Elsinore and Kronborg--An Evening Dinner Party.
HELSINOERE, DANNMARK, _August 29, 1902_.
We left Copenhagen Friday evening, about four o'clock, from the
Nordbane station. We were in plenty of time. Nobody hurries in
Denmark. The train of carriages, with their side doors wide open,
stood on the track ready to start. Prospective passengers and their
friends moved about chatting, or saying good-bye. It was a local train
to Elsinore, where it would connect with the ferry across the _Sund_
to Helsingborg and there with the through express to Stockholm and
Kristiania, a night's ride. We would go to Elsinore, and there spend
the night, and go on by daylight in the morning.
A good many acquaintances had come down to see us off, just for the
sake of friendliness. I had kissed all the rosy-cheeked _Froekens_ and
been kissed by the _Frus_, having dexterously escaped the embraces of
the men, when there loomed large before me an immense Dane, near six
feet high and proportionate in girth, brown-bearded and blue-eyed,
holding an enormous bouquet in either hand, an American flag waving
from the midst of each. He made straight for me, folded me up among
the flowers and kissed me joyfully on either cheek, and all before I
really knew just what had taken place; then he doffed his hat, and
bowing profoundly, presented first to me and then to H one of the
bouquets with which he was loaded. And these bouquets were tied up
with great white ribbons! Of course, we were evidently but newly wed.
We suddenly became of interest to the entire company. Nor was there
escape, for General C is well known and popular in Copenhagen. Others
now came up and were introduced, and H and I held a _levée_ right then
and there, and of kisses and embraces I made no count.
The ride was along the _Sund_, that lovely stretch of salt water, only
a few miles wide, which joins the Baltic Sea and the Atlantic. It is
more like the Hudson River below West Point than anything I know,
except that the shores are low and more generally wooded to the
water's edge. Or, perhaps I should say that it is another and narrower
Long Island Sound, as you see it a few miles out from Jamaica Bay. The
busy waters were alive with a multitudinous traffic from Russia and
Germany and Sweden and Denmark itself, and the fishing vessels that
abound along these coasts. Here and there villas and fine country
houses peeped out among the trees. The _Sund_ is the joy of the Dane.
He loves it, and the stranger who looks upon it does not forget it.
One then understands why the Danish poets have sung so loudly of it.
[Illustration: ELSINORE.]
Our way lay through much cultivated land, market gardens sending their
produce to Copenhagen, dairy farms where is made some of that famous
Danish butter every Londoner prefers to buy, and which is sold all
around the world. Here and there we passed a little town, always with
its sharp-steepled Lutheran church and dominie's snug manse along its
side. The church, the Lutheran church in Denmark, is no trifling
power. It is as bigoted and well entrenched as is the Roman hierarchy
in Mexico and Spain. We should have liked to be wedded in the Vor Frue
Kirke, where the dear old grandmother had been married. But it is a
Lutheran church, and we were Dissenters, and without the pale. Nor
could we present the necessary proof. We had no papers to show we had
been duly born. Nor had we legal documents to prove that our parents
were our very own. Nor could we show papers in proof that we had been
christened and were legally entitled to our names, nor that we had
been regularly confirmed. Without these documents, sealed and
authenticated by the state, and in our case also by the United States,
no Lutheran pastor would have dared to try and make us one. So we ran
the gauntlet of less stringent English law, in itself quite bad
enough, and lost the experience of the quaint Danish ceremonial in the
noble church.
At the fine big Government station in Helsinoere (Elsinore)--for the
Government owns and runs the railroads in Denmark, just as it does in
Germany and much of France--we were met by an aunt and uncle and
cousin of H's. They were a charming old couple, and the son was a
young naval engineer (shipbuilder), working in the ship yard at
Helsinoere. All have lived in America and speak our tongue. We were to
dine with them and spend the evening, when General and Mrs. C would go
home on the last train at 10 P. M. I left the ladies together, while D
and I strolled over to the ancient, yet formidable, fortress of
Kronborg, which for centuries has commanded the gateway to the Baltic.
Built of Norwegian granite, when erected it was believed to be
impregnable. Its casemates, lofty walls, turrets and towers frowned
threateningly across the three-mile strait to Helsingborg in Sweden,
and no boat sailed past except it first paid the dues. To-day, these
walls of rock, these ramparts in the air, no longer terrify the
mariner. _Sund_ taxes are no longer levied! The ancient fortress does
little else than fire an occasional salute. But the Danes still love
and honor it, and a few soldiers are stationed in it, a solitary
guard.
A vista of the _Sund_ I tried to kodak from the top of the great
tower, and I bribed a soldier for a dime to let me take his manly
form, although a camera is forbidden within the precincts of this
place of war.
But Kronborg is famous for other things than mere Danish tolls and
wars. Kronborg it is, where Hamlet's shade still nightly wanders along
the desolate ramparts. There it is that the Danish prince beheld his
father's ghost. There he kept watch at night with Horatio and
Marcellus. And close by in the park of Marienlyst Castle is Hamlet's
grave. We did not see it, but many pilgrims do.
[Illustration: THE SUND FROM KRONBORG'S RAMPARTS.]
Then we descended into the deep dungeons, or part of them, and a
pretty, rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed Danish lass told us tales of Holger
Danske, who lives down in the deepest pits, whose long white beard is
fast grown to the table before which he sits, and who is to come forth
some day and by his might restore to the Danish race its former great
position on the earth; and she told us also of the human tragedies
which have in past ages been enacted in these keeps. She spoke in
soft, lisping, musical Danish, the only sweet Danish I have heard; for
the Copenhagen speech is jerky, the consonants are chopped short, and
the vowels are deep gurgled in the throat, difficult for foreign ears
to comprehend.
