By one o’clock, A. M., the last of the wanderers had come aboard, tired out with his or her pleasurings on land. But all were ready for another frolic of four hours when we arrived at Abo—the old capital of Finland, and still strongly attached to the Sweden of which that country was once an appanage. But here, as elsewhere, among the Finns, the Russian yoke is hardly felt. There is not much to see or do in Abo, except to visit an old castle and church, and dine at a pretty little restaurant within hearing of the steamer’s whistle. This was all very unexciting when compared to our revelries at Helsingfors. No one was sorry when the screw again buzzed, and we were heading in a southwest direction for Stockholm. Abo is the farthest northing we have yet made. According to my tattered map, it is about on the latitude of the Shetland Islands. It must be bitterly cold in winter, but on the day of our visit the weather there was just on the verge of warmth. Except for a light wind, it would have been uncomfortable in thick clothing.
The third stage of the trip—from Finland to Stockholm—is uneventful. We sleep through the larger part of it. The morning finds our craft threading a multitude of islands. Many are richly cultivated. As we approach Stockholm the pilot steers carefully. Navigation is difficult for natural reasons, aside from the swarm of steamboats, ships, and yachts. The Swedish flag, mainly a yellow cross on a blue ground, is voted a beauty by all on deck. Our hastily formed impressions of everything are favorable. We think well of the custom-house men, who, while not neglecting their duty, give us as little trouble as possible, and do not look significantly at the palms of their hands. So, after a journey which has used up the best part of three days, we begin to see the sights of which I spoke in the opening paragraph of this chapter.
The greatest curiosity in Stockholm is Professor Nordenskiöld’s meteorite. He found it in Greenland many years ago, shipped it to this city, and presented it to the principal museum, where it occupies the post of honor. It is the largest messenger from the skies of which I have any knowledge. Some of the guide-books make a woful blunder in mentioning the weight of the mass. They put it at two hundred and fifty tons. This is the truth multiplied by (say) ten or more. But an aërolite of twenty-five tons is still a prodigy. It would cut up into a hundred of such pieces as are now the pride of separate collections in the great cities of the world. Its bulk is about that of a New York hackney-coach, minus wheels and box-seat, and it would resemble that ugly object in shape if it were not flattened and narrowed on one side. It is iron of the specific kind called meteoric, with a definite proportion of nickel in its composition. The intense heat to which it was subjected in passing from the celestial regions through our atmosphere scorched it terribly. It is blistered all over. This is a kind of heaven’s artillery before which the biggest red-hot shot of human invention sinks into insignificance.
There are many treasures of art and science in Stockholm which even the most hurried of travelers should not fail to see. There are churches which, though bare and cold when contrasted with those of Italy or of Russia, are interesting by virtue of their tombs, their pictures, statues, wood-carvings, and historical associations. On every side the inquisitive mind may gather knowledge. But I think most tourists will agree with me that for pure entertainment nothing yields better return than a dinner in the Djurgarden. At one of the great restaurants in that beautiful park you may dine perfectly in a shaded corridor and watch the ever-fluctuating crowd of well-dressed, light-hearted people, and hear the finest selections from the musical masterpieces of all nations. These are rendered by a military band which might be safely sent to America to compete with the best of ours. When the wind and muscle of the performers give out, the music does not cease. As the last strain of one band dies on the air, a second band, just as good, continues the programme, so that there is no break in the feast of sounds. The two sets of musicians “spell” each other, till all the hearers have had enough.
CHAPTER XXX. BY RAIL TO CHRISTIANIA—FARE ON THE ROAD—NORWAY’S CAPITAL—THE VIKING-SHIP—AN INLAND TOUR.
“Twenty minutes for dinner!” supper, or breakfast, as the case may be. The conductor on the Swedish or Norwegian railways announces this important fact to English-speaking travelers in the sign-language. He spreads out all his fingers and thumbs twice. It speaks volumes to the hungry man. He jumps from the train to the platform of the pretty little station. He enters a room where he finds the feast all spread, but no waiters. Behind a desk in a corner sits a woman calmly knitting. Her business is only to take the money. The guest’s business is to help himself. It is fortunate for him if he has been through the same ordeal before. For that mighty soup-tureen, with a ladle in it, does not contain soup. It is full of delicious whipped cream, destined for the strawberries or raspberries which form a mound by its side. Another tureen, exactly matching it, is the one into which he should first dip. He should go down deep and stir up the rich sediment. With a pint of this soup at his disposal it matters less what he eats afterward. He can have fish, two kinds of meat, various side-dishes, pastry, cakes, bread, cheese and butter, tea, coffee, and bottled ale, besides berries and cream (the latter in soup-plates always) all at discretion. It rests with himself whether he will clear the board. When he has satisfied his appetite, or eaten out his twenty minutes, he hands the industrious woman at the desk one krone and a half—about forty-two cents of American money. She barely looks up from her work, sweeps the coins into the till, and resumes the clicking of her needles with an expression of impatience. At first it seems as if this “self-help” system were extremely liberal on the part of the caterer. But after trying it a number of times I find that about half of my twenty minutes is spent in choosing dishes, changing my plates, knives, forks, and spoons, and these are never handy. It also occurs to me that I am saving the establishment the expense of a waiter; and, on the whole, I would prefer to pay a little more, and be helped by somebody else. These meals, occurring at intervals of a few hours, pleasantly break the monotony of the long rail-ride from Stockholm to the Norwegian capital. The scenery is a succession of ponds—full of lilies—birch-forests and hay-fields. After the first hundred miles of it one cuddles into the corner of his seat and waits for the conductor to make the invariable signs at him to rise and eat.
Approaching Christiania and looking from the car-window, I think I see the British flag everywhere. It is the red and blue of Norway—resembling at a distance the colors of England. Norway, though under the same popular king as Sweden, has her own flag. Are those London policemen at the station? They wear cloth helmets, have their numbers in metal on their standing coat-collars, carry sheathed clubs, and only dispel the illusion when they give mild orders in an unknown tongue. They motion us to go into a room where custom-house officers are in waiting. For reasons good unto themselves, but incomprehensible to the traveler coming from Stockholm, the Norwegian authorities put the baggage through a second inspection. For all I know, the good King Oscar himself may be obliged to stand this sort of thing every time he rides from one of his capitals to the other. Though the ceremony seemed absurd and needless, I determined to spare the officials all possible trouble. I unbuckled the straps, unlocked the trunks, opened them, took out the top trays, folded my arms, and awaited developments—strong in innocence. Great was my astonishment when the custom-house man looked at me, but not at the trunks, and asked simply, “Clothes?” I nodded, whereupon he stooped and leisurely replaced the trays, locked and buckled up the trunks, and chalked them without another word. Before one could even thank him, he had vanished.
As we rode through the streets to the hotel, the likeness of Christiania to London was repeated in the yellowish fronts of the two-story houses and the extreme cleanliness of the streets. What, therefore, could be a better name for the principal hotel than “Victoria”? It looks just like one of those great, rambling inns which are the delight of Americans in the midland counties. It is a labyrinth of halls, little passages, and stairs. On every landing-place is a black or white bear or other wild beast artistically mounted. To come upon one of these at dusk for the first time is startling. Elk-horns, walrus-tusks, and every imaginable trophy of the chase, are displayed in nooks and corners. We see at once that this free museum is intended to please our English friends who come to Norway in the season to hunt and take in Christiania on the way. We hope they find that all the game has not already been shot and stuffed for the hotel.