings,
all except one of which were cow barns. The one exception bore over
the doorway in crooked letters the words “Turist Hytten—1000 Fod
over Havet”—tourist cottage, one thousand feet above sea-level. In
Scandinavia the foot is longer than in the United States so we were
really quite high up. Here we stopped to rest the pony and I went into
the “hyt” to get some coffee. This was served by a woman with dangling
silver rings in her ears, in a plain little room, upon the wall of
which were large prints of King Haakon and Queen Maud. In a half hour
we were on the way again, and after skirting a heath-bordered lake and
climbing another hill the boy announced that we were at the summit.
The other, or southern, side of the hill was sunny and green; and here
were about a dozen cow barns with sod roofs, surrounded by stone
fences within which were contented little Norwegian cows grazing upon
the sweet grass. Close beside was a house, hardly distinguishable from
the barns except for the larger size and the curtained glass windows.
The establishment like the turist hyt, was a “saeter,” or summer
pasture. As soon as the grass is high enough in the summer the cows are
taken to the pastures high up among the mountains where they remain
until the grass is gone and winter approaches. At the saeter, butter
and cheese are made, to be stored away for winter use or to be marketed.
The summit past, the road ran down hill for almost all of the remainder
of the journey, so the pony galloped headlong down the smooth road
and we were soon in the fishing port of Söholt. After having luncheon
at the Söholt hotel, I wandered around until it was time for my boat.
On my walk I smiled at two rosy-cheeked little girls whom I passed on
the road. To my astonishment, they responded by deep, simultaneous
courtesies, and quietly went their way. An American child, I fear,
would have merely stared, called out “Hello” or responded in a ruder
manner still.
Söholt is a typical fiord village. There are the tourist hotels,
the steepled Lutheran church, the scattered houses clinging to the
hillsides, the wooden pier, the sod-covered boathouses along the water,
the nets spread on the sand to dry, boats pulled up on the sand, other
boats with fishermen setting nets out on the fiord, and people working
with fish on the beach.
The proprietor of the hotel at which I had taken luncheon was at the
pier waiting for the fiord steamboat, and from him I learned much
about the fishing industry. Several men were busy barreling and boxing
up fresh-looking fish. Those were small or thin herrings, I was told,
and were merely to be shipped to other fishing stations to be used as
bait for cod. Much of the cod which I saw around on the beach was from
Iceland;—the large boat at anchor in the harbor had recently come
from there with a cod cargo—but great quantities of cod were also
caught in Stor Fiord. The Iceland cod is freed from its surplus salt by
washing in the sea; dried by spreading on the rocks along the shore;
then packed away in great cylindrical-shaped piles on the sand—heads
in and tails out—to cure. The sides of the cylinder are covered with
canvas and the tops with cone-shaped wooden roofs, painted red. Near
the pier a man and two little girls, their hands covered with thick
woolen mittens, were building one of those cod cylinders; and scattered
over the beach were dozens of the covered piles of codfish, looking
like little huts. A boat with a man and a woman in it, both rowing, was
making its way to the Iceland vessel for a new load of salt cod.
By the time I had acquired the practical information which I have just
retailed to you, the fiord boat _Geiranger_, on which I was to embark,
arrived. A number of men and about three times as many hunting dogs
landed from the boat; but when I went aboard I found a goodly supply
of hunters remaining, and about twenty dogs—barking, whining and
fighting—on the deck. However, to my relief, these also landed in a
short time.
At Merok on Stor Fiord, a pleasant, wide-awake-looking woman boarded
the boat, and I soon fell into conversation with her. She was a
merchant in Aalesund, she told me. The foundation of my Scandinavian
conversational medium, as you know, is very bad Danish. In Sweden I
stuck in a few Swedish words for flavoring and the intelligent Swedes
understood my utterances and called my jargon “bra Svensk”; in Norway I
remembered to pronounce m-e-g-e-t (much) phonetically instead of “myet”
as the Danes do, and the Aalesund merchant lady declared that what I
spoke was not Danish at all, but Norwegian. I seem to possess a variety
of “three-in-one” Scandinavian linguistic equipment. Fortunately, it
works, and is very convenient when one is traveling. The Aalesund lady,
however, recognized that there was abundant room for improvement, and
kindly supplied corrections as the need rose.
The lady, I soon learned, was an enthusiastic voter. It was due to
the fair-mindedness of the “Venstre,” or Liberal party, she said,
that Norwegian women had been granted the right of suffrage; now the
“Höire,” or Conservative faction, acknowledged that the women should
have been given the vote long ago, since they have demonstrated that
they are capable of making good use of it. The Norwegian women, she
told me, are at present working for total prohibition and for just
labor laws for women. Their slogan is “The same pay for the same work,
regardless of sex.” May they win speedily!
[Illustration: A Norwegian “Maud Muller”]
[Illustration: Piling Cod Fish in Söholt]
We spoke of the independence of Norway from Sweden, and the lady said
that the Norwegians rejoiced in their freedom. I asked whether there
was no regret in Norway over the separation from Sweden, because of
the increase of taxation—as some Swedes had told me that there was.
“No; we have no regrets,” she said; “we are _free_; we have our own
king, and, besides, our taxes are no higher.” That was the sort of
reply I had received to similar queries all the way down the Norwegian
coast. I felt that it was representative of the Norwegian people as
a whole; and I rejoiced with them that they had at last gained the
freedom for which they had so long waited.
I am moved by the remembrance of the lady merchant’s politeness to a
digressive dissertation upon Scandinavian manners; for the more I have
seen of Scandinavia the more I am convinced that the manners here are
superior to our own. My comparison is between the rank and file of
people in both lands; I know little about the socially élite in either
country. In Sweden, especially in the cities, because of the French
influence which came with the Bernadotte line of kings, one finds
greater elegance and polish (I believe that I mentioned to you the
grand bows of my Söderhamn cousins); and in Norway one notices greater
simplicity and directness, for Norway is the most democratic of the
Scandinavian lands. Nevertheless, the code of manners is very similar
all over Scandinavia; the people are everywhere courteous, and their
courtesy reflects their national characteristics—reserve, sincerity,
and kindness.
I was particularly struck with the pleasant way in which the people
“speak each other in passing.” Upon entering a compartment in a
railroad train a passenger quietly greets the occupants already there,
and upon leaving he utters a comprehensive farewell. The same courtesy
is observed in Scandinavia among strangers wherever the daily round
of life brings them into contact. For instance, a shopper does not
think of making a purchase without first greeting the salesman; or
of departing from a shop without a courteous word of leave-taking.
Scandinavians are not too busy thus to recognize our common humanity. I
like the custom well.
“Vaer saa god” is a polite expression which one hears everywhere in
Scandinavia. The words as I have given them are Danish, but they are
the same in Sweden or Norway, except for slight variation in spelling
and, consequently, in pronunciation. We have no single equivalent in
English for the expression, which literally means “Be so good”; but its
use is very similar to the German “Bitte.” These versatile words are
employed where we would use “Please,” “I beg your pardon,” “Permit me,”
and the like—and in some cases where we would say nothing at all.
The handshake is an important institution in Scandinavia; the American
handshake would appear to be but a very degenerate vestige of it.
People here not only shake hands more commonly than we do at meeting
and parting, and upon offering congratulations, but they also give
the hand upon offering thanks for a gift; and to seal a business
transaction; and, most interesting of all, at the close of a meal.
This last usage seems especially quaint and formal, but it is still
very common among country people. Upon rising from the table at
the conclusion of a meal a guest offers his hand to his host and
hostess and says: “Tak for mad”—Thanks for the meal. (This is the
Danish spelling; the Swedish differs slightly.) And in old-fashioned
Scandinavian households the little children are trained to offer thanks
to their parents in the same formal manner for the food of which they
have partaken.
In his essay on “Grace before Meat,” Charles Lamb suggests that the
custom of offering a prayer of thanksgiving before meals originated
in the “early times of the world, and the hunter state of man, when
dinners were precarious things and a full meal was something more than
a common blessing.” The practice of saying “Tak for mad” _after_ the
meal to those to whom one is most directly indebted for it, I suggest,
may have an equally venerable origin.
The customary reply to an expression of thanks is “Vaelkommen” or “Sel
tak,” which, literally translated, is “Thanks yourself”; but it is
really the equivalent of our phrase, “The pleasure is all mine.”
I have mentioned merely the most noticeable courteous usages of the
Scandinavians, and now I must close my dissertation. But in doing so I
wish to suggest the reason why the Scandinavian in the United States
seems frequently so lacking in manners. To the average American he
is a “damned foreigner”; he even acknowledges himself a “greenhorn”;
and in his eager attempt to bridge the chasm between himself and the
native American, he quickly drops all polite usages peculiar to his
home land—for they rouse only ill-concealed amusement—and adopts
the more obvious American polite forms such as get his attention.
In consequence, the fine-mannered Scandinavian becomes the rude
Scandinavian-American. I have repeatedly seen this unfortunate
transformation take place in newly-arrived Scandinavians in the United
States.
Now I am back at Aalesund again, mentally, as I have been physically,
the whole evening. It is to be my point of departure from the fiords.
And I am glad to depart, for Aalesund is devoted almost completely to
fish industries. Fish or skeletons of fish everywhere! For instance,
this evening as we slipped into the harbor, I noticed incredibly large
stacks of fish bones outside of some mills, waiting to be ground up,
after which they begin another career of usefulness as guano, or
fertilizer, for impoverished soil. And think of the mountains of fish
which contribute the bones!
The place is very fishy indeed. And lest you begin to taste cod-liver
oil I will break off now and bid you good-by until I reach Christiania,
whither I am bound, via Bergen.
CHAPTER IX
BERGEN AND CHRISTIANIA
CHRISTIANIA, NORWAY,
September 5, 191—
_My dear Cynthia_:
Last Tuesday I left Aalesund by steamer for Bergen, where I arrived
early the following morning. Like practically all of the larger towns
of Norway, Bergen is situated upon a fiord and has a very attractive
approach from the water. It is the place which is said to have thirteen
months of rain per year; and I believe that it deserves the reputation,
for did the year contain thirteen months, the Bergen weather clerk
would certainly deluge them all. Rain was pouring down when I arrived;
it drizzled or poured throughout my stay; and was tapping drearily
against the car windows when I departed.
As the Bergen market is particularly famous, I was anxious to see it,
and lost no time after my arrival in going there. A great variety
of things were being bought and sold:—fruit and flowers—potted
and cut—vegetables, dishes, carved trinkets, brushes, brooms; but
especially fish; Bergen specializes upon fish. There were dozens and
dozens of different kinds of fish; some alive and swimming about in
tanks, others dead and sliced. Most of the sellers were from the
country and had their goods in hand carts or baskets. The women were
kerchiefed and in many cases sat upon small camp stools knitting while
waiting for customers. The purchasers were, obviously, mostly town
dwellers. Many of them went off with a parcel of “smelly” fish in one
hand and a fragrant posy in the other. One chin-whiskered old Norseman
strolled off carrying a long fish by the jaws without any wrapping. It
was very interesting to watch the bargaining there in the rain. For
these people did not mind ordinary rain any more than ducks. When it
_poured down_, the mere onlookers took shelter in neighboring doorways;
but the people who had negotiations under way stubbornly stood their
ground.
