Cousin-hunting in Scandinavia

by Mary Wilhelmine Williams

In my mother’s childhood also many believed in witches and wizards, who were able to work destruction to their enemies, and against whom one must be on one’s guard; and of “wise men” and “wise women,” beneficent variations of the witch and wizard class, to whom one went with one’s troubles, of whatever nature. Was a Bornholmer afflicted with boils or ringworm, warts or “fits,” which failed to yield to home remedies, if he was superstitious—as he often was—he would ignore medical advice and consult a “wise” person, frequently with satisfactory results. A lost sheep or a lost child, a guilty conscience or suspected disloyalty on the part of a lass or a lover—all of these were cases which called for the services of the “wise.” With the spread of scientific knowledge, however, knowing ones, good and evil, tended to lose prestige, and now, so far as I have been able to learn, they are no more numerous in Bornholm than elsewhere; the “backwoods” in the Baltic is becoming as hard-headed and skeptical as the remainder of the world.

On my return from Svaneke to Nexö I rode on the high seat with the driver; and as the day was fine and the driver was affable it seemed almost as if my old staging days had returned. One has such a top-of-the-world feeling when on the driver’s seat of a stage coach—even if the coach be only a post wagon. To the right hand was a Bornholm landscape such as I have tried to describe; to the left was the Baltic, edged by rocky cliffs, and dotted here and there with the white or brown sail of a fishing boat.

A few miles beyond Nexö I stopped off to visit my cousin Thorwald, who lives on a large gaard with quadrangular buildings of brick, arranged on the same principle as Barquist, only on a larger and more elaborate scale. While here, for the first time—I hope it was the first time—I disgraced my clan. This is how it happened. When I arrived, Christine, my cousin’s wife, was up to her eyebrows in preparations for a birthday party for their little girl; and promptly after my arrival the cook fell ill. It was evident that a crisis was at hand, which I determined to relieve. The intricacies of Danish cookery are quite beyond me, so I knew enough to leave that to Christine; and I cast about me for other means of helpfulness. As luck would have it, I saw a row of milk pails near the kitchen door. Now, as you know, I was not reared on the Far Western frontier for nothing; the mysteries of bridge whist and the tango to me are mysteries indeed, but I can milk a cow.

As the inspiration seized me, as promptly I seized a pail and went forth to relieve the birthday party crisis. The cows were gentle; I milked two, and returned in triumph with the brimming pail. I acknowledge that I had had some misgivings with reference to just how my particular form of aid would be regarded; but I was not prepared for the sensation which my performance created. As I approached the house, I met one of the maids who was starting out to milk. Upon seeing me, she rushed into the house exclaiming, “De fremmede dame har malkede köerene! De fremmede dame har malkede köerene!” And the awful tidings spread.

Since Thorwald is not only a wealthy farmer but—what is vastly more important—is also an officer in the Danish army, Christine has a tremendous amount of dignity to maintain. When she learned what I had done, she stood for a moment in petrified astonishment, and then burst forth, “You have milked the cows! What will my friends say! What will my friends say!” And then she left the room, utterly humiliated by the conduct of her husband’s low-bred cousin. I am certain that she swore the maids to secrecy, lest my exploit get abroad and she lose caste.

A scrap of consolation was offered to me, however, by Christine’s cousin, who was also a visitor at the house. She, not being related to me, could afford to be amused as well as scandalized. After I had stoutly aired my views, this cousin told of a Danish high-school teacher—a woman of phenomenal strength of mind—who had not only shocked the whole community by milking a cow, but subsequently had shamelessly announced that were she the queen she would milk cows if she felt like doing so! Unfortunately, with all of her charm, little old Bornholm is in some ways very conservative and very aristocratic; there is much talk of “fine folk”; and her aristocracy is still determined to a considerable degree by the mediæval qualifications of position and wealth, rather than by intellect and character. She is not so different from my own land, however; for there are plenty of Americans who would sympathize with Cousin Christine’s indignation over my plebeian performance.

Lest you be left with the impression, however, that the “pearl of the Baltic” is far more back-woodsy and conservative than is a fact, I wish to assure you before leaving it that Bornholm is, in many ways, exceedingly progressive. It must be, since it is a part of Denmark, which is in the front rank of the progressives of Europe. The farmers’ telephone system, for instance, is well established on the island, and is well patronized; rural mail delivery also exists, the postmen generally cycling over the smooth roads. Bornholm’s educational system is excellent; you would be astonished at the subjects, besides English, which are included even in the grammar school course. And I must acknowledge—though as an American school teacher I am somewhat ashamed to—that the teaching is more thorough than in our land; the Danish children seem to retain and make practical use of what they learn, as few American children do. The Bornholmers are intelligent too, though isolated; they read and they think; all seem to make at least one trip to Copenhagen during a lifetime, and many visit the capital quite frequently. Also, Socialism gives evidence of being fairly well rooted in the island, where it bids fair in future to play havoc with time-honored aristocratic ideals.

Bornholm conservatism is in a sense a modified local patriotism; for the Bornholmers are intensely attached to their mid-Baltic home,—a fact, I presume, largely due to their isolation and to the consequent necessity, to a considerable degree, for their fighting their own battles in times past. Their love for the beautiful island naturally makes them loath to change the old for the new, unless they see a good reason for so doing. A cousin who is a fiercely loyal Bornholmer is a good illustration of this. One day I asked her the Danish word for “birch” and she replied, “The Copenhagen Danish is birk; the Bornholm Danish is burck. I pronounce it burck, for I am a Bornholmer.” The Danish spoken in Copenhagen is generally considered the best, and is charming to the ear; in my opinion, it has a dignity which French lacks, and a beauty of sound foreign to German. The Bornholm dialect, on the other hand, is a broad drawl which is unqualifiedly ugly.

It must be recognized, too, that Bornholm possesses virtues which many centrally-located places lack. Among the population of more than forty thousand serious crimes are almost unknown. The people are friendly and honest; they practice the Golden Rule pretty faithfully. I was impressed with this fact while in Svaneke. We were going away to spend the evening, and I, being the last out, proceeded to lock the door. “Never mind to lock the door,” said Tante Anna; “just close it. There are no thieves on Bornholm.” Later, fearful lest she had exaggerated the honesty of the island, she discussed the matter with Tante Hulda; and finally they remembered that some years before a man in Rönne had been convicted of stealing a few kroners’ worth of something—I have forgotten what.

I am writing these final lines aboard Örnen, sitting on a stool in the cabin with my writing pad on my knee; for I am outward bound from Bornholm. All of my Rönne relatives came to the boat and saw me off with “Hils hjemmes” and repeatedly waved good-byes. I was just on deck to take a last look. Ah, when I forget thee, Bornholm!—My nearest cabin mate is a girl from the Faroes, who is taking a great armful of purple heather home with her. The Faroes, you know, are a part of Denmark. An old Norse dialect is the vernacular, but Danish is taught in the schools, and my cabin mate, like most natives, speaks it. Hence, we do not have to resort to a deaf-mute show in order to make ourselves understood. The girl is stirring in her berth. I fear that the light disturbs her, so I must put it out. As the Bornholmers say, “Farvel saa laenge”—Good-bye for the present.