RUSSIAN FINLAND--STOCKHOLM--THE LARGEST KNOWN METEORITE--THE DJURGARDEN.
It takes some time to get the confused impressions of brilliant Moscow
out of one’s head; and, until this is done, one is in no fit condition
to judge of other cities. The gold, green, blue, yellow, and red of
Moscow left images in my brain which shifted about for days as with
turns of a kaleidoscope. Entering the capital of Sweden by water on a
bright August morning, I saw it at its best. Stockholm is a handsome
city in its own right, and that guide-book writer who first called it
the “Venice of the North” owes an apology to the Swedes for instituting
an unfortunate comparison. There is plenty of water in and about
Stockholm, but no intricate network of canals, no rich tint, no mellow
antiquity. Comparing Stockholm with Boston, one would not be so far
out of the way. There are resemblances in the hilly grounds on which
the two cities stand, in the central dome and the tall spires, in the
crooked and converging streets, the stone buildings, the trimness and
cleanliness of everything, the all-pervading air of prosperity. The
American who happens to know Boston feels at home here at once. Even
when he has just arrived from Moscow, and misses colors in the roofs
of Stockholm, he is soon somewhat consoled by the many-colored native
dresses which he meets at every turn. These are worn by the women of
Dalecarlia. In coming to this city to live, they keep on wearing the
showy costumes of their native province. Their head-dress is either
a sort of liberty-cap in blue or an exaggerated smoking-cap in red,
attached somehow just above the nape of the neck, and always on the
point of falling off. The rest of the dress is a mysterious composition
of bandanna handkerchiefs and bunting of divers hues. Chains, spangles,
beads, and embroidery cover all. There is nothing like this in the
Russia I have seen. It is the prettiest sight in all Stockholm. But to
go back a space, and tell how we got here.
We left St. Petersburg in a clean and stanch little boat at 6 P. M.
Before stepping on board, I drew my passport from its envelope and
held it ready for the final ordeal; for, in theory, every stranger
is scrutinized as sharply on leaving as on entering the empire. I
was wondering where, on the broad surface of the dear old American
eagle, room would be found for still another and positively the last
inscription, seal, or stamp. But again, much to my disappointment,
nobody evinced the slightest curiosity to examine the document, either
at the gangway of the boat or during the voyage of some hundreds of
miles which we afterward made before quitting the jurisdiction of
Russia. Perhaps, if I had been a Nihilist, my departure from the
country would not have passed unnoticed. But my personal experience on
this and previous occasions, when a police supervision might have been
expected to make itself apparent, convinces me that it is a formality
much neglected, except when an attempted assassination of the Tsar
excites the authorities to spasms of real vigilance.
The passengers--about thirty in number--assembled on the upper deck to
take last view’s of St. Isaac’s dome, the spire of Saints Peter and
Paul, and the other landmarks of gold which loom above the horizon
when twenty miles away. In half an hour we had scraped acquaintance
and crystallized into sets, which continued unbroken all the voyage.
Among those aboard were a Siberian family, a Chilian, a Belgian, a
German who had won the hand of a London lady, married her at St.
Petersburg, and was then on his wedding-journey; a Nijni-Novgorod
merchant, several Finns, and a number of Norwegians and Swedes. Every
language of Northern Europe was spoken on that deck. If one person
could not talk directly to another, he could do it through the medium
of an interpreter. And gestures eke out the meaning at the point where
words fail. We were a merry party, without asking or caring to know one
another’s names.
Cronstadt--the sea-defense of St. Petersburg--was reached about 8 P.
M., and everybody inspected the fortifications which are called (by the
Russians) impregnable. To me they seemed old-fashioned and fragile.
Some of the forts are of stone or brick, with cannon in three or four
tiers. If a 500-pounder, working from a monitor at short range, could
not knock them about the ears of the defenders, I am much mistaken. The
real dependence of Cronstadt is probably the torpedo, and nobody yet
knows exactly how much that is worth. Toward eleven o’clock, when the
twilight had faded out, there was a general disposition to retire for
the night. The cabins of the Stockholm boats are small but comfortable.
Before the two sofas are transformed into beds, they are downy enough.
But, when they are rigged up with sheets, blankets, and pillows, the
inmates discover bones and buttons inside of them. They are very
trying on tender ribs. The cabin-doors have neither locks nor bolts,
and many persons do not even shut them, trusting to the screen of a
curtain which lets the air freely in and out. As the numbers of the
rooms do not show when the doors are ajar, this arrangement gives rise
to amusing mistakes, of which we hear some particulars the next morning.
In crossing the Gulf of Finland the water was rough for a few hours,
and the pitching motion of the vessel disturbed the equilibrium of
all sensitive interiors. In the morning some of the friskiest of our
company of the night before did not report for coffee at 7.30 o’clock.
When they did appear at nine or ten, they were silent, if not sad. I
can only say that they missed some coffee which was wonderfully good.
It was served with an assortment of bread, sweet biscuit, and cakes.
This light refreshment kept one alive till nine, when those who could
pull themselves together dived into the little dining-saloon and had
their regular breakfast. The most important part of this meal--Swedish
fashion--is the “trimmings.” You are expected to fill yourself at a
sideboard before you sit at table. I counted twenty different dishes
set out as appetizers. Among them were cold boiled lobsters, eels in
jelly, several fish-salads reeking with oil, head-cheese, slices of
sausage, pickled tongue, potted meats of nature unknown, cabbage,
beets, onions sliced with vinegar, bread, butter, and cheese. The
true Swede, when in “good form,” attacks all these viands _seriatim_,
and makes a hole in them. But, before he does anything, he fills a
large wine-glass from the colorless contents of one or more decanters,
which tower above all other things in a great caster. Those hold gin
or _kummel_ or other fiery spirits. After ten or fifteen minutes thus
spent on his feet, he is ready to appreciate the beefsteak and potatoes
and the ham-omelette and other substantials which are tendered to him
when he sits down.