From the market place I went to Haakon’s Hall. This is a restoration
and is the lineal descendant of a building erected for festive purposes
by King Haakon Haakonson in the thirteenth century, in the days of
Norway’s early period of independence. The original hall was soon
destroyed by fire, and various new buildings subsequently came to
an end in a similar manner; but restorations were always made. The
original purpose of the structure was lost sight of, however, and at
the close of the seventeenth century Haakon’s banqueting hall had been
reduced to the function of a storehouse for grain. Later it became a
military prison; and then was elevated to the dignity of a chapel for
military prisoners. Finally it reached the nineteenth century—the
century of restoration—with a fair fraction of the mediæval
architecture still intact; and a little over forty years ago the latest
restoration was made. The structure is in the English-Gothic style
which characterized it during the Middle Ages. Architecturally it is
the only building of its class in the North.
I am very fond of the old Norse sagas, many scenes of which are laid in
the ancient banqueting halls, and, consequently, looked forward with
pleasure to seeing Haakon’s Hall, though even the original building was
constructed after saga days. The vestibule with its ribbed vaulting, at
the base of which projected, at right angles to the walls, fish heads
in dark carved oak, did much towards exciting my desire to see the main
room. Imagine, then, my disappointment upon learning when I reached
the hall that it was temporarily closed for repairs. But I _did_ see
it after all—or part of it. As I was going down the stairs I met two
English women who had been disappointed like myself; and at the bottom
of the stairs was a gentleman who formed the third in the party. The
gentleman, as I soon found, had explored to great advantage after being
turned away from the front door. And I profited by his explorations.
“If you want to see the interior of the hall,” said he, “cross that
large room on this floor, turn up the stairway to your right, and
peek though the keyhole which you will find at the top.” I did as
directed, and for the first time in my life realized the possibilities
of keyholes as satisfiers of curiosity,—legitimate and otherwise. The
keyhole was in a door of the banqueting hall and, like all ancient
keyholes, was good and large. Through it I gained a view of the finely
vaulted ceiling, the high, dim windows, the guest benches around the
walls decorated with massive hand carvings, the dais upon which the
seat of the king had stood.
When, in ancient times, the place was the scene of banquets the walls
were hung with armor and weapons and with tapestries illustrating the
old Norse hero tales; the seats of honor around the walls were occupied
by the most distinguished guests; the king sat upon his high seat
upon the dais. When the meal was to be served, tables were brought,
the white cloth was spread, and upon it were placed in abundance the
delicacies of the North—including “clotted milk.” Imagine those
doughty old warrior candidates for Valhalla sitting down to partake
of anything so meek and mild as _clabber milk_! But so the sagas tell
us they did; and clabber milk, slightly sweetened and spiced, is a
favorite dish among Scandinavians even unto the present day. Such
feasts also included ample supplies of fish, flesh and fowl. And mead,
and wine and ale, dispensed by the hands of the fair hostess and her
ladies, flowed mightily.
In the saga period and before it the Scandinavian banquet hall was
really very similar to the restoration from the time of Haakon
Haakonson. The chief difference was that instead of the great
fireplaces along the side walls, which appear in Haakon’s Hall, the
fire was simply built on hearths down the middle of the room and the
smoke escaped as best it could through a hole above in the roof.
Sometimes, when overpowered by the charm of the old sagas, I foolishly
look back with wistfulness to those “brave days of old”; but I soon
remember the smoky rooms and the flowing drinking horn and then I thank
my Stars and Stripes that I am a modern.
[Illustration: Rosenkrantz Tower (Right) and Haakon’s Hall (Left),
Bergen]
[Illustration: Norwegian Mountain Homes]
The same King Haakon who built the hall also built the original
tower to which at present the name of Rosenkrantz is given. From the
square, battlemented top, I obtained a fine view of the city and
its environs, and also of the broad wall with soldiers on guard,
which connects the tower with Haakon’s Hall. In one of the most
innocent-looking walls in the tower the guard showed me a secret door
which opened into a secret staircase. Such a staircase in the “brave
days of old” occasionally came in handy in enabling one to reach an
underground passage and make good one’s escape from one’s warrior
neighbors. Beneath the tower is a semi-circular dungeon where these
neighbors were at times locked when they were caught. A light was
burning in the place when I saw it but this seemed only to burn a small
hole in the darkness and to make the intense quality of that darkness
visible. There was no provision for light or air from the outside.
Again I was grateful to have my turn at living thus late; for though
we are not yet so humanitarian as to congratulate ourselves, we have
surely progressed a little further toward the recognition of universal
human brotherhood than the folk of the time of Haakon Haakonson.
Bergen, you perhaps remember, is the city of the great violinist, Ole
Bull. In one of the public squares is a fine bronze statue of him by
Stephen Sinding. He is represented as playing upon his instrument,
while he stands upon a pile of rough boulders, about which splashes a
real fountain. In the water at the base of the statue is a grotesque
bronze water sprite which responds to the enchanting call of the violin
by strains from a rustic harp. Bull spent many of his later years in
the United States but he died in Bergen, where he was buried in the
quaint old cemetery under the hill. The ivy-covered tomb is near the
entrance. On top of the mound is a bronze urn about four feet high,
bearing the simple inscription “Ole Bull 1810-1880.” When I saw it, the
urn was wreathed with purple heather tied with the Norwegian national
colors like our own, red, white and blue.
I left Bergen by the overland route via Finse. As I before said, it was
raining—a discouraging persistent drizzle—when I took my departure.
Upon entering my compartment I found a rather frail-looking man, a more
frail-looking woman, and a big, fat, rosy-cheeked baby about a year
old, whom the man was holding. From their conversation I soon gathered
that the mother was on her way to Christiania to visit relatives, that
the father was able to accompany her for but a short distance upon the
way, and that he was worried lest the long journey and the care of the
heavy, active baby would be too much for her. He glanced inquiringly at
me several times as we neared the place at which he was to leave the
train, and appeared about to speak; but he evidently weakened before my
formidable appearance and his request remained unuttered. The minute
I had set eyes upon the interesting-looking baby I had determined to
borrow her as soon as opportunity offered, and thus pass time on the
journey; but as I realized that the father could hardly read my inner
thoughts, I proceeded to play with the little Augusta, in order to
relieve his mind before he left the train. Greatly encouraged, the man
proceeded to tell me what I already knew. I promptly said that I was
going directly to Christiania and would take care of the mother and
help with the baby all of the way; and that I would not leave them
without seeing them safely deposited in the bosom of the Christiania
relatives. The relief and gratitude of the man was tremendous. Shortly
after that his station was called, so he said good-by, handed little
Augusta over to me, and left the train. They had come from Stavanger,
the lady told me—the part of Norway where the most interesting peasant
costumes of ancient style are still worn. And Herr Larson, her husband,
was a pastor there and a teacher in a Lutheran missionary training
school.
For a time the road lay along an arm of a fiord, but soon we began
a serious climb and presently were again among the rocky, woodsy
mountains, with tumbling waterfalls. And in this setting here and there
were huts with walls of unhewn stone and roofs of irregular sheets of
flat rock laid on in crazy patchwork style, overlapping from the top.
Farther on, we passed the timber line, when came the inevitable snow
sheds and tunnels, alternating with snowy peaks and great, fantastic,
jutting rocks, which in some places overhung the railroad tracks. Near
the summit at Finse a peculiar vegetation caught my attention. There
were great patches of bright cherry-colored grass, and other plants in
bright scarlets and yellows, producing a very pleasing rainbow effect,
which was especially welcome in the absence of forests. Beyond the
summit, on the descent towards Christiania up among the sunny slopes of
the highest mountains, we passed first the saeters, with stone roofs
and stone fences, clinging like barnacles to the sheer mountain sides;
next came a beautiful farming district suggesting Meraker Dal; and then
we stopped at Aal, a small station about which were gathered a number
of people in their Sunday clothes—for it was Sunday. The costumes
were of the old national style, Fru Larson told me, and were peculiar
to the region. The most characteristic garment of the women was a white
fringed shawl with borders stamped in bright colors, such as I had
also noticed in Dalecarlia, in Sweden. The boys’ and men’s costumes
were more unique; they wore short black jackets of the “Eton” cut with
a double row of silver buttons in front; a double-breasted waistcoat,
also with the two rows of silver buttons; black trousers down to their
very heels; and they were topped off with very large black felt hats.
Soon we followed the course of a river again, varied by many beautiful
rapids and falls. On this part of the road were also numerous log
houses, some weathered and gray, others spick and span in dark
red paint which looked as if it had come across the boundary from
Sweden. Presently sunset came, followed by twilight and darkness;
but occasional lights indicated the vicinity of Norwegian country
homes. A little after nine o’clock a great constellation of flickering
lights ahead roused my tired traveling companion to remark that this
was Christiania. Relatives were at the station to meet her, so after
bidding her and little fat, sleepy Augusta good-by, I went directly to
a hotel, which was just off Carl Johans Gade.
Carl Johans is decidedly the most important and beautiful street in
Christiania. It is wide and clean, and is flanked by handsome buildings
and shady parks. At one end, upon a slight eminence, the royal palace
stands, surrounded by a fine park. I was told that the palace was open
to visitors, so I decided the morning after my arrival to have a look
at it; and I planned to go up to the palace on the left hand side
of the street and to return on the right. On my way up I passed the
building of the Norwegian Storthing, or Parliament, and the imposing
National Theatre in Studenten Lund (Students’ Grove). In front of
the theatre are bronze statues of Björnson and Ibsen, Norway’s two
greatest dramatic writers, by Stephen Sinding. Upon a high pedestal
on the hill near the palace is a monument to Niels Henrik Abel, the
Norwegian mathematical prodigy, who, with flying hair and an expression
of determination on his alert countenance, is represented as treading
under foot two figures with ugly, distorted faces, evidently the
personifications of Ignorance and Error. Abel was scarcely more than a
boy when he died—only twenty-seven—but he left to his credit several
mathematical discoveries of first importance.
In front of the royal palace stands a great bronze equestrian statue
of Carl Johan, the first Bernadotte king of Sweden. On one side of
the pedestal is the motto of the king, “The love of the people is my
reward,” and on the other is the statement, “This monument was raised
by the people of Norway.”
The palace is a large, plain building in classical style. The double
doors were open, so I walked in and started for the stairs. I had not
got very far, however, before a gilt-buttoned and barred individual
ran down another staircase and stopped me with “Vaer saa god,” the
versatile Scandinavian phrase which I told you about in my last letter.
This time the expression was polite Norwegian for “Halt!” The palace
was _not_ open to visitors, I was informed. Suppose that the guards
had been napping and that I had innocently got upstairs and interrupted
King Haakon and Queen Maud at their royal breakfast! Would I have been
arrested as a Russian or German spy? Or as an anarchist? I think not.
Their majesties would have simply believed my explanation and would
have had me escorted out in the most courteous manner possible.
Later, I learned that certain parts of the palace were open to visitors
in the _afternoon_, when the royal family was _not_ in residence.
After wandering for a time about the beautiful palace gardens, I
returned down the right side of the Gade as I had planned. On this
north side is the University of Christiania, exactly opposite the
Royal Theatre, which, as I said, is in the Students’ Grove. The
building is in classical style with a wing on either side, at right
angles to it. The university is co-educational; women have equal
opportunities with men; and both sexes wear identical students’ caps,
as in the other Scandinavian universities, with a button in front,
of their own national colors. In the garden back of the university
are set up several large interesting rune stones. In a building at
the rear of this yard I found an exhibit prepared by the Scandinavian
Society for Fighting Tuberculosis. The exhibit as a whole was of the
usual sort, and showed how progressive the Scandinavian lands are in
their fight against the “white plague,” as well as in their struggle
against unhygienic conditions in general. But there was one unusual
display—that of _lupus_, or external tuberculosis, which generally
attacks the face. Wax models represented the terrible ravages wrought
by the disease, and also the remarkable healing effects of the
Finsen light.
