bridge rest; a garden full of flowers and trees, which we overlook
from the high parapet of the bridge. Ladies and gentlemen promenade
there; musicians play, families sit there in groups, and take
refreshments in the vaulted halls under the bridge, and look out
between the green trees over the open water, to the houses and
mansions, and also to the woods and rocks: we forget that we are in
the midst of the city.
It is the bridge here that unites Stockholm with Nordmalen, where the
greatest part of the fashionable world live, in two long Berlin-like
streets; yet amongst all the great houses we will only visit one, and
that is the theatre.
We will go on the stage itself--it has an historical signification.
Here, by the third side-scene from the stage-lights, to the right, as
we look down towards the audience, Gustavus the Third was assassinated
at a masquerade; and he was borne into that little chamber there,
close by the scene, whilst all the outlets were closed, and the motley
group of harlequins, polichinellos, wild men, gods and goddesses with
unmasked faces, pale and terrified crept together; the dancing
ballet-farce had become a real tragedy.
This theatre is Jenny Lind's childhood's home. Here she has sung in
the choruses when a little girl; here she first made her appearance in
public, and was cheeringly encouraged when a child; here, poor and
sorrowful, she has shed tears, when her voice left her, and sent up
pious prayers to her Maker. From hence the world's nightingale flew
out over distant lands, and proclaimed the purity and holiness of art.
How beautiful it is to look out from the window up here, to look over
the water and the Streamparterre to that great, magnificent palace, to
Ladegaards land, with the large barracks, to Skipholmen and the rocks
that rise straight up from the water, with Södermalm's gardens,
villas, streets, and church cupolas between the green trees: the ships
lie there together, so many and so close, with their waving flags. The
beautiful, that a poet's eye sees, the world may also see! Roll, ye
runes!
There sketches the whole varied prospect; a rainbow extends its arch
like a frame around it. Only see! it is sunset, the sky becomes
cloudy over Södermalm, the grey sky becomes darker and darker--a
pitch-dark ground--and on it rests a double rainbow. The houses are
illumined by so strong a sunlight that the walls seem transparent;
the linden-trees in the gardens, which have lately put forth their
leaves, appear like fresh, young woods; the long, narrow windows in
the Gothic buildings on the island shine as if it were a festal
illumination, and between the dark firs there falls a lustre from the
panes behind them as of a thousand flames, as if the trees were
covered with flickering--Christmas lights; the colours of the rainbow
become stronger and stronger, the background darker and darker, and
the white sun-lit sea-gulls fly past.
The rainbow has placed one foot high up on Södermalm's churchyard.
Where the rainbow touches the earth, there lie treasures buried, is a
popular belief here. The rainbow rests on a grave up there: Stagnalius
rests here, Sweden's most gifted singer, so young and so unhappy; and
in the same grave lies Nicander, he who sang about King Enzio, and of
"Lejonet i Oken;"[L] who sang with a bleeding heart: the fresh
vine-leaf cooled the wound and killed the singer. Peace be with his
dust--may his songs live for ever! We go to your grave where the
rainbow points. The view from here is splendid. The houses rise
terrace-like in the steep, paved streets; the foot-passengers can,
however, shorten the way by going through narrow lanes, and up steps
made of thick beams, and always with a prospect downwards of the
water, of the rocks and green trees! It is delightful to dwell here,
it is healthy to dwell here, but it is not genteel, as it is by
Brunkaberg's sand-ridge, yet it will become so: Stockholm's "Strada
Balbi" will one day arise on Södermalm's rocky ground.
[Footnote L: "The Lion in the desert;" i.e. Napoleon.]
We stand up here. What other city in the world has a better prospect
over the salt fjord, over the fresh lake, over towers, cupolas,
heaped-up houses, and a palace, which King Enzio himself might have
built, and round about the dark, gloomy forests with oaks, pines and
firs, so Scandinavian, dreaming in the declining sun? It is twilight;
the night comes on, the lamps are lighted in the city below, the stars
are kindled in the firmament above, and the tower of Redderholm's
church rises aloft towards the starry space. The stars shine through
there; it is as if cut in lace, but every thread is of cast-iron and
of the thickness of beams.
