Cousin-hunting in Scandinavia

by Mary Wilhelmine Williams

North of St. Alban’s is Langelinie, the most beautiful promenade in Copenhagen. To the left of the promenade is a park, and to the right lies the harbor, filled with all sorts of water craft bearing the flags of many nations, including our own “Old Glory,” which looked wondrous good to me. Great crowds of people—young and old, parents and children—dressed in their Sunday clothes, were passing to and fro upon Langelinie, all looking healthy and happy.

I returned through the beautiful, shady park. Upon the benches under the trees I noticed many women serenely chatting, their fingers busy with sewing, embroidery, or knitting. Would you call such a Sabbath occupation scandalous and unseemly? I must confess that I was more impressed with the women’s industry than I was shocked by their desecration of the day.

Farther on, I took a peep into the Citadel. It dates from the seventeenth century, and is of red brick, with tree-covered ramparts. Soldiers were standing on guard at the entrance, and were passing back and forth between the buildings. Unlike England and the United States, Denmark, I regret to say, requires military service of all of her ablebodied men. She maintains what is, in proportion to her population, a large standing army.

This morning, true to the resolution made at Frue Kirke, I called upon Cousin Lars. Cousin Lars is really my mother’s cousin, but as he has always been her favorite cousin he has seemed a sort of an uncle to me. Many years ago, when I was a tiny child, Cousin Lars spent several years in California, which he expected to make his permanent home; but his young wife suddenly died, and it was her dying request that he take their children back to the home land and rear them. This caused him to return to Denmark.

Cousin Lars still loves the United States, however, and, though “blood is thicker than water,” I really believe that he welcomed me more heartily as a Californian, recently “come over,” than as a cousin. For he quickly convinced me that I was thrice welcome—and caused me to regret keenly that I had delayed so long making known to him my presence in Copenhagen. He wished to send immediately to the hotel for my baggage; and without consulting me he asked his housekeeper to have a room prepared for my reception. But when I informed him that I was booked to sail from Copenhagen to-night he abandoned his plan, stipulating, however, that I was to be his guest upon my return.

I made my call early this morning in order to be sure to find Cousin Lars at home, for the Danes are fresh-air people and all who can afford to do so spend their afternoons in the city parks or in the country. And in consequence of my early call I enjoyed the pleasure of a real Danish home luncheon with my cousin. Yet it was not so genuinely Danish, after all, except the food, which, like all food I have tasted in Denmark, was good. The luncheon was really Danish-American, for Cousin Lars, in my honor, had the table set with the silverware bought years ago in the Far West, and at one end of the table he placed a little silk Dannebrog with the white cross on the red field, and on the other my own Stars and Stripes. As a sign that this was a very festive occasion, both flags were at the very tip-top of their masts. Our conversation was also Danish-American. At times we spoke Danish, my contribution being of a very bad quality; at others, we spoke “American,” Cousin Lars’ efforts showing rust for want of use; and, occasionally, when the borrowed languages seemed inadequate, we would resort to our own respective mother tongues and exchange remarks in Danish and American.

After luncheon I learned that Cousin Lars had planned to spend the afternoon in the country in his “garden,” and I urged that he execute the plan and take me along. He did, and I had such a pleasant, untouristlike time! We started on the street cars, but a strike of carmen interrupted our progress; then we walked the remainder of the way—as I preferred doing so to taking a carriage—and Cousin Lars called attention to the places of interest which we passed.

Near the outskirts of the city, a “folke skole,” or elementary public school, which was being repainted, caught my eye, and we went in to explore. This was one of the free schools to which the poor people send their children. The class rooms were well lighted and well ventilated and generally comfortable. In fact, the building pretty closely resembled those of our own elementary schools. A few good pictures, including portraits of Hans Christian Andersen and Bertel Thorwaldsen, were on the walls. Upon the second floor were completely equipped departments for the teaching of cooking and sewing; and in another part of the building was a manual-training laboratory.

Farther out along the street I noticed a bread-line of children. A woman was handing out generous-looking sandwiches to twenty or thirty little people as they filed past her in an irregular line. These were children, Cousin Lars said, whose parents were not able to supply them with proper food. While school was in session they were supplied with luncheons at public expense; and now, during vacation, one of their teachers, a noble-hearted young woman, had assumed the task of keeping the active young bodies somewhat adequately nourished. She herself is poor, but she solicits money from private individuals with which to purchase food; and this food she personally distributes daily. I am glad to be able to say, however, that such cases of want are comparatively rare. The splendid spirit of cooperation shown by the Danish people in their industrial life has produced a degree of prosperity which is truly remarkable, in view of the resources of the country.

And now for the garden—for we soon reached it. It is a tiny plat of ground of about four thousand square feet, which Cousin Lars has planted to the choicest kind of flowers, selected with the view to securing an unbroken succession of bloom, beginning with the earliest varieties and ending with the latest. There are also a few shade trees, and along the fence are berry bushes. In the rear of the lot is an arbor covered with a picturesque tangle of woodbine and climbing rose; and close beside it is a one-roomed bungalow, so overgrown with clematis, now in bloom, that the little building looks like a giant purple bouquet. The bungalow room is furnished with a table, a couch, two or three comfortable chairs, a case containing books and magazines. Attached like a barnacle to the outside of the building is a tiny kitchenette, containing an oil stove and a stock of provisions.