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.
Ezias Tegnér
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!”