THE GOTHENBURG WHALE--THREE KINGS IN A BUNCH--NORTHERN OUT-DOOR LIFE--A
STUDY OF WINDMILLS.
Let me tell my readers something about the pursuit of a whale under
difficulties. At Gothenburg, Sweden, I learned that a stuffed whale,
sixty feet long, could be seen in a museum of that city. Objects said
to be whales in the act of spouting are often pointed out to one at
sea. But they are usually miles away. They throw up jets which look in
the distance like little puffs of steam or exploding beer-bottles. I
always assented to the existence of those whales, to avoid controversy,
but reserved my doubts. Here, at last, was promised on the dry land
what had never really been seen by me on the ocean. So I lost no time
in seeking out the museum. Entering it, I steered at once for the fish
department. A single glance up and down the long room convinced me that
there was not even a baby-whale among its skinny and foul-smelling
treasures. An old woman, with a large brass plate--numbered--hanging
round her neck, was the only other living occupant of the room. She
was the custodian. I said, “Speak English?” She only shook her head.
As I could not speak Swedish, I tried pantomime, which goes a great
way in strange countries. First I looked round in astonishment, as if
missing something that ought to be there; then stretched both hands
as high and wide as possible, to imply that the thing wanting was of
immense size; finally, made a noise like the fizz of champagne, and
jerked both thumbs into the air. I flattered myself that all that meant
a whale, if anything. But the old woman’s face remained a wrinkled
blank. She did not “catch on.” A happy thought! I opened out both
arms like a pair of jaws big enough to take in Jonah. She exclaimed,
“Yaw!” with much energy, and took me to a corner of the room and left
me in front of--an alligator, with a very open countenance. Still
keeping my temper--though under extreme provocation--I made a fierce
wiggle-waggle motion with both hands to represent a big fish that
thrashes about a good deal with his flat tail. This time there could be
no doubt that she understood me, for she, piloted me into a side-show,
where I brought up before--a shark. That was too much for my patience.
Forgetting that the poor woman could not speak a word of English, I
cried out: “How stupid! Why don’t you show me the whale?” You should
have heard her yell: “Oh, yaw, yaw! der vale, der vale!” Thus near was
the Swedish word to the English one all the time I was wasting my best
pantomime on her. In two minutes more I had descended a long corkscrew
flight of stairs at the heels of the aged guide, and there, in a cool
basement, found the monster upon the ownership of which Gothenburg is
entitled to put on airs, for it is claimed to be the largest whale
ever skinned and mounted. It is all of sixty feet long, and so thick
in proportion, that twenty Jonahs could sit around inside quite
comfortably. In fact, its interior is fitted up with seats, and may be
hired by small parties who take a fancy to eating and drinking in a
whale’s belly. Alongside of the skin is the skeleton, also an object of
great interest, looking like the frame of a schooner bottom-side up.
It is not often that the tourist has a chance to see three kings in a
bunch. At Copenhagen we were just in time to witness the entry of the
King of Portugal. He came to pay a little visit to the King of Denmark,
one of whose sons, the King of Greece, was then spending a few days
at the old home. I hope it is not very unrepublican to say that if I
must look on kings I prefer that they should “act as such,” and always
be wearing their crowns and robes, and holding scepters in their hands
like pokers. If they would ride on horseback, or in golden chariots, so
much the better. These three kings sat in open barouches, like other
people; and they had left their robes and crowns and scepters at home.
But they were good enough to put on gorgeous cocked hats with fountains
of white feathers, and coats plastered all over with gold which served
as a background for decorations blazing with diamonds. It was not for
me--as the stern and unbending representative of a republic--to scowl
upon all those lovely gewgaws and that beautiful man-millinery. They
seemed appropriate enough for an occasion of show. The philosopher
accepts them gratefully, like any other free entertainment. Probably
the three kings were bored by it more than any of the spectators. The
King of Portugal is a middle-aged, stout gentleman with an expression
of face amiable as far as it could be seen under a weeping-willow of
plumes. To be born good-looking is a great initial advantage. Perhaps
that is why the young King of Greece received so large a share of the
applause. The reception was planned for the royal stranger. But the
people of Copenhagen take a lively personal interest in their own
dynasty. They follow its fortunes in all parts of the world, and, when
any of its members return for a visit, they never fail to testify their
pleasure. If King Christian of Denmark needed the indulgence of his
people to any great extent, much would be pardoned to him because he
is the father of so many good-looking children who have got on in the
world.
