Cousin-hunting in Scandinavia

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.