After dinner the Swedes regale themselves with a glass of sherry or cognac, with a cigar, and an hour later you will see every coterie with their glasses of seltzer water and fruit syrup. At seven o’clock supper is served, and then “may good digestion wait on appetite,” if happily you have any of the latter left. Before bedtime a seductive beverage called Swedish punch is produced, which is stronger than it seems, and should be sipped with caution. It is a noteworthy fact that the charge for all these good things was extremely moderate, as, indeed, prices are throughout Sweden. It seems the only cheap place for touring left in Europe. Norway is quite a third dearer,—thanks, I suppose, to the English invasion....
There is a peculiarity about the coast of Sweden; it is said to have two coasts, an inner and an outer one, the latter being a fringe of islets, so numerous that no map or chart can mark them. It is marvellous how vessels make their way through this labyrinth. If you leave Calmar in the evening, you find yourself the next morning in the thick of this Skargard, or reef defence. At first the scene is very desolate; the rocks are barren, and the only sign of life the lonely house of a pilot, round which the sea-birds were screaming in their whirling flight.
When about five hours’ distance from Stockholm the scene changes; the barren desolation gives place to wooded islets clothed with the most exquisite vegetation. The beauty of a veritable fairy-land surrounds you. You are in the midst of floating groves and gardens. It is quite unlike any other scenery that I know in Europe; it is not like a lake or river, for there is no expanse of water. The steamer threads its way among a crowd of islands; you could sometimes touch land with a boat-hook. The character of the islets is most varied; at one moment you pass a tiny floating meadow enamelled with flowers, whose sweet scent is wafted in every zephyr; on the other side is a grotesque grotto, or the semblance of a ruin, shaded by the graceful birch-trees that group themselves together. Another time you pass a longer island, with its belt of dark firs, intersected with miniature fjords and little sanded bays. No pencil could do justice to the loveliness of this changing scene.
Approaching the capital, the islands are more extensive and numerous; pretty villas are dotted about the woods, and you see terraced gardens and well-kept lawns. It was market-day when we arrived, and it was very picturesque to see the boats laden with fruit, vegetables, and other necessaries of life proceeding on their way. Each house, or cottage, sent out its messenger boat to make purchases at the floating market, and the scene was very animated and amusing. In another half-hour we were passing the superb deer park of Stockholm, and then we were under the sentinel forts of the capital, and directly afterwards by the side of the busy quay. The first sight of the “Venice of the North” pleased us more than the far-famed Queen of the Adriatic, that city of souvenirs that can hardly be seen by the “light of common day.”
Seen from the Kungsholmen, Stockholm looks like a city floating on the sea, especially when the image of all this crowd of churches, palaces, and towers is reflected in the blue mirror of the calm, tideless waters.
It is the fashion to admire the Royal Palace, built on the highest of the three islands of Stockholm, but it has too much the appearance of a vast barrack. It was completed in 1753, from a design of Count Tessin, a Swedish architect of renown. It seems to want towers, or irregularities of some sort, to break the painfully straight lines of this mass of building.
The interior bears a strong family likeness to every other palace in Europe. The upholsterer is decidedly the presiding genius in Royal apartments, where dazzling chandeliers, rich brocades, and oppressive gilding are more or less the properties of all alike. In Paris they vary the scene by turning the royal or imperial upholstery out of the window, from time to time, and making a bonfire of the same for patriotic reasons.
However, in the Royal Palace of Stockholm we did light upon some individual belongings,—some instances of characteristic taste. In the picture-gallery there was, at the time of our visit, an unfinished painting, from the pencil of the late King Carl. It stands on the easel, just as the master’s hand had left it, a few months only before he passed away, in the prime of life and of popularity. The scene selected by the royal artist is one of those forest-fringed lakes of Dalecarlia, with a lovely and enticing vista of green valley and distant waterfall. The solemn aspect of the pine-woods, bathed in the after-glow of the delicious northern sunset, is well given in this picture, breathing forth something of that mingling of mystery, beauty, and gloom which characterizes the ancient mythology of the land. One might quote the king’s own lines:
“Everywhere we found in Nature
Spirits fitted to interpret
Saga tales of Sweden’s childhood.”