[Illustration: Above the Timber Line in Norway]
[Illustration: Statue of Henrik Ibsen by Sinding]
Niels Finsen, who discovered the wonderful curative effects of certain
light rays, was a Danish physician born in the Faroe Islands. Though
poverty-stricken and struggling against an incurable disease, he
had none of his discoveries patented; he gave them all freely for
the good of humanity. And when he was awarded the Nobel prize for
his contribution to medical science, he donated the prize money to
the Light Institute which he founded in Copenhagen. Not until his
friends had made up an equivalent sum by gifts, for the benefit of the
Institute, would he take back a half of the well-won prize. Dr. Finsen
was one of the noblest souls of which I have any knowledge. When in
Copenhagen, I noticed a peculiarly appropriate monument to him; three
beautiful bronze figures were represented as extending their arms in
adoration towards the sunlight. The Scandinavians do well to remember
Dr. Finsen with pride and gratitude.
I told you about the fascinating handwork which I had seen in
Trondhjem. On Carl Johans Gade I found an even more varied and
beautiful display. It was in a shop which is subsidized by the
government in order that the manual arts of the peasants shall not be
lost to the world. Here were elaborately embroidered national costumes
of homespun, and rugs, portières, and tapestries—beautiful in pattern
and color—all woven on hand-looms. Among the tapestries were some
woven after the designs of Gerhardt Munthe from the saga tales; and in
the patterns were occasionally included lines from the sagas.
Christiania has a large art collection, and one which surprised me by
the number of works by native artists which it contains. Munthe is
well represented; his subjects are always interesting, and his colors
are remarkably clear and fresh. Edvard Munch’s pictures, on the other
hand, were too sensational to suit me; he is too much of an extreme
impressionist, though I must acknowledge that some of his splashes are
very effective. Many paintings by Christian Krogh are in the museum.
They are mostly of Scandinavian sailors, and are well done, but I
was disappointed in Krogh’s conception of Leif Ericsson discovering
America. Leif and his men do not look sufficiently adventurous to
sail uncharted seas; their faces are lacking in expression. Among
the sculptures I cared most for were those of Stephen Sinding who is
generally considered the leader in Norwegian plastic art. His bronzes
of “A Slave Mother” and “Two People” are very fine.
You have heard of the Gokstad ship, I am sure—the Viking ship which
was dug from a burial mound near Christiania in 1880. This ship is on
exhibition in a shed back of the University buildings in Christiania.
Naturally, I was very much interested in the thousand-year-old vessel
and its contents. It is the typical sharp and narrow sea-going craft
of the Viking Age, clinker-built, of oak, with seams caulked with yarn
made from cow’s hair. The length is about seventy-eight feet, and the
width, seventeen. When the wind was favorable, a single, large square
sail was hoisted; at other times the vessel was propelled by sixteen
pairs of oars. In preparation for its last service as the sepulcher
of a Norse chieftain, the ship was festively adorned with a row of
circular shields on either side.
It happened that the entombing took place in potter’s clay, which is
plentiful near Christiania, and this acted as a perfect preservative
for the whole of the vessel, except the ends, which projected above it.
In the middle of the ship was the burial chamber with the bed on which
the warrior was placed, clad in richly embroidered garments of silk
and wool. Beside him were buried various weapons and utensils which
might be of use on the voyage to Valhalla, or might prove handy after
arrival. With the chieftain were also buried his pet peacock and about
a half dozen dogs and a dozen horses, all of the animals undoubtedly
being killed at the time of the burial, in order that their spirits
might accompany that of their master to the Land of the Hereafter. This
was the custom of the ancient Scandinavians.
This expensive equipment of the dead was, to be sure, a great economic
waste, but it was not so regarded by the heathen Scandinavians.
According to their view point, such provision as they made was merely
humanitarian and decent. Only the most heartless or foolhardy would
send forth their dead unequipped into the unknown; if pity or a sense
of duty did not cause relatives or friends to follow the usual custom,
fear of being haunted by the wronged ghost was pretty certain to force
them into conformity.
In one of the cases along the walls of the exhibition shed are some of
the feathers of the peacock, still showing an iridescent gleam. And in
another one are the bones of the warrior, which indicate that he was a
man of great size. Physicians who have studied the remains have even
discovered that the man was afflicted with a disease of the bones,
which may have been the cause of his death.
The Gokstad ship was of special interest to me because it was the model
for the _Viking_ which attracted attention at the Columbian exposition
at Chicago. The history of the _Viking_ is so interesting that I cannot
resist the temptation to tell you about it for fear that you may have
somehow missed the story. Before the exposition, when preparations for
it were under way, as was quite proper, the whole world—except the
land of Scandinavia—was putting tremendous emphasis upon the discovery
of Columbus. Naturally, the Scandinavians were not so enthusiastic,
for, as every Scandinavian school child will tell you, had not Leif
Ericsson discovered America nearly five centuries before Columbus was
seized with his bright idea of sailing west to reach the east? Was
it the fault of these sea rovers that the world was not yet ready to
appreciate their discovery? Or that they themselves did not appreciate
it? Had not they _discovered_ it just the same? Did Columbus or his
age appreciate _his_ discovery? Thus challenged the children of the
Vikings; and a discussion followed.
Some of the members of the Columbian party, interested in the models
of the caravels of Columbus which were to be sent to Chicago for the
exposition, were so daring as to declare that the Northmen could not
possibly have crossed the Atlantic in their little Viking boats;
hence, they said, the saga story of Leif Ericsson’s discovery was pure
humbug. This helped fix the determination of the Norwegians to “show”
the anti-Viking party. For there was the Gokstad ship unearthed but
a few years before. And from this vessel was modeled the _Viking_,
exactly like this ship of the ninth century in size and pattern,
except that the stern and bow were restored and finished off with a
carved wooden dragon’s head and tail, splendidly gilded, after the
style of the ancient Scandinavian ships. Manned with a picked crew
of Norwegian sailors, the _Viking_ was sailed and rowed over the
wide Atlantic. Once the vessel was reported foundering; at times the
skeptical captains of passing steamships offered to tow the _Viking_
for the rest of the voyage; but the champions of Leif Ericsson scorned
to have their vessel towed across the ocean, as were the “Columbus
washtubs,” as the _Viking’s_ crew called the models of the Columbus
caravels. Their ancestors had rowed and sailed across the Atlantic in
craft of the _Viking_ build, and they proposed to sail and row there
in the _Viking_. And after a long, weary, mediæval sort of voyage of
six weeks, they arrived in triumph at New York Harbor. The _Viking_ was
propelled up the Hudson, but its captain submitted to be towed through
the Erie Canal, after which it was again sailed and rowed the remainder
of the distance to the Exposition City. It now stands in a shed behind
the Field Columbian Museum in Jackson Park, where I saw it a couple of
years ago. And its ancient prototype stands in a similar shed behind
the University of Christiania. Thus ended the Norwegian lesson.
But, in itself, the Oseberg ship and its contents interested me much
more than did the Gokstad vessel. The Oseberg ship was unearthed only
in 1903. It, like the one from Gokstad, was discovered in a stratum
of potter’s clay near Christiania. Like the Gokstad vessel, it also
had been used as a sepulchral ship. The recently-discovered vessel,
however, is of quite a different style; it is flat-bottomed and richly
carved and was evidently intended not as a swift-sailing vessel of
commerce or war, but as a pleasure barge for use on the fiords.
The Oseberg ship stands in a shed near that from Gokstad; but though
the pamphlet which I bought at the door of the shed mentioned a rich
treasure of contents as having been discovered in the vessel, I was
disappointed not to find any of them near at hand, as were the contents
of the other sepulchral vessel.
Later, I went to the Historical Museum, which has a collection from
prehistoric days of the same general character as those of Denmark and
Sweden, proving conclusively that Danes, Swedes and Norwegians all are
brethren.
In the museum I met Professor G——, of the University of Christiania,
who is the greatest living authority upon Scandinavian archæology,
and had a most instructive talk with him upon various articles of
special note in the prehistoric collection. When he found that I was
as interested in dead heathen Scandinavians as I was in live Christian
ones, Professor G—— told me that the contents of the Oseberg ship
would not be ready for exhibition to the public for some time, but
several men were working on them under his supervision on the top
floor. Would I care to examine them? Would I? I jumped at the chance;
and we climbed to the top floor.
The Oseberg find had indeed been a rich one. The wife or daughter of a
Norse chieftain had been buried in the ship. With her were the remains
of another woman, probably a serving maid, put to death in order that
her mistress should not go forth upon the perilous way unattended.
And about them were a variety of articles such as would be expected
to gladden the heart of the noble lady in the Land of the Hereafter:
spinning and weaving appliances, and balls of thread and wax; carved
oaken chests; several beds, with down coverlets and pillows; tubs and
pails and copper kettles; and even a millstone, the ghost of which
was evidently intended to grind ghostly grist under the hands of the
ghostly serving maid. But this distinguished Scandinavian lady had not
been restricted to sea travel; in the boat had been placed a handsomely
carved, four-wheeled carriage, and four sleds, also carved in elaborate
pattern, two of them with grotesque heads at the four corners. The
carcasses of a number of cattle as well as of horses and dogs were
also buried with the vessel. The skeletons of two of the horses, all
articulated and painted white and looking very spruce, were “hitched”
to the ancient carved wagon. All of the horses, Professor G—— told
me, were killed by being struck a blow at the base of the skull just
back of the ears; and he called my attention to the broken vertebrae of
the two renovated skeletons.
Many of the things found in the Oseberg ship were restored and ready
for exhibition, but the process of preparation is a long one and
requires much care and patience. The objects made of wood when removed
from the burial mound, were in some cases badly bent, and frequently
broken into bits. The ship itself, for instance, was taken out in
about two thousand pieces, but each tiny piece was properly numbered;
consequently perfect reconstruction was possible. The bent pieces
were steamed back into shape, and then all of the woodwork had to be
boiled in oil; and I do not know how many more processes they had to
be put through before they were ready to be fitted together into their
original shape. But upon looking at them in a casual manner one would
never suspect that they were not as sound and whole as any other wooden
objects that one would be likely to find in a museum.
While we are on the subjects of sepulchers, I must tell you that I went
to Vor Frelser’s Cemetery this morning to see the graves of Henrik
Ibsen and Björnstjerne Björnson. I am not in the habit of haunting
cemeteries, but I felt moved thus to pay my respects to these two
great Norwegians. There is an appropriateness in the tombs—if there
ever can be an appropriateness in tombs—and they present as great a
contrast as the temperaments of the two men. Björnson is buried on a
sunny green slope near a tall, graceful poplar tree. No memorial stone
of any kind marks the grave; it is simply a great mound completely
covered with flowers brightly blooming. Ibsen rests close at hand, but
in a shady corner. Within a thick hedge is a black iron fence with
polished black stone pillars at the corners; and within the fence is
the grave, covered by a black stone slab simply marked with the name
“Henrik Ibsen.” A black iron wreath had been placed on the tomb. At the
head of the grave is a tall pyramidal obelisk of polished black stone,
on the front surface of which had been engraved in outline a strong,
capable-looking hammer. It is a peculiarly appropriate resting place
for the iron-willed poet who devoted his life to smashing false idols,
to diagnosing the diseases of society.
Christiania is only about three hundred years old. But for centuries
before King Christian IV of Denmark built this modern capital of
Norway, its site was guarded by the fortress of Akershuus, which still
stands on the southern edge of the city. Akershuus is no longer a
fortress of importance, but its ancient, conglomerate stone walls,
in contrast to the modern appearance of the buildings of Christiana,
are sure to attract the attention. The stronghold is still used for
military purposes; one part of it is a military prison, and another is
an arsenal; cannon are mounted on the ramparts, which command a view
of Christiania Fiord; and the soldiers of Norway are on guard at the
gateways.
