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.
Stork Fountain, Copenhagen
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.