After leaving Hammershuus, we drove along the southeast coast to Rö, to see Helligdommen Klippen (Holy Cathedral Cliffs). As it was about five o’clock when we arrived at Rö, we first had supper under the trees, with coffee, piping hot, obtained just across the way. Then, by means of a winding stairway, we reached the base of the cliffs. Here was a little gasoline launch which took us up and down the coast to see the fantastic wave-worn rock, now and then puffing into the deep caves dug out by the breakers. In some places the cliffs look as if Mother Nature when in an angry mood had seized a mighty knife and slashed right and left, working havoc with the solid granite; here were long slices of rock; there were slender columns and spires standing alone in the water; and occasionally there appeared a distinct variation of pattern, bearing resemblance to natural objects. Our guide in the launch made the most of these. “Look at the profile of the Bornholm damsel, formed by that mass of rocks,” said he; and “There is St. Peter; can’t you see his cross and keys?”—and so on.
On every ledge of the cliffs where soil could find place were velvety mosses, delicate, plumy ferns, and flowers brightly blooming; gaily colored fish darted about in the water; and—most beautiful of all—a glorious sunset crowned and scene and the day with a blaze of orange and crimson and gold and rose which covered half of the sky and was reflected on the surface of the placid Baltic.
Perhaps, as compared with the wild, majestic sweep of our Western scenery, all of this seems very miniature and very tame. But it is not fair to compare it with anything so different. Helligdommen, when I saw it, had a charm all its own—like an English landscape. I shall never forget its beauty.
It would have been very pleasant to spend the whole summer at Uncle Johannes’, but duty called, and the time for my other visits was short; so I soon returned to Rönne, bound for the northeastern part of the island. The railroad journey from Rönne to Nexö was one of the drollest experiences which I have had in Europe. Generally speaking, there is not anything funny about a ride by train;—but there are railroads and railroads; and of her own particular variety little old Bornholm certainly has a very exclusive monopoly. The cars are very small, as if they were the half-grown children of American ones; and the trains are almost incredibly leisurely. Positively, I believe that my train spent two-thirds of the time backing and switching and waiting at stations. During the remaining third it ambled and sauntered between stopping points; and upon finally reaching one, the locomotive gave a ridiculous, hysterical shriek, as if overcome by the prodigiousness of the feat which it had performed. But this toy train suits Bornholmers very well, for they have plenty of time; and it suited me, for it gave ample opportunity for studying the landscape. An American express would never do at all on that twenty-three-mile long island; it would be a giant in dwarf’s quarters. The Rönne-to-Nexö line, which is the main railroad line in Bornholm, is not sufficiently long to enable a train of the American express variety to assume normal speed with safety.
From Nexö to Svaneke, whither I was bound, I had to go by post wagon. A post chaise is just a sort of rudimentary stage coach, and as I am an old stager—as you know—I immediately bethought me of a seat on top with the driver, and lost no time before asking for it. Some one else had got ahead of me, however, and I had to ride inside with two women and two children; hence, I had only an occasional and fragmentary view out of the dusty window in the rear.
Svaneke, which is picturesquely situated upon the northeast coast of Bornholm, is a fishing town of about thirteen hundred inhabitants. It is, if possible, quainter than Rönne. Its streets are crooked beyond belief; they dip and turn, zig-zag, and run in circles;—at least, that is the impression which I gained from wandering helplessly around in them; for I never went out alone without becoming lost and having to undergo the humiliation of inquiring the way to my destination. Another baffling characteristic of the place is that the houses are more completely duplicates of one another than are those at Rönne.
On a particularly crooked street, near the edge of the town, are three of the typical Bornholm houses; all are low and box-shaped, with red-tiled roofs, and with small German windows, the wide sills of which are crowded with potted plants, beautifully growing and blooming. In these three houses live three aunts of mine, all of them sisters and all of them widows. To these aunts, my visit was an epoch-making event; I came as a delegate from my mother whom they had not seen for forty years. At a family congress held shortly after my arrival the time which I had to spare for Svaneke was carefully divided up, in order that each aunt might have a fair chance at her American niece; and in consequence of this treaty, the niece vibrated somewhat like an erratic pendulum between the three dear, quaint old homes. Breakfast at Tante Hulda’s, luncheon at Tante Anna’s, dinner at Tante Laura’s, with one or more of the appertaining cousins present,—thus ran the schedule, with an occasional reversal or combination. Only the place where I was to have afternoon coffee was left unprovided for; I had that wherever I happened to be at coffee time.
My nights, however, were spent with my oldest aunt, Anna, who lives in the middle of the row. All of her children have homes of their own, except the youngest, who has followed the call of the Viking and is away at sea. Her home is a perfect museum of souvenirs of him and his voyages; there are Japanese curios, tapa cloth from the South Seas, armadillo baskets, nautilus shells, South American parakeets, and I do not know what else. Imagine squawking parakeets in little old Bornholm! In its air of “foreignness,” the interior of Tante Anna’s house contrasted interestingly with the homes of my other two aunts, which are typical of Bornholm. But everything was interesting and charming and everything was wonderfully quiet and restful. I recommend Svaneke for all victims of nervous prostration.
One day, like Charles Lamb, I went cousin-hunting out in the country,—but in the company of a cousin instead of a sister. We cycled, Dagmar and I; and started early and had a long, lovely day. The landscape in this part of the island is the most beautiful that I have seen since my arrival here. The poppy-and-cornflower-strewn grain was ripe, and here and there the harvesting had begun. Occasionally the whirr of a reaping machine was heard, but very frequently I noticed folk reaping and binding by hand in primitive fashion. The men led, cutting the grain with their sickles; behind them came the women who bound it into sheaves, which they piled ready for the hauling. The colored dresses of the women contrasted brightly with the background of fields and gave the touch of perfection to the picture.
But the passing landscape was made up of much more than harvest fields and reapers. There was a rare variety. Patches of rosy clover and of alfalfa, with blossoms shading from pale amethyst to deep, dark purple—patronized by thousands of golden yellow butterflies—alternated with the fields of wheat and barley, oats and rye already mentioned. Some of the fields were unfenced; others were inclosed by thick, green hedges, or by walls of unhewn stone, with at times a waste corner given over to purple heather. Here and there over the patches of pasture please imagine a few sleek dairy cows, and a few more plump sheep. Add trees to the panoramic picture—some casting broad, cool shadows across the finely-paved road, along which you cycle in imagination with me, others grouped here and there between us and the horizon—majestic oaks and beeches, and white-limbed birches, with dainty, fern-like leaves.