Visitors are shown through Akershuus every two hours, but I arrived too
late for the twelve o’clock party, and shall not be able to wait for
the next one as I am booked to sail at two on the _King Haakon_ for
Copenhagen. Consequently, I am sitting on the above-mentioned ramparts
finishing this Christiania letter, preparatory to accounts of Danish
green fields and pastures new. It is pleasant here, and the view of the
fiord is lovely. I wish that the _King Haakon_ would wait.
CHAPTER X
COPENHAGEN ONCE MORE; CASTLES IN DENMARK
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK,
September 11, 191—
_My dear Cynthia_:
I have looped the loop, as you see—up through Sweden and down
through Norway—and am again in Denmark’s capital. The _King Haakon_
left Christiania on schedule time and had what I presume was a
representative summer voyage to Copenhagen, a voyage which leads me
to wonder what it would be like to make the passage in winter. The
Cattegat, the strait separating Sweden from Denmark on the east, is
notoriously rough, though; so my experience was not a complete surprise.
By a great streak of good fortune I entirely escaped being sea-sick.
The boat sailed at two, and at first I sat on deck and watched the
coast of Norway, which for a time we followed quite closely; by three
o’clock, however, it seemed that nothing in the way of a view equal to
the fiord coast would appear, so I decided that here was a good time
to go to bed early and rest up; for I had been constantly on the go in
Christiana. And down to bed I went.
I must have promptly fallen into a doze, for the next thing I knew it
was late in the afternoon, the boat was rolling badly, and from fore
and aft came sounds such as mark the last stages of sea-sickness. As
time passed the sea grew rougher, and I felt more and more as one must
feel who is strapped to the back of a bucking broncho. The sea-sick
sounds increased in volume and number; and they were not restricted to
the “gentler sex,” but very frequently came from masculine throats.
As I awakened at intervals through the night, I discovered that the
history of the early evening was repeating itself. The two women and
two children who shared a stateroom with me were desperately sick; but
I was not a bit, for I stubbornly concentrated my thoughts on something
pleasant and clove to my berth with my spinal column, like an abalone
to a rock, fervently thanking my Stars and Stripes that for once I had
known enough to go to bed when I was tired.
Not till late the next morning, when I knew by the calm that we were
past Helsingborg and Elsinore and were in the quiet Öresund, did I
venture to rise; and when I did, I dressed as soon as possible and
hurried on deck into the fresh air. By that time most of my fellow
passengers were on deck, too. They were a dismal-looking assemblage.
Scarcely one looked as if he had escaped. All seemed to have been at
least mildly ill: a few were pale and wan; more were ghastly white; and
others—many others—were almost pea green in color. I thanked my Stars
and Stripes again, and more fervently, when I saw them.
It was much pleasanter to look at Copenhagen which we were approaching
than at my fellow humans. We were entering the harbor with a bright
blue sky above and a twinkling, sparkling blue sea about us. The
spires and towers of the quaint old Danish capital seemed to beckon
invitingly; and again I felt as if I were returning home. It is thrice
delightful to _return_ to a place. But I am not sure that I should feel
such pleasure in returning to Christiania or Stockholm; Copenhagen, as
I have said, has an unusual degree of personality and charm.
The Stork Fountain, near which I had my breakfast, seemed like an old
friend. It is in the heart of the city, and appears to be a favorite
landmark. Children, especially, enjoy playing around it under the
spreading bronze wings of the storks; and it is appropriate that they
should, for Hans Christian Andersen made the stork the children’s bird,
and particularly the bird of the Danish children. Indeed, reared as I
was on Andersen’s tales, I incline to think of the stork as the emblem
of Danish childhood—a sort of rival of the three rampant lions on the
royal coat-of-arms, which is merely the emblem of the Danish grown-ups.
When I was in Copenhagen before, it had been arranged by Cousin Lars
that I was to stay with him upon my return. He did not know just when I
was due in Copenhagen, however, so, besides breakfasting, I attended to
several errands and did some shopping before going to his home in the
residential part of the city.
I also explored the University of Copenhagen, which stands near
Frue Kirke. The interior of the building is more pleasing than the
smoke-begrimed exterior would lead one to suppose; the walls of the
vestibule are tastefully decorated with frescoes, and good sculptures
are placed here and there. Students in large numbers were in evidence,
looking very much like those whom I had seen in Sweden and Norway,
except that the caps which they wore were marked by buttons of the red
and white of Dannebrog, instead of blue and yellow, or red, white and
blue.
Cousin Lars was not at home when I reached his place, but his
housekeeper was there to receive me, and he came in shortly after my
arrival. During my brief visit he made as much fuss over me as the
proverbial hen does over the proverbial one chicken; the routine of
the household was turned topsy-turvy in my interest, and I had a very
pleasant, homey sort of time. I soon found that he had planned various
excursions and parties for me, but most of the plans had to be dropped
because of the very limited time I could stay in Copenhagen.
Upon my arrival, I discovered on the table in my room various newspaper
clippings which my cousin had made, with me in mind, while I was
away in the North. The schools had opened during my absence and the
clippings all had to do with the Danish educational system, of which
democratic Cousin Lars is very proud. And he may well be, for I think
that it is no exaggeration to say that the Danish public school system
is the finest in Europe. From one of the clippings I learned that
every child in the schools of Copenhagen is being taught to swim; from
another, that excellent courses in extension work are given in the
evenings at sufficiently low prices to enable all those who wish to
improve their educations to do so.
These scraps of information roused in me a desire to visit some of the
Danish schools; so Cousin Lars directed me to two near-by schools,
one a boys’ “gymnasium” and one a public grade school (folke skole).
As in most European countries, the public schools are attended only
by the children of the poor—the so-called “working classes.” All who
can possibly afford it send their children to private schools, lest
they lose caste. The gymnasium is a private institution corresponding
approximately to our high school.
I went to the gymnasium first, where I visited a class of boys in
modern European history. A young man who was also teacher of English
was in charge. At the bell signal the two dozen boys marched in and
remained standing beside their desks while the teacher introduced me.
“You have all heard of a land called the Far West,” said he in English.
“We have with us this morning a lady from that far land who has come
to observe your cleverness in history.” The boys laughed, and at a
sign from the teacher seated themselves. A boy in the front row handed
me a text book and a copy of our old friend, Putzger’s Atlas, which
they used; and the lesson began. The subject was Napoleon’s campaigns,
and at times the discussion became even exciting. But the order in
the room was unspeakable; it was _nil_. The boys—quite a number of
them—visited with each other, and talked in whispers and undertones
together instead of attending to their lessons. Frequently the master
had difficulty in making himself heard above the noise, and in hearing
the students who were reciting. At least a half dozen times while I
was there he produced a slight lull by “Sh-Sh,” but that was all; he
seemed quite used to just that degree of inattention and disorder and
did not appear to mind that a visitor was there taking it all in. The
teaching, however, was remarkably good, everything considered, and the
boys who were called upon to recite appeared well prepared. After all,
order is only a minor point. Unfortunately I had to leave before the
end of the period. When I rose to go, the class also rose as one boy,
and remained standing while I took my leave and made my exit.
Next I went to visit a public school. It was recess when I arrived,
and I found the boys and girls in the large yards at the back of the
building, playing in the drizzling rain, under the supervision of
several teachers. The bell rang almost immediately, and the children
marched in. I had expressed to the principal a desire to visit one of
the classes—I did not care which—and presently was introduced to a
teacher who asked me to visit his beginning class in English. I had for
the time forgotten that English was taught in the grades in Denmark,
and was very glad of a chance to see it done. The class consisted of
twenty-two little boys and girls averaging about eleven years of age.
All were healthy, happy little children, clean, and neatly dressed,
though children of the poor. To my relief, the order here was perfect.
The children paid strict attention to business. The lesson was
conducted entirely in English and was admirably taught and admirably
learned; the teacher was a master in his profession. He seemed fond of
the work and fond of every one of his flock. His evident success helps
me to the conviction that there are men who would make first class
primary teachers, even for the tiny beginners, the orthodox theory to
the contrary notwithstanding. It was a distinct pleasure to me to
witness those little Danish children reading, writing, and speaking my
native tongue. Teacher as well as pupils spoke with an accent, but the
pronunciation was remarkably good. Two or three times, however, the
teacher turned to me to inquire, “Can you understand our English?” And
when I replied that it was perfectly clear to me, the children looked
pleased. I shortly learned that I was not to be a mere auditor. When
the first part of the lesson had been covered, the teacher asked me
whether I would read it for the children in order that they might hear
a pronunciation free from accent. I was delighted at the chance, so I
rose and the children held their breaths while I read:
“Work while you work, and play while you play,
That is the way to be happy and gay,”
and other friendly maxims of my childhood days. When I had finished, a
general smile of satisfaction spread over the class. The children had
evidently measured their pronunciation against mine and had decided
that there was not so great a difference after all. When they had
worked through another translation, I again read for them; and again
the children smiled their pleasure. And so we alternated until it was
time for me to go. When I rose there was a little rustle as of a flock
of birds rising in the air; and every little child was on his feet; and
every one smiled a farewell as I left the room. I should have loved to
borrow the class to teach for a while.
The teacher thanked me heartily for my demonstration of English
pronunciation and gave me a most cordial invitation to visit his
advanced course in English. Last term, he said, two English ladies
had visited this class and had read for the children, thus greatly
stimulating their interest in the language. Verily, everything is grist
that comes to that man’s mill.
My dip into the educational system of Denmark was finished off by a
visit to the school museum, which impressed me as being unique. The
museum contains every sort of device to help the teacher—models,
charts, pictures, natural history specimens. The prices are plainly
marked on the “helps” but the objects are not for sale; they are merely
on exhibition for the benefit of the teacher who is trying to keep
up to date in her methods. The devices can be obtained at the school
supply shops. An excellent teachers’ library is housed in the museum
also. And trained educators are on hand to answer questions and to give
advice to all perplexed pedagogues.
The idea of having a museum for the inspiration of teachers seemed to
me an excellent one, but I supposed it something peculiar to Denmark
until the chief director, who spake excellent English, informed me that
we had one in my own country—at St. Louis, Missouri. The director also
told me several things about the schools of Denmark. The caste system
which formerly worked such hardships against the children of the poor,
he said, is breaking down; and now the children can pass from the
public schools to the gymnasium, which prepares for the University;
and promising students who can not afford to pay tuition are granted
scholarships. There is no opposition to married women’s teaching in
the public schools; and if they have children of their own, it is
rather assumed that they make better teachers than unmarried ones. The
salaries of public school teachers in Denmark seem to compare favorably
with those in the Far West, in view of the difference in the cost of
living. After a certain number of years of service all teachers are
retired upon a pension; and teachers in the country have always a farm
which they work, thus having a source of income besides their salaries.
The school system of the Scandinavian countries, as I have indicated,
is very fine; and it is very effective. By it the people are educated
both mentally and physically; compulsory education laws exist and are
enforced; the amount of illiteracy has been reduced to something less
than one per cent. Elementary education is free, and opportunities
of various sorts for higher education are given to all at but little
cost. Much emphasis is placed upon practical as well as “academic”
studies; one finds in the lower schools careful training in hygiene and
gymnastics, cooking, sewing and sloyd.