We go down there, and in there, in the stilly eve.--A world of spirits
reigns within. See, in the vaulted isles, on carved wooden horses,
sits armour, that was once borne by Magnus Ladelaas, Christian the
Second, and Charles the Ninth. A thousand flags that once waved to the
peal of music and the clang of arms, to the darted javelin and the
cannon's roar, moulder away here: they hang in long rags from the
staff, and the staves lie cast aside, where the flag has long since
become dust. Almost all the Kings of Sweden slumber in silver and
copper coffins within these walls. From the altar aisle we look
through the open-grated door, in between piled-up drums and hanging
flags: here is preserved a bloody tunic, and in the coffin are the
remains of Gustavus Adolphus. Who is that dead opposite neighbour in
the chapel, across there in the other side-aisle of the church? There,
below a glass lid, lies a dress shot through, and on the floor stands
a pair of long, thick boots--they belonged to the hero-King, the
wanderer, Charles XII., whose realm is now this narrow coffin.
How sacred it is here under this vaulted roof! The mightiest men of
centuries are gathered together here, perishable as these moth-eaten
flags--mute and yet so eloquent. And without there is life and
activity: the world goes on in its old course; generations change in
the old houses; the houses change--yet Stockholm is always the heart
of Sweden, Birger's city, whose features are continually renewed,
continually beautified.
DIURGAERDEN.
* * * * *
Diurgaerden is a large piece of land made into a garden by our Lord
himself. Come with us over there. We are still in the city, but before
the palace lie the broad hewn stone stairs, leading down to the water,
where the Dalkulls--i.e., the Dalecarlian women--stand and ring with
metal bells. On board! here are boats enough to choose amongst, all
with wheels, which the Dalkulls turn. In coarse white linen, red
stockings, with green heels, and singularly thick-soled shoes, with
the upper-leather right up the shin-bone, stands the Dalkull; she has
ornamented the boat, that now shoots away, with green branches. Houses
and streets rise and unfold themselves; churches and gardens start
forth; they stand on Södermalm high above the tops of the ships'
masts. The scenery reminds one of the Bhosphorus and Pera; the motley
dress of the Dalkulls is quite Oriental--and listen! the wind bears
melancholy Skalmeie tones out to us. Two poor Dalecarlians are playing
music on the quay; they are the same drawn-out, melancholy tones that
are played by the Bulgarian musicians in the streets of Pera. We stept
out, and are in the Diurgarden.
What a crowd of equipages pass in rows through the broad avenue! and
what a throng of well-dressed pedestrians of all classes! One thinks
of the garden of the Villa Borghese, when, at the time of the wine
feast, the Roman people and strangers take the air there. We are in
the Borghese garden; we are by the Bosphorus, and yet far in the
North. The pine-tree rises large and free; the birch droops its
branches, as the weeping willow alone has power to do--and what
magnificently grand oaks! The pine-trees themselves are mighty trees,
beautiful to the painter's eye; splendid green grass plains lie
stretched before us, and the fiord rolls its green, deep waters close
past, as if it were a river. Large ships with swelling sails, the one
high above the other, steamers and boats, come and go in varied
numbers.
Come! let us up to Byström's villa; it lies on the stony cliff up
there, where the large oak-trees stand in their stubborn grandeur: we
see from here the whole tripartite city, Södermalm, Nordmalm and the
island with that huge palace. It is delightful, the building here on
this rock, and the building stands, and that almost entirely of
marble, a "Casa santa d'Italia," as if borne through the air here in
the North. The walls within are painted in the Pompeian style, but
heavy: there is nothing genial. Round about stand large marble figures
by Byström, which have not, however, the soul of antiquity. Madonna is
encumbered by her heavy marble drapery, the girl with the
flower-garland is an ugly young thing, and on seeing Hero with the
weeping Cupid, one thinks of a _pose_ arranged by a ballet-master.
Let us, however, see what is pretty. The little Cupid-seller is
pretty, and the stone is made as flexible as life in the waists of the
bathing-women. One of them, as she steps out, feels the water with her
feet, and we feel, with her, a sensation that the water is cold. The
coolness of the marble-hall realizes this feeling. Let us go out into
the sunshine, and up to the neighbouring cliff, which rises above the
mansions and houses. Here the wild roses shoot forth from the crevices
in the rock; the sunbeams fall prettily between the splendid pines and
the graceful birches, upon the high grass before the colossal bronze
bust of Bellmann. This place was the favourite one of that
Scandinavian improvisatore. Here he lay in the grass, composed and
sang his anacreontic songs, and here, in the summer-time, his annual
festival is held. We will raise his altar here in the red evening
sunlight. It is a flaming bowl, raised high on the jolly tun, and it
is wreathed with roses. Morits tries his hunting-horn, that which was
Oberon's horn in the inn-parlour, and everything danced, from Ulla to
"Mutter paa Toppen:"[M] they stamped with their feet and clapped their
hands, and clinked the pewter lid of the ale-tankard; "hej kara Sjæl!
fukta din aske!" (Hey! dear soul! moisten your clay).
