AN IMPRESSION OF A SWEDISH CHRISTMAS
Cold, bleak, and uninviting is the outlook as my taxi speeds through
the City towards Millwall Docks, where awaits the steamer that is to
take me to Sweden, and, wreathed in grey swirls of smoke and rain
clouds, London seems hardly the kind of city that one should deplore
leaving, yet as I reach the wharf where lies the _Saga_ and feel
the full force of the gusty north-east wind that is lashing my face
like a steel whip, I almost regret my decision to see what a Swedish
Christmas is like, so distinct are the possibilities of even more
inclement weather out at sea. It being too late to turn back, however,
I determine to make the best of a bad job and hurry on board, the
captain informing me that the crossing is likely to be a good one
and that, though the force of the wind and the direction in which it
is blowing are unfavourable, the first is gradually subsiding and
the second very likely to be changed. I remember many occasions when
similar prophecies have been as confidently made without justification,
yet attempt to delude myself into believing that at least this one
will prove correct, and consequently follow the stewardess to my
cabin, hoping for the best. As we reach the open sea, however, I soon
realise that the captain’s optimism has hardly been justified. It is
a black night with clouds covering the sky and a haze low down on the
horizon. It is not thick enough for the fog-horns to be sounding, but
the shore soon becomes invisible, while the wind continues in the same
unfavourable quarter without showing any sign of diminution.
Like all Swedish Lloyd ships, the _Saga_ is everything that a
steamer should be where good accommodation and cuisine are concerned,
but, unlike the majority of boats belonging to the same line, she is
hardly an ideal vessel to be on under adverse conditions, and very
soon I become acutely conscious of a rolling and pitching that send me
flying down to my berth, while the boat begins to slow down appreciably
owing to the head-wind that is blowing against us. For the first
twelve hours, however, apart from the rolling and pitching, which are
sufficiently prolonged to spell disaster to any traveller at all prone
to sea-sickness, the discomfort which I experience is neither greater
nor less than that which usually characterises a crossing of the North
Sea undertaken in winter. But a few hours before daybreak the gale
increases in volume and intensity, and the boat begins to sway and rock
much as I have seen a row-boat do when among breakers, while the waves
start beating violently against the boat, booming like heavy guns, and
the hull quivers as if sorely hit. It is impossible to sleep and nearly
as difficult to take any nourishment, as the slightest movement that
I make from recumbency is immediately followed by rapidly increasing
nausea, and, impotent to do aught but suffer patiently, I await until
such moment as the fury of the wind and storm will have spent itself,
while fog-horn and wave combine to make a music whose clamour is so
incessant that even the most seasoned traveller would, I fancy, find
it difficult to sleep soundly through it all. Then, on the morning
of the third day, as the first sickly light of morn is streaking the
dingy, pallid sky, the wind suddenly flags. I look out from my porthole
and see that, though the waves are still rather too boisterous for
my liking, there is every prospect of a quieter termination to our
journey. Arising, I go up on deck, hoping to hear that we are nearing
Gothenburg, but am told that owing to the adverse wind of the previous
day there is no possibility of reaching the Swedish port until about
seven that evening, which means to say that I shall have to travel
nearly twenty-four hours across country and without a break if I wish
to be in time for the Christmas festivities. Deploring my ill-fortune,
I turned to the Swedish Bradshaw and with the assistance of sympathetic
Swedes try to devise a way or means of reaching Rättvik in a more
expeditious fashion, but, soon realising that there is no alternative
route, decide to spend the day as pleasantly as possible, and so
beguile the time whenever not occupied in partaking of the generous
meals that are such a feature of life on board a Swedish steamer,
playing bridge with my Swedish friends, a game that they usually play
with variations that make it as great a gamble as cut-throat bridge.
And so the day passes pleasantly enough, the sea growing calmer and
calmer from the moment we come in sight of the Danish coast, though we
naturally resent the way in which the North Sea has added insult to
injury by not only providing us with one of the roughest passages of
the year, but also robbing us of the one redeeming feature that would
have made us forget our sufferings—that is to say, made it impossible
for any of us to see the approach to Gothenburg, which is that city’s
chief claim to beauty.
Soon the _Saga_ reaches the rocky archipelago of the Skärgård and
begins to forge her way through the innumerable islands that lie at
the mouth of the river Göta älv, with a fair wind to help and a white
ribbon of foam trailing from both her sides. Then, after exchanging
signals with the shore, we pass various lighthouses and are soon fast
to a large wharf with lights gleaming all about us. Lights fringing the
river and harbour or running up the low-lying hills that surround the
city; shipping of every kind, from great, imposing liners to freight
steamers or fishing-smacks; whistles sounding, bells ringing, while
all around is that mysterious undercurrent of sound that attests the
presence of a large city. Quickly we land and notice the snow that lies
thick on the ground, while there is a nippiness in the dry night air
so invigorating that, though I realise the temperature is considerably
below freezing-point, I am hardly conscious of it. And, following my
porter, I hail a taxi and hasten to the main station to take the night
train to Stockholm.
