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.
Statue of Birger Jarl, Stockholm
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.
Selma Lagerlöf
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!”