[Footnote M: The landlady of an alehouse.]
A Teniers' picture became animated, and still lives in song. Morits
blows the horn on Bellmann's place around the flowing bowl, and whole
crowds dance in a circle, young and old; the carriages too, horses and
waggons, filled bottles and clattering tankards: the Bellmann
dithyrambic clangs melodiously; humour and low life, sadness--and
amongst others, about
"----hur ögat gret
Ved de Cypresser, som ströddes."[N]
[Footnote N: How the eyes wept by the cypresses that were strewn
around.]
Painter, seize thy brush and palette and paint the Maenade--but not
her who treads the winebag, whilst her hair flutters in the wind, and
she sings ecstatic songs. No, but the Maenade that ascends from
Bellmann's steaming bowl is the Punch's Anadyomene--she, with the high
heels to the red shoes, with rosettes on her gown and with fluttering
veil and mantilla--fluttering, far too fluttering! She plucks the rose
of poetry from her breast and sets it in the ale-can's spout; clinks
with the lid, sings about the clang of the hunting horn, about
breeches and old shoes and all manner of stuff. Yet we are sensible
that he is a true poet; we see two human eyes shining, that announce
to us the human heart's sadness and hope.
A STORY.
* * * * *
All the apple-trees in the garden had sprung out. They had made haste
to get blossoms before they got green leaves; and all the ducklings
were out in the yard--and the cat too! He was, so to speak, permeated
by the sunshine; he licked it from his own paws; and if one looked
towards the fields, one saw the corn standing so charmingly green! And
there was such a twittering and chirping amongst all the small birds,
just as if it were a great feast. And that one might indeed say it
was, for it was Sunday. The bells rang, and people in their best
clothes went to church, and looked so pleased. Yes, there was
something so pleasant in everything: it was indeed so fine and warm a
day, that one might well say: "Our Lord is certainly unspeakably good
towards us poor mortals!"
But the clergyman stood in the pulpit in the church, and spoke so loud
and so angrily! He said that mankind was so wicked, and that God would
punish them for it, and that when they died, the wicked went down into
hell, where they would burn for ever; and he said that their worm
would never die, and their fire never be extinguished, nor would they
ever get rest and peace!
It was terrible to hear, and he said it so determinedly. He described
hell to them as a pestilential hole, where all the filthiness of the
world flowed together. There was no air except the hot, sulphurous
flames; there was no bottom; they sank and sank into everlasting
silence! It was terrible, only to hear about it; but the clergyman
said it right honestly out of his heart, and all the people in the
church were quite terrified. But all the little birds outside the
church sang so pleasantly, and so pleased, and the sun shone so
warm:--it was as if every little flower said: "God is so wondrous good
to us altogether!" Yes, outside it was not at all as the clergyman
preached.
In the evening, when it was bed-time, the clergyman saw his wife sit
so still and thoughtful.
"What ails you?" said he to her.
"What ails me?" she replied; "what ails me is, that I cannot collect
my thoughts rightly--that I cannot rightly understand what you said;
that there were so many wicked, and that they should burn
eternally!--eternally, alas, how long! I am but a sinful being; but I
could not bear the thought in my heart to allow even the worst sinner
to burn for ever. And how then should our Lord permit it? he who is so
wondrously good, and who knows how evil comes both from without and
within. No, I cannot believe it, though you say it."
* * * * *
It was autumn. The leaves fell from the trees; the grave, severe
clergyman sat by the bedside of a dying person; a pious believer
closed her eyes--it was the clergyman's own wife.
"If any one find peace in the grave, and grace from God, then it is
thou," said the clergyman, and he folded her hands, and read a psalm
over the dead body.
And she was borne to the grave: two heavy tears trickled down that
stern man's cheeks; and it was still and vacant in the parsonage; the
sunshine within was extinguished:--she was gone.