* * * * *
Half a dozen coaches, all spotlessly clean and splendidly heated, with
doors and windows that shut so hermetically that it is impossible for
any draught to penetrate, most of these third class with corridors and
even sleepers, where for an inconsiderable sum even the poorest can
be assured of a comfortable berth; a profusion of water-jugs whose
water is changed every two or three hours and that are within easy
reach of every carriage; rails that are so well laid that there is as
little jolting as on the best English or American lines, and, coupled
with this, a number of second-class Pullman carriages that are as
comfortable as any in England, and a service that is run efficiently
and up to time. Though the train starts at an hour when the majority
of people are just beginning to think of dinner, I retire almost
immediately, in view of the very early hour at which I have to change
trains at Hallsberg, and after a restful night am awakened in good time
and alight without being unduly hurried at the junction, where I am to
take another train for the north. It is too dark to see the country,
but the line, quays, and station are thick with snow, and I see to the
left of the main station building a huge Christmas tree that is already
lit with many electric candles and gaily decorated with a profusion
of tiny Swedish flags and the customary Christmas ornaments. I then
remember that the next day is Christmas Eve, the great day in Sweden,
and congratulate myself on my foresight in having wasted so little time
in Gothenburg. It is considerably colder than when I left the steamer,
but as I follow my porter to the train which is to convey me to Krylbo
I feel a dryness in the air that is so exhilarating that the prospect
of even lower temperatures to be encountered in Dalecarlia no longer
frightens me, and so remain for a time on the platform watching the
fur-coated and fur-capped Swedes who are passing to and fro.
For the greater part of the next day we travel through a countryside
whose soil is now chilled to stone and yet resplendent with the imagery
of the snow that is covering it, snow as dazzling as white marble
and with the sheen of satin, inconceivably pure and exquisite in its
transparency. We pass innumerable forests of silver-boled birches,
pines and fir trees, to which the snow has lent the most fantastic
shapes, and over great streams that are frozen on either bank with only
a narrow ribbon of open water. And interspersed at comparatively rare
intervals—for Sweden is one of the most thinly populated countries in
Europe—are small towns and villages with red houses that gleam out
from among the snow. At every station the customary Christmas tree,
brilliantly illuminated, greets us, and the impression is left me of
a robust race of men and women whose vital spark feeds on the frozen
air in which it lives, while shortly after three I see the sun setting
in the east and tier upon tier of trees and forest-clad hill that are
tinged with rose-pink. A memorable sight. Then shortly after sunset I
enter Dalecarlia, and after two and a half hours’ further journey reach
my destination.
To my left is the wide frozen expanse of Lake Siljan, looking eerie
and mysterious in the moonlight, and to the right and running up
low wooded hills of firs and pines the villas and town of Rättvik,
picturesquely situated on an inlet of the lake. And as soon as I
alight from the train an old coachman in white sheepskin and fur cap
comes forward to greet me. A few words are exchanged between us that
neither can understand, but very soon he realises that I am indeed
the traveller whom he is expecting, and seizing my handbag he bids me
follow to where a low sledge is waiting, a long flat box on runners, in
which I am asked to lie full length and then enveloped in a Dalecarlian
fur-lined rug. A crack of the whip and soon we are driving down an
avenue of snow-laden trees, among which I see the lights of houses
twinkling at every turn, while the horse’s bells are jingling merrily,
and the transforming touch of snow and moon is so magical that every
object that we pass becomes imbued with indescribable beauty and
poetry. In ten minutes we turn sharply to the left and, following a
short drive, see some thirty yards before us a brilliantly illuminated
log-built house whose inmates are evidently expecting me, for as soon
as the sledge draws up before the front door it is immediately opened
and a woman whom I guess to be my hostess steps forward to greet me
with a smile that is so infectious that I immediately feel at home.
From the drawing-room just opposite the entrance hall I hear the sound
of merry laughter, and am told that everybody is lending a helping hand
in decorating the Christmas tree for the evening, and that if I am not
too tired they would be delighted if I came down to help after going
to my room. And hearing that it is a time-honoured Swedish custom, I
express my pleasure and readiness to do so, and after going upstairs
to repair the damages of the journey, return to the drawing-room.