The Scandinavian countries are in the forefront in their adoption
of all modern educational devices and agencies; and they lead the
world in their system of people’s high schools (folkehöjskoler),
which originated in Denmark, but have been introduced into the other
Scandinavian lands. Bishop Grundtvig, who founded the first school of
the kind in 1844, worked upon the belief that people gain most good
from education acquired after the age of eighteen. And the people’s
high schools as they now exist are for adults between the ages of
eighteen and thirty. They are particularly for country dwellers.
There are five-month winter terms for men and three-month summer terms
for women. The living expenses and tuition combined are surprisingly
slight—only about ten dollars per month. No entrance examinations
exist, and no final examinations. Many subjects of study are offered,
and great freedom is permitted the students in their selection. These
people’s high schools are undoubtedly tremendously important factors in
raising the standard of Scandinavian civilization.
The evening following my visit to the school museum Cousin Lars and
I went to the Tivoli, the famous amusement park where high and low
in Denmark play; for he said that not to see the Tivoli was not to
understand Copenhagen. The admission fee is only fifty öre, or about
thirteen cents, for adults and twenty-five for children, hence there
are very few whose poverty would shut them out from a chance for
relaxation and enjoyment. The place, which was founded by George
Carstensen as early as 1843, contains all sorts of arrangements and
devices for the amusement, pleasure, and instruction of the people of
Copenhagen. Under the trees are tables and benches where refreshments
are served, and there are several good restaurants close at hand.
A large aquarium and a zoo contribute equally to the pleasure of
the children and the grown-ups. The buildings are in oriental style
and are fitted with arrangements for thousands of colored electric
lights, which are turned on only upon special festive occasions. The
night of our visit was just an ordinary occasion, but the park was
thronged with great crowds. While the young people were occupied at
the merry-go-round, shooting galleries and other more exciting and
adventurous places, the parents stood or sat around and watched the
pantomime play or listened to the various bands. One of these bands
was made up of several dozen men who played the national and popular
airs, and played them well. The Scandinavians are a musical people;
Scandinavia gave the world Jenny Lind, Christine Nilsson and Edvard
Grieg, you know.
Yesterday was Sunday, and it was arranged that I was to go on a tour
of Danish country castles in the part of Seeland which is to the
north of Copenhagen. As Cousin Lars had been over the same route only
a couple of weeks before, he decided not to go. The boys were to
accompany me instead. The “boys” are Cousin Lars’s two sons; Waldemar
is sufficiently grown up to be grizzled at the temples, and Jens has a
daughter who is old enough to have the whooping cough and thus keep her
mother at home for the day; nevertheless Cousin Lars calls them “the
boys,” and so do I. Yesterday, at least, the two threw dull care away
and acted in a very juvenile manner. The boys have homes of their own,
but it was decided that we were all to have breakfast together in order
to have an early start; however, through a misunderstanding, Jens took
breakfast at home, and Waldemar was late in arriving; consequently,
we came very near missing the train. As it was, we simply pelted down
the three or four blocks to the station, where the train stood with
snorting engine ready to move out. Jens had got a late start too, but
was already at the station gate. He waved the tickets when he saw us
rush panting up, called out, “Come on,” and climbed aboard. We tumbled
into the starting car just in time to be taken along.
Through an ideal country landscape we journeyed—a landscape which
reminded me strongly of Bornholm—to the little town of Hilleröd. Here
we left the train and walked about a mile to Frederiksborg Castle,
which is the finest sample of early Danish Renaissance architecture.
The castle is situated in a lake on three islands and has wide
encircling walls and bridges and moats and towers, just as the castle
of one’s dreams should have. The building was erected by Frederick II,
in 1562, but various parts of it have been burned since, and the only
remains of the original structure are two round towers bearing the
date of erection and the King’s motto, “My trust is in God alone,” in
German. Those were the days of German influence in Denmark. Christian
IV, the great Renaissance builder, erected the fine building of which
the present one is largely a restoration; and it was the favorite
residence of this king and of his successors for many generations.
In 1859 a terrible fire destroyed Christian’s castle but by means of
government contributions and private subscriptions it was promptly
rebuilt. Captain J. C. Jacobsen, “Ph. D., Brewer,” in particular, whom
I have mentioned before in connection with Copenhagen art museums,
contributed large sums toward the work of restoration. His money paid
for the fine Neptune fountain in the outer court, erected to replace
the one which was stolen and carried off by the Swedes in the stirring
days of 1658.
In 1877 Captain Jacobsen secured permission from King Christian IX to
found a museum of national history in the castle. The expenses of the
upkeep and development of the museum are met by an endowment fund
established by the founder and by a share of the annual income from the
Carlsberg breweries.
After wandering about the courts for a while, the boys and I entered
the castle to explore. Naturally, the early and obscure ages of
Danish history are chiefly strung together with representations
of Danish royalty, and the events—to a greater or less degree
legendary—associated with their reigns, while the later periods are
more and more given over to the work of the Danish people. In the
vestibule, which contains the earliest exhibit, are statues of King
Gorm the Old, who reunited under one crown all of the Danish lands, and
Queen Thyra. This royal couple of the ninth century combined the old
and the new, the dying heathen religion and the growing Christianity;
Thyra was a Christian, and through her influence Gorm, who still
worshiped the gods of his fathers, was induced to permit the preaching
of the Christian missionaries. In the vestibule with the statues are
casts of the two rune stones which marked the graves of the king and
queen.
Not far from these relics of Gorm and Thyra is a very interesting
painted frieze depicting the English chapter of Danish history—or the
Danish chapter of English—including a representation of King Canute on
his throne on the strand, rebuking his flatterers after he has proved
to them that in spite of his commands the waves advance. Though only
remotely connected with Danish history, there is also a fine copy of
the famous Bayeux tapestry representing the Norman conquest of England
in 1066. In fact, the museum is somewhat unique in the number of
copies and models of famous things and places which it contains. There
are models of all of the buildings of any note, I think, in Denmark,
not omitting Hammershus Castle and Österlars Church in little old
Bornholm; and the Dannevirke with the wall of Thyra Dannebod, built
across the lower part of the peninsula of Jutland to keep out the
southern enemy, is there too.
We passed through a bewildering succession of rooms containing many
reminders of Denmark’s past, over which we were anxious to linger; but
there was little time, so we moved on. In the hunters’ hall, as the
boys insisted on calling it—it was called the “Knights’ Room” in the
guide book—we did linger a little. Around the wall is a stucco frieze
with bas-relief figures of deer, foxes, hares and other animals of
the chase; and the curious thing about it was that the antlers of the
stags are _bona fide_ antlers. Since these are darker in color than the
remainder of the deer, the effect is somewhat weird. The old fenders
and grates are still in position in the black marble fireplace; but the
gallery from which the players of King Christian’s time dispensed music
while the king and his courtiers made merry below is no more to be seen.
Frederiksborg Castle is a great national gallery, as well as a museum
in the ordinary sense. Naturally, there are many paintings and “graven
images” of Danish royalty, from the tolerant heathen, Gorm the Old,
whom I have already mentioned, down to the late King Christian IX.
There are several pictures of this last king. In one of these he is
represented as visiting Iceland in 1874; in another he is portrayed
as receiving in audience at Amalienborg Palace in Copenhagen the
delegation from the Norwegian parliament announcing the election of
Haakon VII as king of Norway. The Norwegians, you will remember, when
they finally were able to set up an independent establishment, had to
adopt a king. Haakon of Norway is a son of Christian IX.
But the great Danes who never wore kingly crowns or sat upon the
ancient throne of Denmark are not forgotten; and the smaller ones
who served their day and country in time of war or peace also have
a place—even to “J. C. Jacobsen, Ph. D., Captain, Founder of the
Carlsberg Fund.” Saxo Grammaticus, the first Danish historian,
who lived in the credulous days of the twelfth century, is there
in sculpture; and keeping company with him is a statue of Snorre
Sturlason, the Icelandic historian of the same period, to whom we are
indebted for the “Younger Edda,” and the “Heimskringla,” the annals
of the early kings of Norway. I have no reason to believe, however,
that either of these sat for their portraits, any more than did King
Gorm and Queen Thyra. In the gallery are also portraits of Hans
Christian Andersen, the sage with the child’s heart; Niels Steensen,
the great anatomist and geologist; Ludwig Holberg, the founder of
Danish literature; Niels Finsen, the great physician and humanitarian;
Lieutenant-Colonel Dalgas, founder of the Society for the Cultivation
of the Danish Heaths, through whose efforts Denmark has recovered
from the heather waste and put under cultivation even more land than
was stolen from her by the Germans in 1864. Adam Oehlenschläger, the
greatest Danish poet, is represented by both painting and bust. He was
to Denmark what Tegnér was to Sweden. Indeed, to some extent Tegnér was
a disciple of Oehlenschläger. In the room reserved for this poet is the
furniture used by him; also manuscripts, sketch books, spectacles and
watches which belonged to him; and drawings in lead pencil of his two
children, done by himself. Upon the wall is the wreath with which he
was crowned by Tegnér in the cathedral of Lund.
The chapel of the castle, in which six Danish kings have been crowned,
is very elaborately and richly decorated with much of gilding and
stucco and carving and many religious paintings. And in it is a gem
of a pulpit in ebony and silver. The organ now used is of German
manufacture and is three hundred years old. Its keys are of ivory,
very thick, and are partially covered with engraved silver plates. The
instrument was given to King Christian IV by his German brother-in-law.
After leaving the chapel we spent some time in the park again. The
grass was wonderfully green yesterday under the summer sunshine; and
there was something peculiarly homelike and cosy about the rounded
masses of the dark green trees. It seemed as natural to be on this
excursion connected with the castles of Denmark as it was to go off to
spend the day among the mountains of my Far West when I was a child.
An open-air Sunday appears also to appeal especially to the Danes,
for there were great numbers of happy, frank-faced people sitting or
walking about the grounds, among the trees, or loitering upon the
picturesque arched bridges.
After a time we went to the pavilion where we had luncheon under
the trees, in view of the fine old towers of Frederiksborg. Then we
drove in a drosky through the beautiful National Forest to Fredensborg
Castle, which was built in commemoration of peace between Denmark and
Sweden (“Fred”—pronounced with a long _e_—means peace in Danish).
This is situated upon the beautiful lake, Esrom Sö, and is the autumnal
residence of the Danish royal family. It is by no means as pretentious
as Frederiksborg, but it is pleasant. The buildings are white and have
a large octagonal court in front. The interior is richly furnished;
there are the usual frescoes and tapestries, rich brocades, gold leaf
and carvings. The housekeeper showed us through the rooms. She seemed
particularly proud of the dining room, furnished in beautiful blue
tints, and possessed of a ceiling of remarkable height.
One room, called the “Garden Room,” is lighted with many great windows
which overlook a garden of the French style, containing a number of
marble statues and marble vases thrown into sharp relief against
smooth-cut lawns and trim flower beds. But I have always felt that
there is something painfully incongruous about a carved marble vase
with carved marble flowers out in a garden filled with Nature’s own
floral triumphs; and white marble statues in such a setting are
suggestive of graveyards and ghosts. We cared much more for the broad
park of the Castle of Peace; it is the most beautiful park that I have
ever seen. Spreading trees in soft, curving masses are scattered over
the rolling grassy slopes in a manner charming indeed; but the real
glory of the park is the avenues lined with gigantic Danish beeches,
the branches meeting overhead. To such trees can the adjective “noble”
be well applied. The only similar avenues that I know of in our own
land are those shaded by great plane trees on the Capitol grounds
at Washington. But at Fredensborg there are wonderful vistas that
Washington does not possess. Through one leafy arcade we caught a
glimpse of a white-winged yacht sailing on the blue surface of the lake
and outlined against the bluer summer sky; at the end of another avenue
were the towers of Frederiksborg Castle looming above the clustering
trees. I was quite moved by the perfection of the varied scenery,
and wandered about the gardens of the Castle of Peace in the hope of
absorbing something lasting from it all.