After seeing the fortress, we visited an ancient monastery, suppressed
when the Roman church was driven from these northern Lutheran lands,
and now become an Old Ladies' Home--shocking transformation in the
contemplation of those monkish shades which may yet roam the forsaken
cloisters!--of which institution the old uncle is now Superintendent
with Government pension for life!
And then we came to the cozy home where the ladies were already met.
We entered a narrow doorway, a sort of interior storm door, and turned
to the right into a comfortable sitting room, beyond which was the
dining room, with the table set. The aunt is a gentle, round-faced,
rosy-cheeked little woman, in a white lace cap and the prettiest of
manners. With her was an old spinster friend, _Froeken_----, a slim,
wizen-faced dame of sixty, in brown stuff dress, with tight sleeves
and close fitting waist, and old lace at the throat, fastened by a big
mediaeval-looking gold brooch, and with a gold chain about her neck.
She possessed very small, bright black eyes, and lips that stuck
straight out. She courtesied,--dropped down straight about ten inches
and came up quick, a sort of bob--smiled, and said in Danish, "she was
rejoiced to meet H's '_Mand_.'" All were very friendly, and H to have
caught a _Mand_, sure enough, was treated with distinction.
The table was set for eight; there was beer in glass decanters, cold
fried fish, cold smoked goose breast, cold smoked salmon (raw), cold
sardines, cold calveshead jelly, cold beef loaf, cold bread, black
bread, rye bread, cold rolls (hard and shiny with caraway seeds in
them), gooseberry jelly, spiced currants, and also tea, this latter
piping hot. At each place was set a pile of salted butter (at least a
pound) on a little dish. I sat next "_Tante_," with _Froeken_--across
the table from me, her black eyes boring me through with steady gleam.
You take your fish up by the tail and eat him as you would a piece of
bread. "Butter him thick, yes, thick," "_Tante_" said to me. I laid on
about half an inch, she did, they all did. It was delicious butter and
that fish went down wonderfully slick. The goose breast was good, but
I discerned it to have been a gander. The raw herring I did not
find so attractive as the goose. There were also several sorts of
cheese, of which every one ate much. You put a heavy layer of butter
on your bread, then a layer of thin cut cheese, then a layer of
herring or sardine or salmon, and eat it fast. There was no hot food,
there never is. The rule is to stow away cold fish, butter and cheese,
and wash it down with the strong brown beer. The sweets are then taken
to top off with. Pickles and preserves together--just like the
Germans. (I have not yet run into the sour foods in which the German
stomach delights.) Having begun with a mild cheese, you gradually
ascend to the strongest with the final sweets. H says the meal was
only "supper," not dinner, but I confess I am so mixed on these
Scandinavian meals, that I cannot yet tell the difference. At
breakfast, the Danes take only a cup of coffee and a roll, the Spanish
_Desayuno_; not even an egg, nor English jam. About one or two o'clock
in the day, they dine, having soups, meats (roast or boiled), fish
(fresh and salt), vegetables and beer. At night, it is about as I have
told you, and they often dare to add a little more cold fish and
cheese before they finally retire. The soups at dinner are very good;
and the meats are better cooked than at a British table, on which,
after a while, all meats begin to taste alike, and you grow tired to
death of the eternal boiled potatoes, and boiled peas steeped in mint.
I have had very nice cauliflower at Danish tables, and the lettuce of
their salads is delicate and crisp, while the coffee of the Danes,
like that of the Dutch, is better than you will find in either
England, Germany or France; it seems to be the real thing, with
neither chicory nor hidden beans. The Danes are skilful cooks,
although their palates seem to be fondest of cold victuals and raw
smoked fish.
[Illustration: FISHING BOATS, ELSINORE.]
We stayed the night in a comfortable inn, close by the water side, an
ancient ale house where sailors used to congregate in the halcyon days
when all passing ships must lay-to at Helsinoere to pay the tolls then
levied by the King, hard by where now the fishing boats tie up. There
were many of these and one in particular was continually surrounded by
an excited crowd. It had just arrived loaded down to the decks with a
catch of herring. The fishermen had had the luck to run into one of
those rare and extraordinary schools of herring which are sometimes
chased into the protecting waters of the Sound by a whale or other
voracious enemy outside. The nets had been let quickly down and
millions of fish as quickly drawn up. The boat had been filled to
sinking, and word flagged to brothers of the craft to hasten up and
partake of the abounding catch. Twenty thousand dollars' worth of
herring had been caught within a few hours by the fishermen of
Helsinoere alone, to say nothing of what were taken by the crews of
other fishing boats along the coast. The entire population of the
little town is now busy cleaning and salting fish, fish that will feed
them well and keep them easy in stomach until the winter shall be
past and the spring be come again. Women were selling fish along the
streets, boys were peddling fish, how many for a cent I do not know,
and men were giving fish, gratis, to whosoever would carry them away.
These extraordinary catches do not often happen. No such luck had
befallen Helsinoere for many a day. It may be years before it again
occurs. The fisherman of these northern waters sails forth upon his
cruise each day inflamed with very much the same spirit of adventurous
quest as in America are we who, living upon the land, drill wells for
oil or dig for gold.
Helsinoere is rich to-night, and the herring is her king.
[Illustration: A SNAP SHOT FOR A DIME, KRONBORG.]