Cousin-hunting in Scandinavia

by Mary Wilhelmine Williams

Dear Cynthia:

Here I am at last, all safe and sound, in the land of the Viking—the land of my ancestors. In fact, several days have passed since my wandering feet first touched Danish soil; but I have been so absorbed with my initial explorations of this snug little country, which is still “home” to my mother, that I have been neglecting my own home and friends in the dear Far Western World.

Last Friday morning I left Kiel for Korsör, which is upon Seeland, the largest island of Denmark. A glorious, cloudless sky was overhead; and the Baltic about us was a vast, shimmering, rippling liquid plain of changing blues and greens over which our boat, the Prince Sigismund, smoothly and rapidly passed. About two hours after leaving Germany I secured my first glimpse of Danish territory; Langeland (Long Land), with low, white cliffs—modest imitations of Shakespeare’s “pale and white-faced shore”—loomed up on the left. Our boat kept close enough to the island to give us a good view of the rolling coast, marked off in patches of light fields and dark forests, with here and there glimpses of quaint farm houses and windmills of the “Dutch” variety. To the right, faint and far away, was a misty suggestion of the cliffs of Laaland (Low Land), a larger island of the Danish archipelago; but so like Langeland did its vague outline appear as to seem the very ghost or double of it.

While we were still passing between these two southern outposts of Denmark, luncheon was announced. Some of the passengers promptly went below to the dining salon, but many had their refreshments served on little tables on the open deck. I was among the latter. Most of the people about me were evidently Germans going to Denmark or Danes or other Scandinavians returning home after visits of business or pleasure in Germany. To them it was a voyage frequently made, and they preferred the deck to the dining salon merely because it was pleasanter. But to me, an American of Scandinavian parentage, it was such a very important occasion that I was determined to see as much as possible, during this first view, of the land in which, for centuries—for thousands of years—my forefathers and foremothers had lived and died.

The part of the Baltic which separates the island of Fünen from the island of Seeland, upon which Copenhagen is situated, is called by the Danes “Store Baelt”—the Great Belt. As I have told you, for my crossing, the waters of the Great Belt rippled charmingly under the gentle stroke of the summer breeze; and the islands beckoned invitingly to the front and the left and the right. This seascape and landscape was as different as possible from the mental picture which the name Great Belt had long summoned to my mind. Since studying Scandinavian history I had most frequently thought of the strait as heavily bridged with ice, and of the Danish islands as paralyzed under the dominion of the Frost King. For this was the state of affairs one February day two hundred and fifty odd years ago. And the bridge of ice was so strong and so thick as to tempt Charles title="the tenth" of Sweden—who had been recently moved to make a belligerent call upon his nearest neighbor to the south—to march several thousand horse and foot soldiers over the bridge, via the smaller islands to the right hand, and to threaten the Danish capital. In consequence of the Swedish king’s pressing attentions, Frederick III of Denmark, who had been to a considerable extent to blame for the quarrel, decided to buy peace by means of the treaty of Roskilde. This gave to the Swedes a half dozen Danish provinces, including some in the southern part of the present Sweden, which had long been Danish soil.

It soon became evident, however, that Charles intended to make use of the army which he maintained in Denmark for the purpose of wringing still further concessions from his humiliated neighbor. Naturally, Denmark did not agree to the new demands with the desired alacrity, and King Frederick declared that he would die like a bird in its nest rather than surrender to Charles. Whereupon the Swedish king vowed that he would wipe the Danish nest off the map, and soon had laid siege to Copenhagen. But the Danish people worked as one man and helped save their capital by hurling upon the enemy an avalanche of artillery fire, stones, and hot water. Much aid was also given to the Danes by the Dutch fleet, which slipped past the Swedish guns guarding the Sound to the north and arrived in time. Soon the tables were turned. The Swedes were defeated and driven out of the land, and in the end Denmark recovered some of the territory which she had lost. And little Denmark still stands, somewhat pared away, to be sure, in the course of the centuries by one enemy or another, but with the great heart of her—the most Danish part—still intact and still beating, an independent nation of busy, healthy, happy people.

While I was still meditating upon Charles X’s crossing of the Great Belt and the exciting events which followed, the Prince Sigismund slipped swiftly into the harbor of Korsör, a place rimmed with low-built, cosy-looking houses. As soon as we landed, a giant in buttons and bars “shooed” us into the customs house. He was a giant of the harmless, friendly sort, and as soon as the inspection of my baggage was over he hunted up a porter for me. The porter was a blond, guileless-appearing individual, possessed of astonishingly modest ideas of his own worth. He weighed my trunk and put it on the Copenhagen train, carried my two suit cases to an “ikke-röge” (smoking not allowed) compartment of the same train, and then announced the charge for his services to be ten öre—less than three cents!

The train which I boarded, like most passenger trains in Europe, was divided into compartments for accommodating about six people, each compartment opening into a narrow corridor running the whole length of the car. The compartment in which I rode was third class, but it was very clean and was quite satisfactory for a short journey. The seats were not upholstered, but they were more comfortable than the average church pew. On the walls were several attractive photographic views of Danish landscapes, and a map of Denmark. There was also the customary notice prohibiting spitting upon the floor. My only companions in the compartment were a rosy-cheeked Danish mother and two chubby, blue-eyed little boys. Each of the little chaps had a tiny shovel and a tin bucket, still bearing traces of sand. They had evidently spent the day at the beach.

As the train rolled placidly along, I had pleasant glimpses of Seeland through the car window. The otherwise monotonous level of the land was broken by the variety of color and form: there was a constant alternation of dark forests and light fields, of thatched-roof farm houses and huge windmills; and occasionally there appeared men and women cultivating the crops. Now and then we passed through a town, and in one of them, Roskilde, I obtained a view of the spires of the fine old cathedral towering above the tops of the trees clustering around it, and far above the broad red-tiled roofs of the houses in the foreground. I shall visit Roskilde upon my return.

Soon we were at our destination. It took just two hours to pass from Korsör to Copenhagen—to cross Denmark’s largest island; and the fare which I paid was the equivalent of eighty-five cents in American money—about one-third of what it would have been if I had come first class. To an American used to the long transcontinental journey in her own land, Denmark seems so very, very tiny.