“In Denmark there lies a castle named Kronborg,” wrote Hans Christian
Andersen in his tale of “Holger Danske,” which I read and loved as a
child. But as a child I only dreamed of grand old Kronborg; yesterday I
saw the castle of my dreams. As all lovers of Shakespeare know, it is
at the town of Elsinore—called by the Danes Helsingör—and is situated
at the entrance to Öresund. This guardian of the Sound was built by
Frederick II in the last part of the sixteenth century. Three broad red
brick walls surround the old fortress, and from between the ancient
bricks sturdy young trees have sprouted; a fair-sized young oak has
also forced its way through the iron-barred window of the inner wall.
Kronborg is still a fortress and still guards the Sound, but not as
jealously as of yore; for more than a century the cannon of the castle
have boomed only in friendly greeting to passing vessels. As Andersen
put it, this is the cannon’s way of saying “Good-day” and “Thank you.”
First we explored the interior of the inner wall of the castle,
following a droll old guard who carried a lighted torch. In the
seventeenth century when the Swedes overran Denmark they got control of
the castle and held it for some time. The Swedish general used one of
the large rooms as his office. In another room still stands the great
cooking tank—heated by means of a fireplace in the wall—in which
could be prepared food enough for three thousand men at one time. Near
at hand are manger-like bins of stone, in which the invaders stored
their food supply. In the bottom of one of these receptacles were some
patches of white and yellow plaster which had fallen from the wall
above. These the Danish guard solemnly declared, with a tiny twinkle in
his eye, were Swedish fried eggs left in the hurry of the final Swedish
departure from Kronborg. Below the floor containing the kitchens and
store rooms are mostly dungeons—terrible, dark, airless, dripping
dungeons—many of them V-shaped with places for iron gates which were
graduated in size so as to make the inclosures smaller and smaller,
finally becoming mere cages in which the poor imprisoned wretches had
not sufficient space to lie down.
[Illustration: Stork Fountain, Copenhagen]
[Illustration: Statue of Holger Danske at Marienlyst]
Within the wall near the entrance is a rough white statue of Holger
Danske, the legendary hero of Denmark, leaning upon his sword. I
expected to find Holger Danske there, for Hans Christian Andersen had
said that he was to be found, in Kronborg “in the deep, dark cellar
where nobody goes.” “He sleeps and dreams,” explained Andersen, “but in
his dreams he sees everything that happens up here in Denmark. Every
Christmas Eve comes an angel, and tells him that what he has dreamed is
right and that he may go to sleep in quiet, for that Denmark is not yet
in any real danger; but when once such a danger comes, then old Holger
Danske will rouse himself!... Then he will come forth and strike, so
that it shall be heard in all the countries in the world.”
For a time, in my skeptical growing-up years, I somewhat lost faith in
this assurance of the Danish writer; for then I learned how Germany
took from little Denmark the duchy of Schleswig-Holstein because the
Danes were helpless to prevent; but now I know, “being old,” that,
as Andersen says, “there is faith in Holger Danske.” And I recently
noticed in re-reading the story, that Andersen emphasizes the fact that
there is another strength besides the power that lies in the sword, and
that “_Holger Danske may come in many forms_”! I missed that point as a
child, or had forgotten it since leaving childhood behind.
“Holger Danske” is the strong, courageous spirit of the people of
Denmark, which has never been shown more fully than in the last half
century. In this period the Danes have shown remarkable co-operative
strength; they have conquered the heath lands, developed their
magnificent public-school system, and put their country in spick and
span shape generally.
I soon had my fill of dungeons and things underground generally, so
we went to the art gallery. Here, as one would expect, is a statue of
Shakespeare. And here are many paintings. Some of these are second-rate
works of “old masters,” and are very dark and ancient and venerable in
appearance. I fear, Cynthia, that you would have thought it horribly
improper of me not to “rave” over them, especially the dingy, swarthy,
old ones; but I could not—they were so ugly! And my cousins showed
less reverence than I; Waldemar passed them by with great scorn,
announcing that he would not pick them up from the roadside. We liked
the national portraits best, not because we considered them better
artistically—I am sure that you would have pronounced them inferior to
the old masters—but because of their historical interest.
In a tower room was a portrait of “Caroline Mathilde,” and a placard
announced that in this room the lady of that name had been imprisoned.
I could not muster up enough Danish historical data to remember who
Caroline Mathilde was; so I turned to the boys and inquired. Waldemar
did not know, but during the whole day he had shown a tremendous sense
of responsibility whenever I asked a question, and he now left no stone
unturned in his efforts to find the answer.
He first tried Jens with, “You have been to school since I. Don’t you
know who Caroline Mathilde was?”
But Jens did not possess the desired information. The historical
characters of a thousand years must be quite a “chore” to remember.
Then, for want of better material, Waldemar pounced upon a tiny scrap
of a girl—the child of the woman who sold post cards at the entrance
to the gallery—and repeated, “Who was Caroline Mathilde?”
“I don’t know,” said the child.
Waldemar looked down at the mite with a Pharisaical air. “What! Don’t
you know who was her _husband_?”
Now, wasn’t that last just like a man? “John Brown and wife!” John
Brown and poodle dog! It sounded particularly ridiculous, however,
applied to the mysterious lady of the tower—as Waldemar meant that it
should.
Caroline Mathilde, as I found when I went to look her up, was a sister
of King George III of England. When a mere child she was married to the
dissipated idiot, King Christian VII of Denmark. Naturally, she found
enduring an idiot husband a rather monotonous undertaking, and looked
for diversions, with the usual consequences. Count Struensee, the
Danish privy councillor, whose name the Queen’s enemies had mentioned
in connection with her own, was put to death by order of the King, but
Caroline Mathilde, partly because of her relation to the British Crown,
was merely imprisoned, part of the time at Kronborg.
In the chapel of the Kronborg castle, the boys told me, horses were
stalled, in the days of Swedish occupation; but now the chapel is again
a chapel, tiny, but very interesting. The royal pew, carved and painted
in all of the colors of the rainbow, is in the gallery. In the rear
of the room are the old seats formerly occupied by slaves. The altar
is finely carved. The inscriptions about the room are in German, for
German was the court language at the time of the restoration of the
chapel.
As the sun was setting, we climbed to the top of one of the tall towers
to gaze over land and sea. It was a long climb up a winding stair, but
the view was lovely. Down in the court at our feet the soldiers were
lining up to march in to supper; around about us was the landscape
which had gladdened my heart earlier in the day; across the narrow
Sound was Helsingborg on the Swedish coast, looming up, an old friend,
with Kärnan and other large buildings plainly visible. A few weeks
before, I had viewed Kronborg from Kärnan; now I had a view of Kärnan
from Kronborg. And beyond Kärnan and Helsingborg was a rare sunset sky
brilliantly colored, the glory of which the calm waters of the Sound
reflected.
As it was dinner time, the boys were fearful that I might be in a
starving condition, for so far that day I had had only three meals—one
less than the usual number; consequently, from the tower we descended
to a restaurant in Helsingör and had dinner to the accompaniment
of an unusually fine band. Then we walked down the narrow, crooked
streets—sidewalks were a mere incident—to a park in which, on a knoll
in a lonely corner under a clump of shade trees, was a great mound of
rocks. A rough slab stuck in the top bore the words “Hamlet’s Grave.”
The whole thing was of glaringly recent erection. It was put there in
self-defense, I was told, by the owner of the land. People of ignorance
were so insistent that Hamlet’s grave must be somewhere about and were
so constantly asking to be directed to it that, in order to save time
and annoyance, this “grave” was manufactured and conspicuously marked.
People who love to be fooled take much satisfaction in it; those who
have understanding know that it is a Joke.
The grave lies on the way to Marienlyst, a fashionable and famous
summer resort, for which we were bound. Marienlyst is so near to
Kronborg that we walked. In the pleasant park of Marienlyst are two
interesting bronze statues—Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, a slender,
youthful figure; and Holger Danske, a fine old warrior with a keen,
strong, kindly face. The face met my ideas of how Holger Danske should
be represented. It reflected the character and intellect of the Danish
people, just as the great muscular arms resting on the broad flat
sword blade represented their healthy physical strength. The rough
representation of Holger the Dane which I saw in the walls of Kronborg
is evidently a plaster cast of this fine bronze piece. The cast had
been placed at Kronborg to prevent the disappointment of visitors who,
like myself, made the acquaintance of Holger Danske in the days of
their childhood through dear Hans Christian Andersen’s solemn assurance
that at Kronborg “Holger Danske sits in the deep dark cellar, where
nobody goes.”
We walked along the beach at Marienlyst and watched the waves roll in
and break on the strand until the lights began to twinkle upon the
Swedish coast; then we took the train for home. For part of the way
we rode on a steam train of two-story cars, such as I had never seen
before. For the adventure of it, I wanted to ride upstairs, and after
the train had started we climbed to the second floor by means of a
narrow iron staircase at the end of the car. The climb was, for me,
rather a perilous undertaking, and was the only adventurous element
connected with the ride on top. “On top” suggests open air and is,
therefore, misleading; there was really a second story, or, perhaps,
it is better to call it a half story, for the room at the top was
decidedly low-ceiled; we had to duck our heads when we walked to seats.
But as I was mortally afraid that I should fall from the little iron
stairway to my destruction if I attempted to descend while the car was
in motion, we remained where we were until we reached Copenhagen, which
we did at eleven o’clock.
Yesterday was a large, beautiful day, crammed full of pleasant
memories. Some time again I shall return to Denmark and spend just such
another summer day among the Danish castles. But now I must soon leave
quaint old Copenhagen, the “boys,” and my kind Cousin Lars. A train
for Roskilde leaves Copenhagen at ten o’clock, and I depart on it; for
summer vacations must end.
CHAPTER XI
ROSKILDE AND ODENSE; GOOD-BY TO SCANDINAVIA
ODENSE, DENMARK,
September 14, 191—
_My dear Cynthia_:
You perhaps remember that in my first letter to you after reaching
Copenhagen I mentioned Roskilde. I stopped there for a short time on my
way here on Monday. The place, though now only a small provincial town
of but nine thousand inhabitants, has had an eventful and interesting
past. In the tenth century Harold Bluetooth, son of Gorm the Old, and
grandfather of Canute the Great, who ruled England, made the place his
capital and built a cathedral there. And it remained the capital for
five hundred years—until it was supplanted by Copenhagen.
I stopped off at Roskilde primarily to see the cathedral, but I enjoyed
poking about the narrow, crooked streets between the low-built,
tile-roofed houses. As in practically every other European town, the
market-place of Roskilde is centrally situated. I passed it early in
the forenoon on my way from the station. A sale of livestock was in
progress. Horses were being trotted for the benefit of prospective
buyers, pigs were squealing, cattle were lowing; and men were sealing
bargains for the transfer of animals by the customary handshake.
The original Roskilde cathedral erected by Harold Bluetooth was
of wood, but in the eleventh century this was replaced by a larger
building of limestone; and about two centuries later the brick
building, some fragments of which are incorporated in the present
beautiful cathedral, was erected on the site of the limestone one. The
present building is the pride of Roskilde. It is a great red-brick
pile, quaintly beautiful, with copper roofs discolored a bluish
green, and with sharp, oddly-shaped twin towers. This cathedral is
the Westminster Abbey of Denmark; more than thirty Danish sovereigns,
including Harold Bluetooth, are buried within its walls.
