Cousin-hunting in Scandinavia

by Mary Wilhelmine Williams

August 6, 191—

My dear Cynthia:

“Bornholm!” I hear you exclaim. “Wherever in all Europe is Bornholm?” Bornholm, I reply, is the “backwoods” of Denmark, the “pearl of the Baltic,” and altogether the loveliest place in the world—next to the choicest bits of my own fair land. Look on your map of Denmark, and you will see in the extreme east, as if it had strayed away from the other Danish islands and become lost, a trapezoid-shaped scrap of territory; that is Bornholm—the birthplace of my mother. When a child, I was very fond of reading “Robinson Crusoe” and “Swiss Family Robinson,” in consequence of which my ideal terrestrial paradise was a desert island near the Equator. And many were the dreams which I wove about the tropical spot, well populated with talking parrots and chattering monkeys. But if I could now, rich with my present experience, dream them over again, I should substitute Bornholm, in the Baltic—at least for summer residence.

I flew over here one evening more than a week ago, in the cabin of Örnen (The Eagle), the triggest little steamship you ever could imagine. We left at about nine o’clock, and Cousin Lars and his sons were at the pier to wave good-by, as planned. Contrary to even her summer habits, the Baltic was again beautifully calm for my sailing, so the crossing was made on schedule time, and we reached here at about six o’clock the next morning.

As you may well imagine, I rose early, and was on deck to see the arrival. When I came out of the cabin I saw a high, dark bank to the east. That was Bornholm. It is higher than the other Danish islands, and more rocky. In fact, geologically, it belongs to Sweden, for it is a continuation of the rock-ribbed Scandinavian peninsula. Soon I could distinguish trees and houses and windmills, and presently we glided past the light-houses at the ends of the breakwater and were in Rönne harbor, where a new cousin was on hand to bid me good-morning.

Rönne, which has a population of about nine thousand, is the capital of Bornholm. So far as I have been able to learn, the little town is noted only for its quaintness; and it is certainly quaint. Practically all of the houses except the public buildings are long and low and box-shaped, with red-tiled or slate roofs and brick or stone walls. Bay windows and other architectural protuberances are conspicuous by their absence; windows of the small “German” variety which swing open like doors are in time-honored vogue instead; and their broad sills are simply crowded with potted plants. But there are no flower-filled “yards” or lawns in front to delight the passer-by. Gardens, the Danes seem to believe, are primarily for the pleasure of the owner, and are to be enjoyed in seclusion and privacy. Consequently, they are behind the houses and are generally surrounded by a high, close fence. My great aunt Karen, to whose home I went upon reaching here, has such a garden in her “back yard,”—with patches of velvety grass, draperies of vines clinging to the fence, hedges of roses, and brilliant beds of blooming annuals. And in the midst of this “garden of delight” is the vine-covered arbor in which we had our meals.

The shops, as well as the dwelling houses, are low and box-shaped; and their show windows are small and crowded. There are no bold sign-boards on the gable ends of the buildings, as in the United States; instead, modest little “shingles” are generally stuck out by the tradesmen.

Dwelling houses, as well as shops, extend to the sidewalks, and many encroach shamelessly upon them, even monopolizing the whole width, and pushing the pedestrian out into the street. In fact, it is very evident that the houses in centuries past were just placed “any which way,” and that later the sidewalks were filled in, along as straight a line as possible. Like the streets, they are of cobble stone, and are marked off from the former only by being a few inches higher. After what I have said, you would hardly expect these streets to be of the avenue or boulevard variety, would you?

On my second day in Rönne I gained much quiet pleasure from wandering about the little town, noting the places of importance, and gazing in the shop windows at the rows of wooden shoes and other practical wares intended primarily for the native; and at the models of Danish castles and churches, and the exquisite displays of pottery and statuary, more calculated to catch the eye of the opulent tourist. Such shops are clustered around Storetorv, the Large Square, to which the country people come in regularly to sell their produce. In the midst of the “torv” is a queer old stone fountain decorated with gigantic bronze snails.

Forming part of Store Gade, Rönne’s main street, are two small stones, one of them bearing the date “1658.” All true Bornholmers are as proud of these stones as New Englanders are of Plymouth Rock, with its “1620;” for on this spot fell the Swedish commander, Printzenskjold—shot, time-honored tradition says, by a silver button, torn from the vest of the shooter and used as a bullet—when the Bornholmers rose in revolt against Swedish domination. By the treaty of Roskilde which followed Charles X’s unwelcome visit over the frozen Great Belt, the Swedish king, you may remember, secured several Danish provinces. Bornholm was one of these. But the Bornholmers had not been consulted regarding the cession; and as they preferred to be Danes, they did not “stay put.” That is how it happens that I am half Danish in descent, rather than wholly Swedish—a distinction largely without a difference. And the distinction hangs upon a silver button.