CHAPTER XXIX. RUSSIAN FINLAND—STOCKHOLM—THE LARGEST KNOWN METEORITE—THE DJURGARDEN.
It takes some time to get the confused impressions of brilliant Moscow out of one’s head; and, until this is done, one is in no fit condition to judge of other cities. The gold, green, blue, yellow, and red of Moscow left images in my brain which shifted about for days as with turns of a kaleidoscope. Entering the capital of Sweden by water on a bright August morning, I saw it at its best. Stockholm is a handsome city in its own right, and that guide-book writer who first called it the “Venice of the North” owes an apology to the Swedes for instituting an unfortunate comparison. There is plenty of water in and about Stockholm, but no intricate network of canals, no rich tint, no mellow antiquity. Comparing Stockholm with Boston, one would not be so far out of the way. There are resemblances in the hilly grounds on which the two cities stand, in the central dome and the tall spires, in the crooked and converging streets, the stone buildings, the trimness and cleanliness of everything, the all-pervading air of prosperity. The American who happens to know Boston feels at home here at once. Even when he has just arrived from Moscow, and misses colors in the roofs of Stockholm, he is soon somewhat consoled by the many-colored native dresses which he meets at every turn. These are worn by the women of Dalecarlia. In coming to this city to live, they keep on wearing the showy costumes of their native province. Their head-dress is either a sort of liberty-cap in blue or an exaggerated smoking-cap in red, attached somehow just above the nape of the neck, and always on the point of falling off. The rest of the dress is a mysterious composition of bandanna handkerchiefs and bunting of divers hues. Chains, spangles, beads, and embroidery cover all. There is nothing like this in the Russia I have seen. It is the prettiest sight in all Stockholm. But to go back a space, and tell how we got here.
We left St. Petersburg in a clean and stanch little boat at 6 P. M. Before stepping on board, I drew my passport from its envelope and held it ready for the final ordeal; for, in theory, every stranger is scrutinized as sharply on leaving as on entering the empire. I was wondering where, on the broad surface of the dear old American eagle, room would be found for still another and positively the last inscription, seal, or stamp. But again, much to my disappointment, nobody evinced the slightest curiosity to examine the document, either at the gangway of the boat or during the voyage of some hundreds of miles which we afterward made before quitting the jurisdiction of Russia. Perhaps, if I had been a Nihilist, my departure from the country would not have passed unnoticed. But my personal experience on this and previous occasions, when a police supervision might have been expected to make itself apparent, convinces me that it is a formality much neglected, except when an attempted assassination of the Tsar excites the authorities to spasms of real vigilance.
The passengers—about thirty in number—assembled on the upper deck to take last view’s of St. Isaac’s dome, the spire of Saints Peter and Paul, and the other landmarks of gold which loom above the horizon when twenty miles away. In half an hour we had scraped acquaintance and crystallized into sets, which continued unbroken all the voyage. Among those aboard were a Siberian family, a Chilian, a Belgian, a German who had won the hand of a London lady, married her at St. Petersburg, and was then on his wedding-journey; a Nijni-Novgorod merchant, several Finns, and a number of Norwegians and Swedes. Every language of Northern Europe was spoken on that deck. If one person could not talk directly to another, he could do it through the medium of an interpreter. And gestures eke out the meaning at the point where words fail. We were a merry party, without asking or caring to know one another’s names.
Cronstadt—the sea-defense of St. Petersburg—was reached about 8 P. M., and everybody inspected the fortifications which are called (by the Russians) impregnable. To me they seemed old-fashioned and fragile. Some of the forts are of stone or brick, with cannon in three or four tiers. If a 500-pounder, working from a monitor at short range, could not knock them about the ears of the defenders, I am much mistaken. The real dependence of Cronstadt is probably the torpedo, and nobody yet knows exactly how much that is worth. Toward eleven o’clock, when the twilight had faded out, there was a general disposition to retire for the night. The cabins of the Stockholm boats are small but comfortable. Before the two sofas are transformed into beds, they are downy enough. But, when they are rigged up with sheets, blankets, and pillows, the inmates discover bones and buttons inside of them. They are very trying on tender ribs. The cabin-doors have neither locks nor bolts, and many persons do not even shut them, trusting to the screen of a curtain which lets the air freely in and out. As the numbers of the rooms do not show when the doors are ajar, this arrangement gives rise to amusing mistakes, of which we hear some particulars the next morning.
In crossing the Gulf of Finland the water was rough for a few hours, and the pitching motion of the vessel disturbed the equilibrium of all sensitive interiors. In the morning some of the friskiest of our company of the night before did not report for coffee at 7.30 o’clock. When they did appear at nine or ten, they were silent, if not sad. I can only say that they missed some coffee which was wonderfully good. It was served with an assortment of bread, sweet biscuit, and cakes. This light refreshment kept one alive till nine, when those who could pull themselves together dived into the little dining-saloon and had their regular breakfast. The most important part of this meal—Swedish fashion—is the “trimmings.” You are expected to fill yourself at a sideboard before you sit at table. I counted twenty different dishes set out as appetizers. Among them were cold boiled lobsters, eels in jelly, several fish-salads reeking with oil, head-cheese, slices of sausage, pickled tongue, potted meats of nature unknown, cabbage, beets, onions sliced with vinegar, bread, butter, and cheese. The true Swede, when in “good form,” attacks all these viands seriatim, and makes a hole in them. But, before he does anything, he fills a large wine-glass from the colorless contents of one or more decanters, which tower above all other things in a great caster. Those hold gin or kummel or other fiery spirits. After ten or fifteen minutes thus spent on his feet, he is ready to appreciate the beefsteak and potatoes and the ham-omelette and other substantials which are tendered to him when he sits down.