When the ancient limestone building was pulled down, the bones of the
founders and benefactors of the cathedral during its early years were
removed and immured in the new structure; and two centuries later, in
1521, the bishop Lage Urne had their effigies, dressed in the style
of his period, placed on the pillars. There they are as the artist of
the time conceived them to have looked: Harold Bluetooth, who built
the wooden cathedral; Bishop William, who began the erection of the
limestone building; King Svend, who, in order to atone for having
killed some men in the cathedral, gave to the bishopric a large tract
of territory; and his mother, Estrid, or Margarethe, sister of Canute
the Great, who also gave rich gifts to the church.
The most famous tomb in the cathedral, however, is that of the great
Queen Margaret, whose remains rest in a black marble coffin behind
the high altar. On the lid of the coffin is an effigy of the queen in
alabaster—a purely imaginary likeness, made by a foreign artist who
had never seen the queen. The figure is a beautiful one, though, with
pure and determined features. The queen’s hair lies in a thick braid
around her forehead, and a veil and a crown are upon her head; around
the waist of her graceful robe is a girdle with pendulous bells. Behind
the head of the queen is a splendid canopy bearing the arms of the
Scandinavian Union, with a Latin inscription around its margin which,
being interpreted, reads: “A. D. 1412, on the day of the Apostles Simon
and Judas died the illustrious Princess, Lady Margaret, once Queen of
Denmark, Sweden and Norway, but in the following year on the 4th of
July, she was buried here. As posterity is not able to honor her thus
as she has deserved, this work has been constructed in memory of her at
the expense of Erik, our present King, 1423.” The Eric mentioned was
Margaret’s grand-nephew, Eric of Pomerania, who succeeded the great
queen.
The tombs of some of the Christians and Fredericks are also pretty
elaborate; and they furnish varied information about the reigns of
these rulers. Christian IV is buried in a chapel named for him,
decorated with frescoes of allegorical figures and historical scenes
illustrating the character and life of the king. The coffin itself is
of oak covered with black velvet decorated with silver plates. On the
lid lies the King’s sword and a crucifix. This was the King Christian
who “stood by the lofty mast, in mist and smoke,” you will remember.
One of the paintings on the chapel wall represents him in his brave
stand in the battle of the Baltic.
Frederick IV, who lived in a more ornate age, has a great marble
sarcophagus done in rich rococo style. On the lid is a figure of Fame
bearing a medallion with the king’s portrait, and publishing his name
by sound of trombone; at the head sits the figure of a woman, with a
burning heart, meant to represent the people’s love for their king;
at the foot is an old man, Father Time in new guise, with a tablet
on which is written: “King Frederick died 1730.” On the sides are
historical illustrations—victories of war on land and sea; the freeing
of the serfs; the establishment of the “land militia”; the founding of
the village schools.
Frederick VII is buried in an oak coffin ornamented with bronze. The
surface is covered with allegorical figures. One of these—that on
the right hand—represents the king’s motto: “The people’s love is my
strength,” and that on the left, Denmark mourning his death. Upon the
lid of the coffin I noticed two silver wreaths and a gold one—the last
presented by Danish women. And well might the people of Denmark cherish
this Frederick’s memory, for it was during his reign that the land was
given a constitutional government; and well might they mourn his death,
for his death without an heir led to bitter war and to the loss of the
duchies of Schleswig-Holstein to Germany.
In striking contrast to the elaborate tombs of their predecessors are
the plain oak coffins of the late Christian IX and his queen, Louisa.
Beside Christian’s coffin is a silver wreath sent by the Danes of
America. The king was their king during childhood and youth, until they
adopted a new land; so the Danes of America had a friendly place in
their hearts for him.
Most of the earlier Danish rulers—those of the twelfth, thirteenth
and fourteenth centuries—are buried in the old convent church of
Ringsted. And in the convent church of Sorö, which is near at hand,
sleeps the great warrior bishop Absalon, founder of Copenhagen.
My next destination after leaving Roskilde was Odense, which is a
corruption of Odins Ö, the Danish for Odin’s Island. In the heathen
days the place was a favorite with the Father God, it seems. But the
present-day Odense is a thriving town of about forty thousand, the
third town in size in Denmark. It is the metropolis of the large
island of Fyen, or Fünen, which is separated by the Little Belt from
the peninsula of Jutland on the west, and by the Great Belt, from the
island of Seeland on the east. Odense is a very lovable old place,
possessing the air of dignity and wisdom frequently associated with
ancient things; and this in spite of the fact that it contains many
up-to-date manufacturing establishments.
St. Knud’s, the most important church in the town, is a red brick
Gothic structure, with low, broad-spreading wings and a copper-roofed,
blunt-pointed single spire, which as regards shape reminds me somewhat
of Roskilde. Inside are the usual paintings, memorial tablets,
and tombs; and below in the shadowy crypt, which possesses arches
suggestive of those in the crypt beneath Lund Cathedral, are more
tombs. Some of these tombs date back to the sixteenth century, and
several have crude, interesting inscriptions. On the wall of the
vestibule, for instance, I noticed a tablet dated 1670, bearing some
verses beginning:
“Her under denne Steen
Sig hviler deris Been.”
which is, being translated,
“Here under these stones
There rest the bones,”
and then followed an account of the earthly tribulations of Rasmus
Andersen. Rasmus Andersen lived in dark, weary days when fratricidal
wars tore Denmark and Sweden.
In a quiet square, where the Odense children love to play, is a
bronze figure of Hans Christian Andersen. It is a good statue; the
limp, ungainly figure is faithfully reproduced. Upon the face is the
sweet expression peculiar to the child-hearted man who never became
sufficiently grown up to lose the children’s point of view.
Odense is, in fact, primarily important because of its being the
birthplace of Andersen; and that is why I made a pilgrimage to it.
The house in which he was born has been restored, in consequence of a
movement which started in 1905, during the celebration of the hundredth
anniversary of the poet’s birth. The building now belongs to the
city; its official title is “Hans Andersen’s House.” The whole house,
however, was not occupied by the little “ugly duckling” Hans and his
parents. The family was exceedingly poor, both parents appear to have
been shiftless, and the father, though talented, was erratic. Only one
room, the one containing the old-fashioned alcove in the wall for the
bed, constituted the home of the Andersens. But the fairy-tale writer
left enough mementoes of various kinds to fill the several rooms with
charming reminders of him, and to impress upon one how broadly he
ranged and how many great souls he met and knew.
The building is of the low-roofed, box-shaped type, such as my three
aunts live in in Svaneke, Bornholm; and it stands squarely against the
sidewalk where two streets cross. When I knocked at the door yesterday
afternoon, the museum was closed for the day, as the curator informed
me; but when I told her that I had stopped off at Odense especially
to see Hans Andersen’s House, and must leave on the morrow before the
opening hour, she remarked that in that case it would be a great pity
for me to be disappointed; and she proceeded to take down the shutters.
Along the walls of the first room which I entered were several show
cases containing many souvenirs of Andersen’s life, each accompanied
by explanations in Danish, English, French, and German. Among the
reminders of his early years I noticed with interest his school
records, which showed him to have been a very ordinary student, for
“slet” (bad), and “maadelig” (mediocre) appeared frequently upon them.
In the early Odense days, Hans Christian was an “ugly duckling,”
indeed. Representative of the poet’s maturity was a little leather
bag found upon his breast after death. It contained a letter from his
sweetheart, Riborg Voigt, whose portrait I noticed upon the wall above
the case. Thus was published to the world the unconsummated romance
of the romancer. Andersen’s will, which spoke of his declining years,
reminded me that the well-plumed swan remembered to the last the days
when he was an “ugly duckling”; for in the first clause of the document
was a bequest of a legacy to the charity school of Odense, at which, as
a blundering, misunderstood small boy, he received his low grades.
Gifts from friends, high and low, were very much in evidence. A tiny
mirror framed in deer’s horn was sent to Andersen in a teasing mood
by the “Swedish nightingale,” Jenny Lind, in order that he might
see “how pretty he was.” One of Andersen’s many peculiarities was
his firm conviction, which he maintained in the face of his gawky
homeliness, that he was of distinguished appearance. Above a book-case
filled with many editions of his works, was a wreath of “everlasting”
flowers, made for him by the Countess Holstein-Holsteinberg. And
beside the funny old eighteenth-century stove was the gift of the
Countess Danneskjold-Samsoe, a fire screen decorated with a queer
conglomeration of pictures cut from illustrated papers, which appears
to have been the fashionable screen of the time, for Andersen himself
made one of the same style. On the sofa was another present from a
lady of high degree—a cushion embroidered with a large, handsome,
prosperous-appearing swan, evidently the swan which had evolved from
the “ugly duckling.” The traveling bag in one of the rooms is believed
to have been the one used by King Christian IX during a journey in
southern Europe, and afterwards given to the poet. But the most
pleasing token of all was offered by little American school children.
Laboring under the impression that the writer of their beloved fairy
tales was living in poverty, they started a collection with the
intention of sending him money; but when they learned that prosperity
had come with fame, they sent him instead two large volumes entitled
“Picturesque America.”
[Illustration: Roskilde Cathedral]
[Illustration: Hans Andersen’s House]
In the last room which I explored was the furniture which Andersen had
used in his rooms in Copenhagen. The rocker was later used by Alexander
Kielland, the Norwegian who has written such charming short stories;
and the penholder lying upon the poet’s old desk was for a time the
property of Edward Grieg, the Norwegian composer. Near the table were
Andersen’s trunk and hat case, and upon it were his tall silk hat and
his fat, clumsy umbrella, as if he had just returned from a jaunt
about Europe. It seemed as if the quaint old man himself must appear,
equipped with a new wonder story all ready for the telling.
The great number and variety of photographs of himself in evidence
about the rooms were, in themselves, ample proof that the dear old
chap was exceedingly vain. He had a childlike fondness for dress
and decoration, and also for being photographed. Under one of the
photographs he had written in Danish some words which must be
translated, “Life itself is the best wonder story”; but the Danish for
wonder story is “aventyr,” which comes from the same root as our work
“adventure,” and consequently means much more of interest than the
translation would lead one to suppose. And I heartily agree with the
verdict; I would not miss being alive for anything!
Perhaps the most valuable treasure in the museum is the collection
of the original lead-pencil drawings made by the Danish illustrator,
Wilhelm Petersen, for Andersen’s fairy tales. Many of these pictures
were old friends of mine, friends which I had not seen for many long
years—soft, delicate drawings of round-faced children in quaint dress;
tall, graceful lovers and their ladies; and old people with strong and
gentle faces. It was a rare pleasure to renew their acquaintance in
such an intimate way. And, for old times’ sake, before leaving Odense I
bought a volume of Andersen’s wonder stories, illustrated by Petersen,
taking care that “The Ugly Duckling” was included in the collection.
* * * * *
It is again morning. Since five o’clock when I left Odense, I have
journeyed westward over Fünen, have been ferried across the Little Belt
which separates Fünen from the peninsula of Jutland, and have started
upon my southward way toward Antwerp and home. Now we are about to
cross the southern boundary of Denmark and to enter the lost province
of Schleswig. Therefore, it must be good-by to Denmark and to the whole
pleasant Scandinavian land. It is a fond good-by, and were not love
for my own dear Western country hurrying me on, it would be a most
regretful one. No kind friends stand at the border to wave farewell,
with “Hils hjemme” and “Komme igen”; but the Jutish landscape which
smiles upon my right hand and my left does that. And I shall not forget
the invitation and shall remember to deliver the greeting.
INDEX
Aal, 189-190.