As I enter, the laughter subsides for a time, and very formally
presentations are made, the men invariably standing up stiffly, putting
out their hands, bowing, and giving their surnames, the girls, equally
formally but with far more grace, extending their hands towards me
as I am presented to them. Then, the claims of ceremony having been
satisfied, I approach the Christmas tree and am handed a seal and some
sealing-wax and several small packages, obviously Christmas gifts,
which I am asked to seal as neatly as possible. All, I notice, are
accompanied by dedications in verse, and hearing that no present can be
offered at Christmas without a rhymed dedication, thank my stars that
I have no present to offer. By this time the Christmas tree is almost
fully dressed, and my charming hostess informs me that except for the
Christmas gifts that are decorating its branches it will remain much as
it is at present until twenty days after Christmas. We then go up to
our respective rooms and dress for dinner, while I recall to mind the
many conflicting reports which I have heard with regard to a Swedish
Christmas Eve meal and fervently hope I shall not have too many novel
dishes to sample, so great is my fear of offending the susceptibilities
of my hostess. Half an hour later and we are all assembled in the
dining-room, and I have my first taste of the Christmas fare of the
country. The first course is a kind of soup that evokes familiar
memories but to which I am unable to give a name, then the _pièce de
résistance_ is brought in, a large fish called lutfish, which is
prepared from a species of stockfish that is caught in large numbers in
the North Sea. It is usually eaten boiled, and is taken with Russian
green peas, _sauté_ potatoes and white sauce, being greatly
appreciated in the south of Sweden. Pleasant to the taste and slightly
reminiscent of the cod, of which it is a kind of cousin, it is kept
in water and soda and steeped in lye or wood-ash for a period of at
least two and a half weeks, and is afterwards taken out two days before
eating and laid in a cold-water bath, where it remains until required.
Following the fish course is the traditional ham and sausage, which in
Scandinavian countries usually takes the place of the turkey or goose
of the West, the meal concluding with a kind of porridge made of rice,
a wonderful concoction of sugar and eggs that is called spettekaka,
or spit-cake, and an abundant dessert in which nuts and raisins
predominate.
As accompaniment or subsequent to the above, the inevitable
_snaps_ cocktail at the beginning of dinner, followed by a
light French wine with the fish, Swedish punsch at the coffee stage,
and a very delectable hot beverage called glögg, which is almost as
comforting a drink to take after a long, cold outing as the mulled
claret for which the high table of St. John’s College, Oxford, has
become so famous. Compounded of wine, sugar, brandy, almonds and
raisins, and flavoured with nejlika, or pinks, glögg is, of the many
gastronomic experiments that I have made abroad, one of the few which I
have really appreciated.
After dinner we proceed to the drawing-room and the presents are duly
handed to each in turn, after which young and old link hands and dance
round the tree, the son of my hostess suddenly breaking the chain apart
and conducting us in a mad, frenzied chase through the house, up and
down the stairs, and past corridors, which only terminates when all are
breathless with laughter and exhaustion. Recalling certain opinions
which I had often heard being expressed regarding the inability of
the Swedes to enjoy their pleasures in any way but sadly, I marvel at
the facility with which such misconceptions arise, and conclude that
those who created them had never visited Sweden at Christmas-time nor
even watched Swedes at play, a more jolly and amusing party than that
which I am attending it being impossible to imagine. Then, hearing
that Christmas Day opens with a service in the town church that is
to take place at an hour when most people are still sound asleep
and that it is imperative that I should be present, if only to see
the Dalecarlian peasants wearing their national costumes, plead the
fatigue of the journey and retire to my room, my sleep being long
haunted by memories of the merry throng which I have left dancing in
the room below. Early next morning, and before the stars have paled
in the sky, I am awakened by a loud knock at the door, and, dressing
hurriedly, find steaming hot coffee awaiting me in the dining-room,
while the choice is given me of going to church by horse or chair
sledge, ski-ing being out of the question owing to my lack of the
proper paraphernalia. I recall the wonderful drive of the previous
evening, but feel that it is up to me to essay every kind of vehicle,
and accordingly decide to utilise the chair sleigh as soon as I gather
that it presents no particular difficulties—in fact, that it is very
similar to a glorified hobby-horse. Then fur coats and skis are
produced, and we sally forth in the direction of Rättvik, my hostess’s
son staying behind to show me the way. And, like my guide, I place the
left foot on the pedal of one of the runners of my chair and start
kicking backwards repeatedly with my right, the sledge moving forward
with every kick that I give. Obviously, the kick sleigh is almost as
great a necessity in Scandinavian countries as the ski itself, and
though it cannot be compared to the latter as a sport and even less as
a vehicle, in spite of the considerable speed at which it will carry
