Söderhamn has a population of several thousand, and is an important lumber-shipping harbor on the Gulf of Bothnia. My cousin Gunnar, whom I came to visit, is customs officer for the port. He lives half way up one of the pretty woodsy hills, in an orthodox Swedish house—dark red with white trimmings. As my Swedish kindred are mostly town dwellers, there is not much to say about them which would interest you, for they live very much as town dwellers do in all countries where the culture is of European origin. But there were a few things at Cousin Gunnar’s which got my special attention. One was the potted tomato plant growing in a sunny window of the dining room. It had several ripe tomatoes upon it, in which my cousin’s wife took such pride that she hesitated to gather them for the relish for which they were intended. When I reflected that the tomato vine was in the latitude of south Greenland, my respect for the small red fruit was profound. Another thing which impressed me was the courtier-like qualities of Swedish manners as illustrated by my cousins. Cousin Gunnar has six grown sons, some married, with homes of their own, and others still under the paternal roof. One or the other of these seven men seemed constantly to be just arriving or just departing, and always with bows numerous and profound. Before these replicas of Sir Walter Raleigh I felt myself to be a person of at least the importance of Queen Elizabeth.
Like Gefle and all other Swedish cities which I have visited, Söderhamn has clean, tree-shaded streets, handsome public buildings, and a beautiful city park. Whenever possible, the Swedish park is a hilly tract, rugged and woodsy. Such is the one at Söderhamn. And it was beautiful indeed when I saw it a few days ago. There were the dark old evergreens, dainty, silver-barked birches, rowan in abundance dotted with ripe red berries, and heather in purple bloom trailing over the gray rocks. On a high point of ground is a stone observation tower, built in the style of a castle and named Oskarsborg in honor of the late king. From this tower I had a fine view of the little city at our feet, and a panoramic sweep of the tiers of forested mountains, and of the gulf to the east. Siegfried, Cousin Gunnar’s son, who was with me, pointed out the elevation near the coast where, in the time of the wicked King Christian II, a Danish fort stood for the purpose of holding the Swedes in subjection. Christian II dominated even so far north as Söderhamn. Once, also, Siegfried told me, in Sweden’s old warring days, the Russians had sailed up the harbor and burned Söderhamn. May such a war-cursed time never again come near to the land of Sweden!
On the Train En Route to Falun.
P. S.—The above letter was supposed to be closed and ready for posting at my next stop; but I am adding this to tell about a funny man from whom I just parted company. He happened to be in the same compartment with me when the train left Söderhamn this morning, and when the conductor struggled to understand my bad Swedish, he kindly came to the rescue and answered my question in English. As the gentleman seemed quite mild and entirely harmless, I was glad of an excuse for conversation. Nearly twenty years ago, he told me, he spent several years in the United States as the secretary of a Swedish legation or consulate—I have forgotten which. His English pronunciation and grammar were remarkably good, but whole tracts of his vocabulary seemed to have dropped out of his memory. However, I supplied the words as needed, and we got on swimmingly for a time.
After he had given me much interesting information about the region through which we journeyed, I, wishing to say something particularly pleasant about his country, turned with my usual tact to the subject which had impressed me most wherever I had been in Scandinavia—the advanced position of the women. The gentleman acquiesced courteously in my view; and I, much encouraged, praised the Scandinavian men for their broad-minded attitude toward woman suffrage. Then I suddenly found that what I had taken for mildness in the Swede’s face was really conservatism. He promptly made it clear that he was opposed to the enfranchisement of women. I asked for his reasons, curious to know what a Swedish man’s objections would be like. In preparation for a crushing argument, he mobilized his English vocabulary.
“What is the word that goes with publicans?” he asked.
“Sinners,” I replied promptly, remembering my New Testament and wondering what was coming, “publicans and sinners.”
“Oh, yes, publicans and sinners,” said he. “Well, women are natural born sinners” (I gasped), “or socialists,” he added, “which is the same thing, and men are natural born publicans.”
“Democrats” was the word he had groped for—“democrats and republicans!” I explained that I had misunderstood, and supplied the proper words; and then the conservative gentleman proceeded to expound his theory—that woman suffrage would produce strife in the family, perhaps even divorce! Men folks are much alike the world over, after all, aren’t they? As are women folks. Other arguments were marshalled forth by both sides, but of course both of us remained of our original opinions; and the discussion ended by my quoting the retort of Mrs. Poyser in “Adam Bede”: “I’m not denying women are fools, God Almighty made ’em to match the men,” whereupon my opponent laughed and found another topic of conversation.
He was very gallant, however, and when I had to change trains at Storvik, where he did not, he insisted, at the peril of having his train depart without him, upon carrying all of my bundles into the waiting room for me, and upon obtaining detailed information regarding the train which I was to take for Falun. He was evidently used to the “clinging-vine” type of woman. I wonder how he supposed I reached Northern Sweden all alone.