As you doubtless know, I have cousins in Copenhagen, but I did not write to them of my intended visit because I wished to make my first acquaintance with Denmark’s capital by independent exploration; therefore, at the Central Station I took a drosky for a hotel. And at the hotel I secured a comfortable room, supplied with a generous portion of windows and furnished in blues and greens and browns blended according to Danish ideas of the artistic. My exploration of Copenhagen began with my bed-room. I wish that you could see my bed and my stove, Cynthia; they are marvels to American eyes. The bed is a veritable mountain of feathers; whole flocks of geese must have contributed their substance toward its construction. Not only are there several strata of feather pillows upon which to lie, but the coverlet is also of down, puffy and fluffy, and of smothering thickness. At night I cast most of the components of the bed in a heap upon the floor, cap off the pile with the coverlet, and sleep in peace under the top sheet and the steamer rug which I purchased in New York. It is not a bad plan to carry along one’s blankets when one is traveling.
When, as a child, you read the story of the “Princess and the Pea,” didn’t you feel that Andersen stretched the truth a little in his solemn assertion that the old queen put twenty mattresses on top of the pea, and twenty eider-down beds on top of the mattresses? I certainly did; but I doubt no longer. Since, in these modern times, a hotel bed for plain folks contains the number and variety of mattresses and feather beds which mine does, I am willing to believe that in times past on an extraordinary occasion Denmark’s queen used an unlimited quantity of downy layers in making up the royal “spare bed.” Whether or not the true princess felt the pea through the forty-strata mountain is another question.
The Danes call heating apparatuses like the one in my room a “kakkelovn,” and they show discrimination and taste in doing so; no such simple word as “stove” could adequately indicate the dignity and majesty of the structure which fills the corner of my room from floor almost to lofty ceiling. The edifice bears a striking resemblance to the picture of the Tower of Babel which appeared in the “Child’s Bible” of my juvenile days. Though its proportions are slimmer, its general style is the same; a series of stories—each one slightly smaller than the one next below—mount ambitiously skyward. Far above my head is the summit, crowned with a shining nickel ornament, and near the base is a door opening into the fire-box. There is enough cast iron in the tower to make several fair-sized American heaters.
The days since my arrival have been so balmy that the giant stove has not been called upon for service; but I gladly warrant its efficiency, for it bears a strong family resemblance to a more modest-appearing structure called a “kachelofen,” which kept my room in Germany comfortable last winter in the worst below-zero weather. These “kakkel” stoves are lined with brick and retain the heat remarkably well. They are a vast improvement upon the English open-grate fire which permits one to freeze on one side while he roasts on the other.
On the very afternoon of my arrival, without even stopping to unpack my suit-case, I took a walk about Copenhagen. I just could not wait; all of the sights and sounds which came to me through my wide-open windows seemed to blend into one distinct personality and to call to me to come forth and become acquainted. Copenhagen has decidedly the most distinct personality that I have ever sensed in any city. This interesting capital seems very old and very wise, but not too old and not too wise to sympathize with youth and unwisdom. It is like an ancient lady with silvery hair and strongly-lined face, who yet has warm red blood pulsing through her heart and a merry twinkle in her blue eyes; a very charming dame, Cynthia, and altogether lovable. Once out upon the streets, moving along with the pedestrians, I felt quite at home. I was no longer a stranger in a strange land.
Perhaps the fact that familiar words met my ears was the chief element in my sense of homelikeness. My ability to understand Danish and to speak it—after a fashion—contributed much toward placing me upon a friendly basis toward Copenhagen. But the Copenhageners’ knowledge of English was also a tremendous help. An astonishing proportion of the population speak English. Most of the younger half have studied it in the schools; and some have become acquainted with the language through residence in England or the United States. I promptly met one of the latter group. A short distance down the street I noticed some large red gooseberries of a variety which is edible raw. I have never seen them in the United States, but became fond of them in Germany; so I wanted some. As I could not remember the Danish name for the fruit, I simply pointed to it and asked for ten öres’ worth. While measuring out the berries, the salesman surprised me by asking, in good English, “What is the English name for these?” I told him, and he evidently promptly catalogued me as an American experimenting with the King’s Danish; for he proceeded to remark that he had seen berries of somewhat similar appearance in “the States,” where he had spent a few years. I replied that it was pleasant to find people in the shops who could speak English. “Sure!” said he, whereupon I was quite convinced that he had been in “the States.”
Until the middle of the twelfth century the place which later became Denmark’s capital was but a small fishing port. Facing, as it did, the Baltic, which was at the time infested by the piratical Wends, whose homes were on the southern shore, this portion of Seeland was very open to attack; and probably was also frequently a resort for sea-robbers. But a change came soon after the great warrior-priest, Axel—or Absalon, as he was later called—was made archbishop of Lund. This was in the stirring days of King Waldemar the Great, and the frontier bishop’s office was far from a sinecure; repeatedly, Absalon interrupted services at the altar in order to seize the sword and to pursue the enemies of his land and his religion. And eventually the struggle ended by the conquest of the Wendish heathen and their conversion to Christianity. But before this, Copenhagen was founded. During his campaigns against the Wends, Absalon strongly fortified the obscure little fishing port. At first the stronghold bore the name Axelshuus, or Absalon’s House, but as time passed the important commercial town which grew up around it came to be called “Kiöbmaenshavn,” which in Danish means “Merchants’ Haven.” Copenhagen is merely the English corruption of the modern Danish name, Kiöbenhavn.
The name of Bishop Absalon, as you see, is one which is written large in Danish history; and, in the long centuries which have passed since his day, Copenhagen has not forgotten his services. Close to the Island of the Castle, or Slotsholmen, on which once stood the fortress erected by him, is a conspicuous equestrian statue of Absalon; and on guard over the entrance to the new town hall, or Raadhuset, is another sculptured figure of the great Dane who went forth with the cross in one hand and the sword in the other.
But to my thinking, at least, Denmark’s prehistoric past is of more interest than her early Christian history. Consequently, I went, the day after my arrival, to the National Museum. This is in the heart of the old Copenhagen, just opposite Slotsholmen. The building which houses the national collection was first erected in the seventeenth century; and it was rebuilt in 1744, as a residence for a Danish prince, for which reason it is still called “Prinsens Palais.” About sixty years ago it was converted into a museum; and, though it is a homely old structure, the Prince’s Palace is spacious and well lighted, and hence is well suited to its present use.
On the walls of the courtyard are memorial tablets to Rasmus Nyerup and to Jens Jacob Asmussen Worsaae, the founder of Danish archæology. To see these tablets was like coming across mementoes of old friends; for Nyerup and Worsaae have done much toward making rough ways smooth and crooked paths straight for all who care to learn what the ancient Scandinavians were like. And within the vestibule of the building stands a marble bust of Christian Jürgensen Thomsen, the man to whom Denmark is most indebted for bringing together the collections exhibited in the museum.