These lucky children reciprocate the popular feeling at Copenhagen,
and come back from their distant thrones at least once a year. Then
there is a regular house-warming. The husbands and the wives and the
babies are all on hand. The court photographer is called in, and
pictures of the party are taken in a variety of combinations and
attitudes. A favorite group is one in which the Tsar of Russia--the
big brother-in-law--occupies the central position. He is a tall,
bluff-looking man, with a laughing face. In a Derby hat and a
shooting-jacket he would pass for a young English squire, without a
care in the world. He holds by the hand--with a tight grip, one would
say--the gentle Dagmar who shares his fate. By her side is one who
looks almost like her twin-sister--the Princess of Wales--and the
Prince himself is within touch. The tallest and best looking of all
the men is the King of Greece, and his queen nestles up to him very
fondly in the pictures. The Crown-Prince of Denmark is also there,
doing credit to the family. His wife, a princess of Sweden, with
other desirable qualities, is rich in her own right--a fact of which
the thrifty Danes remind you with pride. The youngest, Princess Thyra
and her husband, the Duke of Cumberland, with the unmarried son of
the King, make up the second generation of this great family party.
The first consists of the parents--the still comely Christian and his
wife--and the third generation is a mass of babies that I have never
stopped to count. They swarm all over the steps of the palace where
these pictures are taken. Some one of them is always wriggling about,
just enough to blur the photograph at that point.
There is something pathetic in the way that the people of Copenhagen,
Gothenburg, Christiania, and other northern cities make the most of
their short summer. Flowers are very precious to them, since they can
have them for so few months out-of-doors. We found every available
foot of front garden brilliant with blossoms--the reddest and
yellowest preferred. Every window in every house had its box of pinks,
nasturtiums, marigolds, heliotropes, and mignonettes. For the time
being the natives make believe that they are living in the tropics.
They play with sun-shades and awnings as if they really needed them.
They imitate the custom of Italy, and take their meals in the open air,
as if it were not generally cool and uncomfortable there. I never saw
an illusion better maintained. But I noticed that many, who carried
the self-deception too far, paid for it in coughs and sneezes. It was
not till we descended to the latitude of Hamburg, that we found it
an unalloyed pleasure to sit under the trees in the edge of evening
and dine. The good Hamburgers know how to live. They have established
a first-class zoölogical garden in a shady wood, near the center of
their city. They have stocked this garden with the most ferocious
and delightful wild beasts, securely caged. They have organized a
restaurant and _café_ of an incredible feeding capacity. They have
provided chairs for everybody. They have hired the best military band
in Hamburg and bade it play every day free of cost to all comers.
We went out there to dinner one afternoon--between five and six
o’clock--and saw a sight not yet so familiar that it has ceased to be
deeply interesting. There were thousands of women and young girls,
neatly dressed, sitting at little tables sipping their coffee or beer
and nibbling their pretzels, and knitting or sewing “between whiles.”
Every one was talking or laughing. Between and under and over the
tables, and constantly on the move, were the happiest of children, in
numbers past counting. It was evident that this was the children’s
hour, and that they, with all their mothers and nurses, were having a
good time. In the midst of the joyous tumult would be heard the bark of
the seal, the roar of the lion, the squall of the peacock. Presently
the men began to collect and to occupy seats not hitherto taken.
Corks popped out of bottles and incense ascended from the deep bowls
of pipes. The fathers had come to join their babies. Not a policeman
was in sight, and there was no need of one. The only turbulent and
dangerous creatures anywhere around were the wild beasts, and they
were behind the bars. The music was exceedingly good--as it always is
in Germany--and it was pleasant to watch the vast audience drinking in
the sweet sounds with ecstasy and beating time with knitting-needles,
pipes, beer-mugs, and everything else handy. But in some of the most
delicate passages of favorite compositions, when the conductor was
doing his best to quiet down the band, funny effects would be produced
by the growls of the bears, which somebody was stirring up with a long
pole.