It was night. A cold wind blew over the clergyman's head; he opened
his eyes, and it was just as if the moon shone into his room. But the
moon did not shine. It was a figure which stood before his bed--he saw
the spirit of his deceased wife. She looked on him so singularly
afflicted; it seemed as though she would say something.
The man raised himself half erect in bed, and stretched his arms out
towards her.
"Not even to thee is granted everlasting peace. Thou dost suffer;
thou, the best, the most pious!"
And the dead bent her head in confirmation of his words, and laid her
hand on her breast.
"And can I procure you peace in the grave?"
"Yes!" it sounded in his ear.
"And how?"
"Give me a hair, but a single hair of the head of that sinner, whose
fire will never be quenched; that sinner whom God will cast down into
hell, to everlasting torment."
"Yes; so easily thou canst be liberated, thou pure, thou pious one!"
said he.
"Then follow me," said the dead; "it is so granted us. Thou canst be
by my side, wheresoever thy thoughts will. Invisible to mankind, we
stand in their most secret places; but thou must point with a sure
hand to the one destined to eternal punishment, and ere the cock crow
he must be found."
And swift, as if borne on the wings of thought, they were in the great
city, and the names of the dying sinners shone from the walls of the
houses in letters of fire: "Arrogance, Avarice, Drunkenness,
Voluptuousness;" in short, sin's whole seven-coloured arch.
"Yes, in there, as I thought it, as I knew it," said the clergyman,
"are housed those condemned to eternal fire."
And they stood before the splendidly-illumined portico, where the
broad stairs were covered with carpets and flowers, and the music of
the dance sounded through the festal saloons. The porter stood there
in silk and velvet, with a large silver-headed stick.
"_Our_ ball can match with the King's," said he, and turned towards
the crowd in the street--his magnificent thoughts were visible in his
whole person. "Poor devils! who stare in at the portico, you are
altogether ragamuffins, compared to me!"
"Arrogance," said the dead; "dost thou see him?"
"Him!" repeated the clergyman; "he is a simpleton--a fool only, and
will not be condemned to eternal fire and torment."
"A fool only," sounded through the whole house of Arrogance.
And they flew into the four bare walls of Avarice, where skinny,
meagre, shivering with cold, hungry and thirsty, the old man clung
fast with all his thoughts to his gold. They saw how he, as in a
fever, sprang from his wretched pallet, and took a loose stone out of
the wall. There lay gold coins in a stocking-foot; he fumbled at his
ragged tunic, in which gold coins were sewed fast, and his moist
fingers trembled.
"He is ill: it is insanity; encircled by fear and evil dreams."
And they flew away in haste, and stood by the criminals' wooden couch,
where they slept side by side in long rows. One of them started up
from his sleep like a wild animal, and uttered a hideous scream: he
struck his companion with his sharp elbow, and the latter turned
sleepily round.
"Hold your tongue, you beast, and sleep! this is your way every night!
Every night!" he repeated; "yes, you come every night, howling and
choking me! I have done one thing or another in a passion; I was born
with a passionate temper, and it has brought me in here a second time;
but if I have done wrong, so have I also got my punishment. But one
thing I have not confessed. When I last went out from here, and passed
by my master's farm, one thing and another boiled up in me, and I
directly stroked a lucifer against the wall: it came a little too near
the thatch, and everything was burnt--hot-headedness came over it,
just as it comes over me, I helped to save the cattle and furniture.
Nothing living was burnt, except a flock of pigeons: they flew into
the flames, and the yard dog. I had not thought of the dog. I could
hear it howl, and that howl I always hear yet, when I would sleep; and
if I do get to sleep, the dog comes also--so large and hairy! He lies
down on me, howls, and strangles me! Do but hear what I am telling
you. Snore--yes, that you can--snore the whole night through, and I
not even a quarter of an hour!"
And the blood shone from the eyes of the fiery one; he fell on his
companion, and struck him in the face with his clenched fist.
"Angry Mads has become mad again!" resounded on all sides, and the
other rascals seized hold of him, wrestled with him, and bent him
double, so that his head was forced between his legs, where they bound
it fast, so that the blood was nearly springing out of his eyes, and
all the pores.
"You will kill him!" said the clergyman,--"poor unfortunate!" and as
he stretched his hands out over him, who had already suffered too
severely, in order to prevent further mischief, the scene changed.