you downhill unaided, it is much used by the very old and the very
young, as it can always be checked when proceeding too rapidly by the
brakes with which it is provided, or by simply trailing the foot on
the ground. In about a quarter of an hour we reach the town of Rättvik
and, turning to the right, suddenly hear the bells of the old white
church summoning the people to worship. And as we draw nearer we see
that the greater part of the congregation has already gathered near
Gustavus Vasa’s monument, most of them clad in old-world costume, the
scarlet, green and gold worn by the women standing out in vivid patches
of colour against the snow and lending the scene an air of pageantry
and romance. Prominent among these are the women of Rättvik with their
embroidered green bodices, dark blue skirts, quaintly striped aprons,
and picturesque peaked caps, while among the men the most striking are
those hailing from the same town, half a dozen sturdy peasants who are
wearing as costume a long dark blue coat cut high in the neck, yellow
chamois knee-breeches, a blue waistcoat edged with bright red piping,
and red stockings held up by rosetted garters. And though the moon
is shining brightly we all proceed to church to the flare of large
torches which are held up high by the men, and after hearing a long and
wearisome sermon, during which I doze repeatedly and even dream that
I, too, am wearing Dalecarlian dress, return once again to the large
granite stone inscribed in gold whence Gustavus Vasa had summoned the
Dales to arms. On the way back to the house, and just before ascending
the last slope leading to it, I stop to watch the sun rising over the
hills, and for a few minutes enjoy an unforgettable sight. Cresting the
ridge that the sun is now illuminating are tier upon tier of pines,
all of such exquisite fineness that for at least two degrees on each
side of the sun they become transfigured into trees of light that are
not only clearly outlined in flame against the sky behind them, but
that are almost as dazzling as the sun itself, while the snow that is
mantling the countryside begins to assume a blue transparency and the
pines among which we are standing to appear almost olive wherever their
branches are not hung with great white nightcaps. Then, hearing that
a deliciously hot glögg is awaiting us at the house, I automatically
replace one foot on one of the runners of the chair sledge and with the
other impel my vehicle into movement.
After so early a beginning to our day I am hardly surprised to find
life moving a little more leisurely. And for the greater part of the
day even the more active of our party content themselves with making
the best of the rich fare that characterises a Swedish Christmas and
doing one or two hours’ ski-ing in the neighbourhood. Once again I
make essay of chair sledging, and as I proceed, again accompanied by my
guide, in a northerly direction towards Mora, come across a veritable
army of men, women, and children sallying forth on their slender,
feathery skis up the dales and through the forest glades. Everywhere
I see ski tracks that are crossing one another and laughing parties
of merrymakers who are inquiring the way, while the gaiety is so
infectious that I soon begin to realise the charm and fascination that
lie in ski-ing on the level. Here is a favoured district which, if not
comparable to Jämtland or Switzerland for the joy of a swift descent
with a possible death waiting on every side that is so characteristic
of these more celebrated ski-ing countries, affords, nevertheless, the
most delightful and varied possibilities of lengthy ski tours on the
level or in forest country without the smallest risk of avalanches or
bad-weather dangers, this form of ski-ing being not only conducive to
the development of initiative by the constant call that it makes on
even the most nervous novice if he would avoid the many pitfalls that
lie in his path, but that is equally exhilarating and utilitarian. If
once a sportsman really becomes bitten with its craze, he often ends
by preferring it to any other form of ski-ing.
Though space forbids my making more than casual mention of the other
charming dances and excursions which my hostess and other Swedish
friends kindly arranged for my benefit during the happy days that I was
privileged to remain in Dalecarlia, one of the pleasantest memories
which I will ever retain of a Swedish Christmas will always centre
around the “släd parti” to which I was invited on Boxing Day by Miss
Rehnström, of Persborg, an unforgettable drive in horse sledges that,
conveying some thirty of the guests of her hotel and myself to a picnic
lunch at Röjeråsen, a little village that lies some twenty or more
miles west of Rättvik, conducted us across a magnificent snow-bound
pine and fir forest whose humblest tree and shrub the touch of the sun
had transformed into fanciful beings such as children conjure up when
dreaming of Fairyland, while equally eerie and mysterious was the drive
back by torchlight and the wreaths of frost mist that I saw gliding
through the pine glades just after the sun had set across the lake. Of
the many novel and delightful excursions which I have made in Sweden,
there are few which have left me with as happy memories, and none that
have so effectively stilled the little hidden craving for novelty and
change which I share with most mortals. For any traveller, therefore,
who looks for these things when taking a holiday, I can imagine none
that is more attractive than those which I have endeavoured to portray
in these pages.
[Illustration: LAKE AND VILLAGE OF ÅRE]