Before quitting the colder lands of the North, let me not fail to
mention the warm, luxuriant--almost tropical--tastes of her sculptors.
After leaving Rome and Florence, one never sees as many marble Venuses,
Cupids, Adonises, and Apollos as in the capitals of Sweden, Norway,
and Denmark. They are all new, and sparkle like loaf-sugar. At first,
I thought they were copies of great originals in the Italian galleries.
But they proved to be native conceptions of the old myths, wrought out
with the patient art--if not the skill--of the true Greek. It would
take double windows and red-hot stoves to make those gods and goddesses
look comfortable in-doors in a Norwegian January. The costume of Eden
is even less adapted to the temperature of the front yard. Imagine
Venus in a snow-drift!
Coming by boat from Korsör, Denmark, to Kiel, Prussia, the passengers
on our steamboat had the pleasure of reviewing a division of the German
ironclad fleet. Attention was first caught by the rapid discharge of
cannon from a man-of-war in the offing. We could see her balls strike
the water. At the same time she was tacking to all points of the
compass and making signals. We next came in sight of a torpedo-fleet.
Each boat had a little smoke-stack, and hugged the water like a spider.
With the most powerful glass the details of this fleet could not be
made out at a distance of four or five miles. Then we passed two or
three great black hulks, with a double row of teeth all round. These
were war-ships of the ordinary type, and did not make one think very
highly of the German navy. But, a few miles farther on, there was
a change of opinion. Inside the spacious harbor of Kiel, and under
the guns of the great forts, lay the flower of the ships upon which
Germany will rely in her next war with a naval power. We counted twelve
of them--all new and terrible. They comprised every variety of ram
and battery, but we could not make out anything that looked like a
revolving turret. One mode of armament is a favorite. It consists of
two guns mounted to sweep the upper forward deck, two with the freest
play on the starboard and two more on the port side. The guns are
all of large caliber, of great length, designed for pounding at long
range. Seen aft, these ironclads are very noticeable for their breadth
of beam. They would float tranquilly enough, but seem deficient in
speed. As they were all at anchor, we could not judge of that point.
The skeletons of other vessels which promise to be, when completed,
as formidable as those before us, were to be seen in the imperial
ship-yards near by. Every country of Europe which has a navy is
exercising it about this time. Germany is only in the fashion when she
orders out her ironclads for mock-battles in the Baltic. But, though we
all knew this fact, we could not help wondering what power she intended
to impress with these exhibitions of her resources on the sea.
I suppose that few travelers trouble themselves to study windmills from
the inside. Perhaps these structures are best regarded as artistic
objects. They certainly set off landscapes very well. Standing on
little elevations, flinging out their gaunt arms against the evening
sky, they kindle the fancies of the beholder. A brain cooler than Don
Quixote’s might imagine them endowed with life. I confess to an ancient
desire to know something of the internal economy of windmills. It was
hard to understand how such slender, graceful towers could contain the
machinery for doing any really serious work, and, still more, that
the arms could have hurt Don Quixote very much when he pitched into
them, lance in rest. Revolving lazily in a moderate breeze, they look
harmless enough. An inspection of the works of one of the windmills on
a hill-top in Bremen has enlightened me a little. That which looks so
small and fragile at a distance, is a four-story house. It is at once
a granary, a mill, and a residence. The miller and his family have
in it their roomy parlor, dining-room, kitchen, and chambers. These
apartments are all comfortably furnished, and so well isolated that
the floating meal, of which the air is full in the mill itself, does
not invade their home. I have never seen anything neater, snugger,
and more generally habitable than the set of rooms which the miller’s
good wife was pleased to show us. When the wind stirred, there was no
idleness on those premises. The arms--monstrous when measured from
the upper platform--turned three great mill-stones, and had power
to spare. The miller and his boys strained every muscle to feed the
ravenous maws and bag the meal as fast as produced. Americans in Europe
are too apt to think ill of the old-fashioned modes of working here.
Windmills are often cited by them as specimens of antiquated notions.
They would change their minds if they could see, as I saw, how simply,
effectively, and above all how cheaply, a windmill can do useful work
for mankind.