They flew through rich halls, and through poor chambers;
voluptuousness and envy, all mortal sins strode past them. A recording
angel read their sin and their defence; this was assuredly little for
God, for God reads the heart; He knows perfectly the evil that comes
within it and from without, He, grace, all-loving kindness. The hand
of the clergyman trembled: he did not venture to stretch it out, to
pluck a hair from the sinner's head. And the tears streamed down from
his eyes, like the waters of _grace_ and love, which quenched the
eternal fire of hell.
The cock then crowed.
"Merciful God! Thou wilt grant her that peace in the grave which I
have not been able to redeem."
"That I now have!" said the dead; "it was thy hard words, thy dark,
human belief of God and his creatures, which drove me to thee! Learn
to know mankind; even in the bad there is a part of God--a part that
will conquer and quench the fire of hell."
And a kiss was pressed on the clergyman's lips:--it shone around him.
God's clear, bright sun shone into the chamber, where his wife,
living, mild, and affectionate, awoke him from a dream, sent from God!
UPSALA.
* * * * *
It is commonly said, that Memory is a young girl with light blue eyes.
Most poets say so; but we cannot always agree with most poets. To us
memory comes in quite different forms, all according to that land, or
that town to which she belongs. Italy sends her as a charming Mignon,
with black eyes and a melancholy smile, singing Bellini's soft,
touching songs. From Scotland Memory's sprite appears as a powerful
lad with bare knees; the plaid hangs over his shoulder, the
thistle-flower is fixed on his cap; Burns's songs then fill the air
like the heath-lark's song, and Scotland's wild thistle flowers
beautifully fragrant as the fresh rose. But now for Memory's sprite
from Sweden, from Upsala. He comes thence in the form of a student--at
least, he wears the Upsala student's white cap with the black rim. To
us it points out its home, as the Phrygian cap denotes Ganymede.
It was in the year 1843, that the Danish students travelled to Upsala.
Young hearts met together; eyes sparkled: they laughed, they sang.
Young hearts are the future--the conquering future--in the beautiful,
true and good; it is so good that brothers should know and love each
other. Friendship's meeting is still annually remembered in the
palace-yard of Upsala, before the monument of Gustavus Vasa--by the
hurra! for Denmark, in warm-hearted compliment to me.
Two summers afterwards, the visit was returned. The Swedish students
came to Copenhagen, and that they might there be known amongst the
multitude, the Upsala students wore a white cap with a black rim: this
cap is accordingly a memorial,--the sign of friendship's bridge over
that river of blood which once flowed between kindred nations. When
one meets in heart and spirit, a blissful seed is then sown. Memory's
sprite, come to us! we know thee by the cap from Upsala: be thou our
guide, and from our more southern home, after years and days, we will
make the voyage over again, quicker than if we flew in Doctor Faustus'
magic cloak. We are in Stockholm: we stand on the Ridderholm where the
steamers lie alongside the bulwarks: one of them sends forth clouds of
thick smoke from its chimney; the deck is crowded with passengers, and
the white cap with the black rim is not wanting.
We are off to Upsala; the paddles strike the waters of the Mälar, and
we shoot away from the picturesque city of Stockholm. The whole
voyage, direct to Upsala, is a kaleidescope on a large scale. It is
true, there is nothing of the magical in the scenery, but landscape
gives place to landscape, and clouds and sunshine refresh their
variegated beauty. The Mälar lake curves, is compressed, and widens
again: it is as if one passed from lake to lake through narrow canals
and broad rivers. Sometimes it appears as if the lake ended in small
rivulets between dark pines and rocks, when suddenly another large
lake, surrounded by corn fields and meadows, opens itself to view: the
light-green linden trees, which have just unfolded their leaves, shine
forth before the dark grey rocks. Again a new lake opens before us,
with islets, trees and red painted houses, and during the whole voyage
there is a lively arrival and departure of passengers, in flat
bottomed boats, which are nearly upset in the billowy wake of the
vessel.
It appears most dangerous opposite to Sigtuna, Sweden's old royal
city: the lake is broad here; the waves rise as if they were the
waters of the ocean; the boats rock--it is fearful to look at! But
here there must be a calm; and Sigtuna, that little interesting town
where the old towers stand in ruins, like outposts along the rocks,
reflects itself in the water.