We reached Helsingfors—the present capital of Russian Finland—about noon. For several hours before coming in view of the town, we had passed between numberless rocky islands. These kept off the winds and waves, and after a while everybody was on deck and feeling well. The practical joker (no company on shipboard is complete without one) did not miss his chance when the famous white-roofed church of Helsingfors hove in sight. As belated passengers thrust their heads above the companion-way, he would seize them by the hand and drag them to the bow to show them that it had been snowing during the night! To those not in the secret the illusion was complete, and there was an instinctive movement to button up coats. There was a great church on a hill, and every roof, gable, and cornice where snow could lodge was apparently covered with it. The church could not look whiter in the dead of winter. This snow-effect is the work of design. It is paint—a study from nature; and, if Helsingfors were distinguished for nothing else, this unique church would make the place worthy of a visit. But all of us who went ashore to spend the day—as the boat would not start again before one o’clock the next morning—found much more there. The rides and walks were pleasant; the parks large and full of flowers, with fountains playing, and we could dine and sup in the open air, with music by the best band of the garrison, which is always kept strong at Helsingfors. Although the people of Finland are submissive to Russia in many respects, they are quite independent in others. Russia humors them to the extent of permitting home-rule in all matters local, and even allows them to coin their own money. This concession suits the Finns more than the traveling public. You are obliged to change your rubles and kopecks into marks and pennies—all reckonings being made in the latter money. I should say that Finland has the best of the bargain. Russia protects her and makes business for her, and in return exercises a sovereignty which strikes the stranger as merely nominal.
By one o’clock, A. M., the last of the wanderers had come aboard, tired out with his or her pleasurings on land. But all were ready for another frolic of four hours when we arrived at Abo—the old capital of Finland, and still strongly attached to the Sweden of which that country was once an appanage. But here, as elsewhere, among the Finns, the Russian yoke is hardly felt. There is not much to see or do in Abo, except to visit an old castle and church, and dine at a pretty little restaurant within hearing of the steamer’s whistle. This was all very unexciting when compared to our revelries at Helsingfors. No one was sorry when the screw again buzzed, and we were heading in a southwest direction for Stockholm. Abo is the farthest northing we have yet made. According to my tattered map, it is about on the latitude of the Shetland Islands. It must be bitterly cold in winter, but on the day of our visit the weather there was just on the verge of warmth. Except for a light wind, it would have been uncomfortable in thick clothing.
The third stage of the trip—from Finland to Stockholm—is uneventful. We sleep through the larger part of it. The morning finds our craft threading a multitude of islands. Many are richly cultivated. As we approach Stockholm the pilot steers carefully. Navigation is difficult for natural reasons, aside from the swarm of steamboats, ships, and yachts. The Swedish flag, mainly a yellow cross on a blue ground, is voted a beauty by all on deck. Our hastily formed impressions of everything are favorable. We think well of the custom-house men, who, while not neglecting their duty, give us as little trouble as possible, and do not look significantly at the palms of their hands. So, after a journey which has used up the best part of three days, we begin to see the sights of which I spoke in the opening paragraph of this chapter.
The greatest curiosity in Stockholm is Professor Nordenskiöld’s meteorite. He found it in Greenland many years ago, shipped it to this city, and presented it to the principal museum, where it occupies the post of honor. It is the largest messenger from the skies of which I have any knowledge. Some of the guide-books make a woful blunder in mentioning the weight of the mass. They put it at two hundred and fifty tons. This is the truth multiplied by (say) ten or more. But an aërolite of twenty-five tons is still a prodigy. It would cut up into a hundred of such pieces as are now the pride of separate collections in the great cities of the world. Its bulk is about that of a New York hackney-coach, minus wheels and box-seat, and it would resemble that ugly object in shape if it were not flattened and narrowed on one side. It is iron of the specific kind called meteoric, with a definite proportion of nickel in its composition. The intense heat to which it was subjected in passing from the celestial regions through our atmosphere scorched it terribly. It is blistered all over. This is a kind of heaven’s artillery before which the biggest red-hot shot of human invention sinks into insignificance.
There are many treasures of art and science in Stockholm which even the most hurried of travelers should not fail to see. There are churches which, though bare and cold when contrasted with those of Italy or of Russia, are interesting by virtue of their tombs, their pictures, statues, wood-carvings, and historical associations. On every side the inquisitive mind may gather knowledge. But I think most tourists will agree with me that for pure entertainment nothing yields better return than a dinner in the Djurgarden. At one of the great restaurants in that beautiful park you may dine perfectly in a shaded corridor and watch the ever-fluctuating crowd of well-dressed, light-hearted people, and hear the finest selections from the musical masterpieces of all nations. These are rendered by a military band which might be safely sent to America to compete with the best of ours. When the wind and muscle of the performers give out, the music does not cease. As the last strain of one band dies on the air, a second band, just as good, continues the programme, so that there is no break in the feast of sounds. The two sets of musicians “spell” each other, till all the hearers have had enough.