We reached Helsingfors--the present capital of Russian Finland--about
noon. For several hours before coming in view of the town, we had
passed between numberless rocky islands. These kept off the winds and
waves, and after a while everybody was on deck and feeling well. The
practical joker (no company on shipboard is complete without one) did
not miss his chance when the famous white-roofed church of Helsingfors
hove in sight. As belated passengers thrust their heads above the
companion-way, he would seize them by the hand and drag them to the bow
to show them that it had been snowing during the night! To those not
in the secret the illusion was complete, and there was an instinctive
movement to button up coats. There was a great church on a hill, and
every roof, gable, and cornice where snow could lodge was apparently
covered with it. The church could not look whiter in the dead of
winter. This snow-effect is the work of design. It is paint--a study
from nature; and, if Helsingfors were distinguished for nothing else,
this unique church would make the place worthy of a visit. But all of
us who went ashore to spend the day--as the boat would not start again
before one o’clock the next morning--found much more there. The rides
and walks were pleasant; the parks large and full of flowers, with
fountains playing, and we could dine and sup in the open air, with
music by the best band of the garrison, which is always kept strong at
Helsingfors. Although the people of Finland are submissive to Russia in
many respects, they are quite independent in others. Russia humors them
to the extent of permitting home-rule in all matters local, and even
allows them to coin their own money. This concession suits the Finns
more than the traveling public. You are obliged to change your rubles
and kopecks into marks and pennies--all reckonings being made in the
latter money. I should say that Finland has the best of the bargain.
Russia protects her and makes business for her, and in return exercises
a sovereignty which strikes the stranger as merely nominal.
By one o’clock, A. M., the last of the wanderers had come aboard,
tired out with his or her pleasurings on land. But all were ready for
another frolic of four hours when we arrived at Abo--the old capital
of Finland, and still strongly attached to the Sweden of which that
country was once an appanage. But here, as elsewhere, among the Finns,
the Russian yoke is hardly felt. There is not much to see or do in Abo,
except to visit an old castle and church, and dine at a pretty little
restaurant within hearing of the steamer’s whistle. This was all very
unexciting when compared to our revelries at Helsingfors. No one was
sorry when the screw again buzzed, and we were heading in a southwest
direction for Stockholm. Abo is the farthest northing we have yet
made. According to my tattered map, it is about on the latitude of the
Shetland Islands. It must be bitterly cold in winter, but on the day of
our visit the weather there was just on the verge of warmth. Except for
a light wind, it would have been uncomfortable in thick clothing.
The third stage of the trip--from Finland to Stockholm--is uneventful.
We sleep through the larger part of it. The morning finds our craft
threading a multitude of islands. Many are richly cultivated. As we
approach Stockholm the pilot steers carefully. Navigation is difficult
for natural reasons, aside from the swarm of steamboats, ships, and
yachts. The Swedish flag, mainly a yellow cross on a blue ground,
is voted a beauty by all on deck. Our hastily formed impressions of
everything are favorable. We think well of the custom-house men, who,
while not neglecting their duty, give us as little trouble as possible,
and do not look significantly at the palms of their hands. So, after a
journey which has used up the best part of three days, we begin to see
the sights of which I spoke in the opening paragraph of this chapter.
The greatest curiosity in Stockholm is Professor Nordenskiöld’s
meteorite. He found it in Greenland many years ago, shipped it to this
city, and presented it to the principal museum, where it occupies the
post of honor. It is the largest messenger from the skies of which
I have any knowledge. Some of the guide-books make a woful blunder
in mentioning the weight of the mass. They put it at two hundred and
fifty tons. This is the truth multiplied by (say) ten or more. But an
aërolite of twenty-five tons is still a prodigy. It would cut up into
a hundred of such pieces as are now the pride of separate collections
in the great cities of the world. Its bulk is about that of a New
York hackney-coach, minus wheels and box-seat, and it would resemble
that ugly object in shape if it were not flattened and narrowed on one
side. It is iron of the specific kind called meteoric, with a definite
proportion of nickel in its composition. The intense heat to which
it was subjected in passing from the celestial regions through our
atmosphere scorched it terribly. It is blistered all over. This is a
kind of heaven’s artillery before which the biggest red-hot shot of
human invention sinks into insignificance.
There are many treasures of art and science in Stockholm which even the
most hurried of travelers should not fail to see. There are churches
which, though bare and cold when contrasted with those of Italy or
of Russia, are interesting by virtue of their tombs, their pictures,
statues, wood-carvings, and historical associations. On every side
the inquisitive mind may gather knowledge. But I think most tourists
will agree with me that for pure entertainment nothing yields better
return than a dinner in the Djurgarden. At one of the great restaurants
in that beautiful park you may dine perfectly in a shaded corridor
and watch the ever-fluctuating crowd of well-dressed, light-hearted
people, and hear the finest selections from the musical masterpieces
of all nations. These are rendered by a military band which might be
safely sent to America to compete with the best of ours. When the wind
and muscle of the performers give out, the music does not cease. As
the last strain of one band dies on the air, a second band, just as
good, continues the programme, so that there is no break in the feast
of sounds. The two sets of musicians “spell” each other, till all the
hearers have had enough.