Aalesund, 182.
Abel, Niels Henrik, 191.
Absalon, _Archbishop_, 19-20, 231.
Akershuus fortress, 201.
Albert, _King_, 108.
Alexandra, _Queen_, of England, 35.
Allinge, 66.
Amalienborgtorv, 45-46.
Andersen, Hans Christian, his story of the “Princess and the
Pea,” 16-17;
quoted, 157-158, 219, 220-221;
his House, 232-236.
Animals, Society of Swedish Women for the Protection of, 138.
Anker, Paul, 57.
Art, Scandinavian, 38-41, 43-44, 59-60, 116-117, 194.
Axel, _Archbishop_. _See_ Absalon _Archbishop_.
Bayeux Tapestry, copy of, 214.
Beds, Danish, 16, 63-64.
Bergen, 183-188.
Bernadotte, _Marshal_. _See_ Carl XIV, Johan.
Birger Jarl, 104, 107, 109, 114.
Birgitta, _Saint_, 121-122.
Bissen, Herman, 40.
Björnson, Björnstjerne, 162, 171, 200.
Bornholmers, characteristics of, 78-80.
Bornholm’s Museum, 58-60.
Brahe, Tycho, 29-30.
“Bredablik,” 112.
Bredgade, 43-44.
Bremer, Fredrika, 101, 127.
Bronze Age in Denmark, 25-27.
Bull, Ole, 187-188.
Calmar, Union of, 36, 108, 109.
Canute, _King_, 214.
Carl Johans Gade, 190-192, 193.
“Carolina Rediviva,” 125.
Caroline Mathilde, 222-223.
Carstensen, George, 211.
Cattegat, 202.
Cederström, Gustav, 108, 116-117.
Charles X, 116;
invades Denmark over the Great Belt, 13, 110;
besieges Copenhagen, 13-14.
Charles XII, 89, 110.
Charles XIII, 89.
Charles XIV, John, 110, 189.
Christian I, 32.
Christian II, Swedish revolt against, 36;
massacre of Swedes by, 109;
dominion over Sweden, 141.
Christian IV, 29;
builds Rosenborg Castle, 31;
and Thirty Years’ War, 33, 213, 229.
Christian VII, 223.
Christian IX, 32, 215-216, 230.
Christiania, 190-202.
Christiania, University of, 192.
Christiansö, 67.
Christina, _Queen_, of Sweden, 116, 125.
Christopher III, 145.
Copenhagen, 13-14, 16-54, 203-212.
Copenhagen, University of, 204-205.
Dalgas, Enrico, 216.
“Danish Kings’ Chronological Collection.” _See_ Rosenborg Castle.
Dutch, aid given to Denmark by, 14;
settlement of Gothenborg by, 92.
Education, Scandinavian:
Danish school-buildings, 48-49;
Danish educational system, 205-211;
public and private schools in Sweden, 151-152;
the work-cottages of Norrbotten, 135-136;
education of the Lapps, 136.
_See_ also Universities.
Eleonore Christine, 67-68.
Elsinore. _See_ Helsingör.
Ender, Axel, 168, 170.
Engelbrektsson, Engelbrekt, 145.
English language, Scandinavian knowledge of, 18-19, 61-62,
206, 207-209.
Eric XIII, 108, 109, 145, 229.
Eric, _Saint_, 120-121.
Evald, Johannes, 34.
Falun, 147-150.
Famine, in Sweden, 135, 145-146.
Farms, Danish, 62-63, 72-73;
Swedish, 91-92, 97;
Norwegian, 174-176.
Faroes, 80-81, 106, 193.
Finland, Christianization of, 121;
Swedish loss of to Russia, 147.
Finn, legend concerning the giant 87-89.
Finse, 189.
Finsen, Niels, 193, 216.
Folkungar Kings, 107.
Food, Scandinavian, 48, 65-66, 89-90, 93-95, 153-154, 167.
Fredensborg Castle, 218-219.
Frederick II, 29, 213, 219.
Frederick III, 13.
Frederick IV, 229-230.
Frederick VII, 230.
Frederick VIII, 33.
Frederika Bremer Association, 101.
Frederiksborg Castle, 213-218.
Frue Kirke, vor, 41-42.
Fünen, 12, 236.
“Gaard.” _See_ Farms.
Gamla Uppsala, 128-132.
Gardens outside of Copenhagen, 49-53.
Gefle, 132-134.
Geijer, Eric Gustav, 124.
Gokstad ship, 194-196.
Gorm, _King_, 214.
Göta Lejon Fort, 92.
Göteborg. _See_ Gothenburg.
Gotha Canal, 93, 98.
Gothenburg, 91-96.
Great Belt, 12-13.
Greenland, 106.
Grieg, Edvard, 212, 235.
“Grufvan,” 149-150.
Grundtvig, _Bishop_, 210.
Gudsaaen, 162.
Gustav III, 105.
Gustav V, 100.
Gustav Adolf, 92, 110, 116, 118-119.
Gustav Vasa, 36, 109, 119, 124, 146, 156.
Haakon IV, Haakonson, 184, 186.
Haakon VII, 37, 164, 216.
Haakon’s Hall, 184-186.
_Hamlet_, 91.
Hammershuus Castle, and the Swedes, 59;
description of ruins, 66-68.
“Hans Andersen’s House”, 232-236.
Harold Bluetooth, 227-228.
Hasle, 57.
Helligdommen Klippen, 68-69.
Helsingborg, 89-91, 224.
Helsingör, 91, 219, 224.
Hilleröd, 213.
Holger Danske, 219-220, 221, 225.
Ibsen, Henrik, statue of, 191;
tomb of, 200.
Iceland, 106, 130.
Jacobsen, Carl, 39, 213-214, 216.
Jerichau, Jens Adolf, 40-41.
Jerichau-Baumann, Elizabeth, 40.
“Kakkelovn.” _See_ Stoves, Danish.
Kärnan, 89-91, 224.
Katherine, _Saint_, 122.
Key, Ellen, 101-103, 117, 160.
Kielland, Alexander, 235.
Kilafors, 136-139.
Kitchen middens, Danish, 22-24.
Kofoed, Jens Pedersen, 57, 74.
Kongens Nytorv, 43.
Korsör, 11, 14.
Krogh, Christian, 194.
Kronan, 92.
Kronborg Castle, 91, 219-224.
Laaland, 12.
Lagerlöf, Selma, 101, 117, 127-128, 148-149, 159.
Lamb, Charles, 72, 181.
Langeland, 11.
Langelinie, 46.
Lapps, 135-136.
Larsson, Carl, 116, 148.
Lawrence, _Saint_, and Lund Cathedral, 88-89.
“Liberty Stones” of Bornholm, 57.
Liljefors, Bruno, 116.
Lind, Jenny, 212, 234.
Linné, Carl, 123.
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, translation of, 34;
influence of Tegnér upon, 83-84.
Lund, 83-89.
Lund Cathedral, 86-89.
Lund, University of, 85-86.
Malmö, 82-83.
Man, Isle of, 130.
Manners, Scandinavian, 179-182.
Manual arts of Scandinavian peasants,
efforts made to preserve, 118, 163, 193.
Marble Church, 44-45.
Marienlyst, 224-225.
Margaret, _Queen_, 36, 107-108, 228-229.
Mas-Olle, Helmer, 125.
Maud, _Queen_, 164.
Meraker Dal, 162.
Molde, 167-171.
Molde Fiord, 167-168.
Munch, Edvard, 194.
Museum of the North, Stockholm, 110, 118.
Naes, 171, 172.
National Museum, Danish, 20-29;
Swedish, 115.
Nexö, 69-70.
Nilsson, Christine, 212.
Nobel, Alfred, 128.
Nobel Prize Fund. _See_ Nobel, Alfred.
Norrbotten, Work-cottages of, 135-136.
Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, 39-41.
Nyerup, Rasmus, 20-21.
Odense, 231-236.
Oehlenschläger, Adam, 216-217.
Olaf V, 107.
Oldenburg House, 32.
Oscar II, 117.
Oseberg ship, 197-200.
Österlars Church, 75.
Östermarie Church, 74.
Peace movement in Scandinavia, 100.
Peter the Great, 30, 34.
Petersen, Christian, 83.
Petersen, Wilhelm, 235-236.
Petri, Olavus, 114.
Porcelain, Royal Copenhagen, 44, 58.
Printenskjold, Johan, 57.
“Prinzens Palais.” _See_ National Museum, Danish.
Railroads, Scandinavian, 14-15, 69-70, 160, 225-226.
Rättvik, 151-158.
Riddarholms Church, 109-110.
Romsdal Fiord, 171-172.
Romsdal Horn, 171.
Rönne, 55-60.
Rosenborg Castle, 31-37.
Roskilde, 15, 227-231.
Roskilde Cathedral, 15, 227-231.
Roskilde treaty, terms of, 13, 57, 83;
Bornholm’s revolt against, 57.
Round Tower, the. _See_ “Runde Taarn.”
“Runde Taarn,” 29-31.
San Francisco Bay, kitchen midden on shores of, 23.
Saxo Grammaticus, 216.
Scandinavian Alps, 161.
Seeland, 11, 15.
Shakespeare, 12, 91, 221.
Siegfried legend, runestone illustrating, 115-116.
Siljan, Lake, 151, 153.
“Silver Bible,” 126-127.
Sinding, Stephen, 163, 191, 194.
“Skansen,” 110-113.
“Skyds,” journey by, 172-176.
Slottskogen, 93.
Snorre Sturlason, 216.
Söderhamn, 140-141.
Söholt, 176-177.
Stavanger, 189.
Stigsdotter, Barbro, 156-157.
Stockholm, 103-120.
Stockholm “blood bath”, 109.
Stone Age, New, in Scandinavia, 21-22, 115.
Stone Age, Old, in Scandinavia, 22-24.
Stor Fiord, 177.
Stork Fountain, 204.
Storkyrkan, 114-115.
Storlien, 160-161.
Stoves, Danish, 17.
Strindberg, August, 159-160.
Svaneke, 70-71.
Svend, _King_, 228.
Swedenborg, Emanuel, 122-123.
Tegnér, Ezias, 83-85, 217.
Tegnér, Rudolf, 41.
Temperance movement in Scandinavia, 104-106.
Thirty Years’ War, Christian IV and, 33;
Gustav Adolf and, 110, 119.
Thomsen, Christian Jürgensen, 21.
Thor, 27.
Thorwaldsen, Bertel, 38-39.
Thorwaldsen’s Museum, 38-39.
Thrones, ancient Danish, 36.
Thyra, _Queen_, 214.
Tivoli, 211-212.
Tobacco, use of in Scandinavia, 106-107.
Tobiasen, Lars Hansen, 59-60.
Trondhjem, 162-165.
Trondhjem Cathedral, 162-163.
Trondhjem Fiord, 162, 166.
Tuberculosis, exhibit of Scandinavian Society for Fighting, 192-193.
Ulfeldt, Corfitz, 67-68.
Ulfilas’ Bible. _See_ “Silver Bible.”
Universities, 85-86, 124-127, 192, 204-205.
Uppsala, 120-128.
Uppsala Cathedral, 120-124.
Uppsala, University of, 124-127.
Vesternaes, 172.
_Viking_, 196-197.
Vikings, 27.
Waldemar I (the Great), 19.
Waldemar IV, 107.
Wends, struggle of Archbishop Absalon with, 19.
Wieselgren, Peter, 105.
Woman suffrage in Scandinavia, 100-101, 142-143, 178.
Worsaae, Jens Jacob Asmussen, 21, 23.
Zorn, Anders, 116.
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