Cousin-hunting in Scandinavia

by Mary Wilhelmine Williams

Now, wasn’t that last just like a man? “John Brown and wife!” John Brown and poodle dog! It sounded particularly ridiculous, however, applied to the mysterious lady of the tower—as Waldemar meant that it should.

Caroline Mathilde, as I found when I went to look her up, was a sister of King George III of England. When a mere child she was married to the dissipated idiot, King Christian VII of Denmark. Naturally, she found enduring an idiot husband a rather monotonous undertaking, and looked for diversions, with the usual consequences. Count Struensee, the Danish privy councillor, whose name the Queen’s enemies had mentioned in connection with her own, was put to death by order of the King, but Caroline Mathilde, partly because of her relation to the British Crown, was merely imprisoned, part of the time at Kronborg.

In the chapel of the Kronborg castle, the boys told me, horses were stalled, in the days of Swedish occupation; but now the chapel is again a chapel, tiny, but very interesting. The royal pew, carved and painted in all of the colors of the rainbow, is in the gallery. In the rear of the room are the old seats formerly occupied by slaves. The altar is finely carved. The inscriptions about the room are in German, for German was the court language at the time of the restoration of the chapel.

As the sun was setting, we climbed to the top of one of the tall towers to gaze over land and sea. It was a long climb up a winding stair, but the view was lovely. Down in the court at our feet the soldiers were lining up to march in to supper; around about us was the landscape which had gladdened my heart earlier in the day; across the narrow Sound was Helsingborg on the Swedish coast, looming up, an old friend, with Kärnan and other large buildings plainly visible. A few weeks before, I had viewed Kronborg from Kärnan; now I had a view of Kärnan from Kronborg. And beyond Kärnan and Helsingborg was a rare sunset sky brilliantly colored, the glory of which the calm waters of the Sound reflected.

As it was dinner time, the boys were fearful that I might be in a starving condition, for so far that day I had had only three meals—one less than the usual number; consequently, from the tower we descended to a restaurant in Helsingör and had dinner to the accompaniment of an unusually fine band. Then we walked down the narrow, crooked streets—sidewalks were a mere incident—to a park in which, on a knoll in a lonely corner under a clump of shade trees, was a great mound of rocks. A rough slab stuck in the top bore the words “Hamlet’s Grave.” The whole thing was of glaringly recent erection. It was put there in self-defense, I was told, by the owner of the land. People of ignorance were so insistent that Hamlet’s grave must be somewhere about and were so constantly asking to be directed to it that, in order to save time and annoyance, this “grave” was manufactured and conspicuously marked. People who love to be fooled take much satisfaction in it; those who have understanding know that it is a Joke.

The grave lies on the way to Marienlyst, a fashionable and famous summer resort, for which we were bound. Marienlyst is so near to Kronborg that we walked. In the pleasant park of Marienlyst are two interesting bronze statues—Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, a slender, youthful figure; and Holger Danske, a fine old warrior with a keen, strong, kindly face. The face met my ideas of how Holger Danske should be represented. It reflected the character and intellect of the Danish people, just as the great muscular arms resting on the broad flat sword blade represented their healthy physical strength. The rough representation of Holger the Dane which I saw in the walls of Kronborg is evidently a plaster cast of this fine bronze piece. The cast had been placed at Kronborg to prevent the disappointment of visitors who, like myself, made the acquaintance of Holger Danske in the days of their childhood through dear Hans Christian Andersen’s solemn assurance that at Kronborg “Holger Danske sits in the deep dark cellar, where nobody goes.”

We walked along the beach at Marienlyst and watched the waves roll in and break on the strand until the lights began to twinkle upon the Swedish coast; then we took the train for home. For part of the way we rode on a steam train of two-story cars, such as I had never seen before. For the adventure of it, I wanted to ride upstairs, and after the train had started we climbed to the second floor by means of a narrow iron staircase at the end of the car. The climb was, for me, rather a perilous undertaking, and was the only adventurous element connected with the ride on top. “On top” suggests open air and is, therefore, misleading; there was really a second story, or, perhaps, it is better to call it a half story, for the room at the top was decidedly low-ceiled; we had to duck our heads when we walked to seats. But as I was mortally afraid that I should fall from the little iron stairway to my destruction if I attempted to descend while the car was in motion, we remained where we were until we reached Copenhagen, which we did at eleven o’clock.

Yesterday was a large, beautiful day, crammed full of pleasant memories. Some time again I shall return to Denmark and spend just such another summer day among the Danish castles. But now I must soon leave quaint old Copenhagen, the “boys,” and my kind Cousin Lars. A train for Roskilde leaves Copenhagen at ten o’clock, and I depart on it; for summer vacations must end.

CHAPTER XI

ROSKILDE AND ODENSE; GOOD-BY TO SCANDINAVIA