Copenhagen yesterday—ancient Roskilde. It was once an important city, far
more so than the little village on the east coast of the island, which
men called Kopmannaehafn. But the Reformation accomplished here, as in
so many other cities of the north, its deadly work (of course deadly
only from an architectural point of view), and Roskilde is now a busy,
commonplace little town, with only the historic cathedral to remind us
of the past. Old King Harald Bluetooth built a wooden church here a
thousand years ago, and this cathedral was its immediate successor. It
is the burial place of many of Denmark’s most famous kings and queens,
among them Christian IV, who did perhaps more for the advancement of
his country than any other king before or since, and Queen Margaret
Valdemarsdatter, who was the only ruler strong enough to unite the three
countries of Scandinavia into a single nation. Christian IX, the “father
of half of Europe,” lies here, and many other Fredericks and Christians.
Danish nobility is not clever at thinking up new names for itself. All
who are not Valdemars are either Fredericks or Christians, with here and
there a Canute or a Sweyn or a Gorm.
Right here I am tempted to go into a history of some of these old
kings, whose names are so attractive, such as Gorm the Old, Canute the
Great, Harald Bluetooth, and Sweyn Forkbeard, but Danish history is so
closely interwoven with Norwegian that it is impossible to tell one
without telling the other. For more than four hundred years they were
actually united, and for nearly three hundred they were one and the same
country. The language of the two countries has always been and is to-day
practically identical. In view of this I think I will wait until I get
to Norway and then give you a dissertation on the subject. In all this,
Judicia, I am assuming that you don’t know any more about it than I did
before I read it up. I hope you are not too much enraged at such an
assumption.
It was as dark as Egypt or Pockonocket or any other place that is very,
very dark when our train left Roskilde, but it was only a short journey
to Copenhagen, and I enjoyed the pleasures of anticipation. A book I
read on the train characterized Copenhagen as a dull, prosaic city, but
being in an obstinate frame of mind I refused to be prejudiced against
it. As the train drew into the huge new Vesterbro station, I felt a
thrill of patriotic delight to note that the freight yard was illumined
with red, white, and blue arc lights. Perhaps these colors were not very
vivid or pronounced, but they were at least suggested, and I feel sure it
was done in my honor.
There is much to tell about Copenhagen. It is not dull or prosaic, or, if
it is, I like a dull, prosaic city. In this letter I will only describe
my arrival in Denmark’s capital, and in a few days, when I have had a
chance to see more, I will tell you more about it.
Outside the Vesterbro I found a perfect mob of “taxameters” (you know we
have always spelled that word wrong in America). The poor old cabmen have
been driven out of business by these swarms of gay, whizzing taxameters.
Copenhagen is the breeding place of autos, I verily believe. We have a
few in New York and Boston, and I’ve even seen them in other parts of the
world, but I never saw what seemed so many in any other city. I dare not
look up statistics for fear of having my impression shattered. Perhaps it
is partly the audacity and gay colors of these autos that make them seem
so omnipresent. They are purple or yellow or white, usually, and they own
the city.
Copenhagen is a brilliantly lighted city. Really Broadway must extend
itself if it would beat Copenhagen in this respect. There are all sorts
of electric signs. In one window I saw a perfect imitation of fire.
Paper streamers were blown upward by an electric fan and so lighted by
red and orange electric lights that I had to look twice before I decided
not to run for the nearest fire box. In another shop window an arctic
blizzard raged furiously all the evening, and I suppose only abated
when the shopkeeper went to bed. There are many brilliant electric
advertisements, among which I am sorry to say certain whisky and cognac
signs predominate. I fear there is more drunkenness in Denmark than in
Sweden. At any rate a certain rather humorous writer says that the ferry
from Helsingborg (Sweden) to Helsingör (Denmark) is much patronized by
thirsty Swedes escaping from the Gothenburg system. However, I doubt not
Phillips is enlarging upon Sweden’s stringent temperance laws as a claim
for the superiority of that country, so I will lie low on that point.
To return to my arrival in Copenhagen. The taxameter whizzed me around
in no time to Grand Hotel Jensen on Colbjörnsensgade, and I was greeted
there, much to my surprise, by two very husky and very blonde lady
porters, or should I call them “porterettes?” Well, these lady porters
took my suitcase and even Jumbo up two flights of stairs to the room
which was assigned me. You know something about Jumbo. It is almost as
heavy as a trunk, and it takes a strong man to carry it far, but my
blonde porterettes flew up the stairs with it, whistling as they went. Oh
these Great Danes!
I took a short “twist” along Vesterbrogade and Frederiksberg Alle and
back through a lot of other streets, whose names you are of course
eager to know. The Danish and Norwegian language has the happy custom
of attaching its definite or indefinite article to the end of its noun,
and thus a hotel is a _hotellet_ and a theater is a _teatret_. One sign
struck me as particularly interesting. It was no less than “Bil-Jonen
Teatret,” which I took to mean the “Bill Jones Theater.” I was convinced
of the correctness of my interpretation by seeing that the principal
feature of the week’s program was “The Hurricane Girls from Broadway.”
I haven’t yet seen the Hurricane Girls, and I doubt if I shall let them
know that a fellow countryman is in the city.
It is getting late, even as the Danes reckon lateness, so I think I will
say _god natt_.
As ever sincerely,
AYLMER.
SECOND LETTER
Copenhagen alias Axelhus; the origin of the city; the twin
towers of Fjenneslev; the Raadhus and its towers; Christian IV
and Brewer Jacobsen; Ströget; the fountains of Copenhagen; the
Tivoli Gardens; smörrebröd.
COPENHAGEN, January 12.
MY DEAR JUDICIA,
It is over a week since I wrote to you, and I have been sightseeing
furiously ever since, but I have barely begun to see this interesting
old town. It has rained all but two days of that time; but what of that?
Personally, I like rain. Think how clean and wet it is. Why shouldn’t a
city take a daily showerbath? Anyway, I like Copenhagen.
When I mailed my letter to you last week I went into a tobacco shop to
buy a stamp, and also to inquire where the post office was, for I thought
there might be something in the _poste restante_ for me. The shopkeeper
sold me a stamp, but as for the post office, he said it wasn’t necessary
to go there to mail my letter. I could drop it into one of the letter
boxes which were everywhere. That remark in its naïveté reminds me of a
sentence which I must quote from a book I have on Scandinavia. The author
is very enthusiastic about the ship which carries him from England to
Norway, and says: “The provision of the electric light in this noble
ship is also a great luxury, enabling you to make light or darkness as
you please in your berth, by merely touching a switch within easy reach.”
Think of it! Such luxury is almost effeminate, isn’t it? However, I don’t
seem to be telling you much about this city, and there is so much to tell
that I am in despair. The city’s original name was Axelhus, named for its
original owner, Bishop Absalon, who found it a small fishing village and
made it into a fortress against the heathen Wends. Perhaps Axelhus would
not seem to bear a very close etymological connection with Absalon, but
you see the bishop’s real name was Axel, and when he entered upon his
ecclesiastical career he searched the Scriptures for a name which should
sound something like “Axel.” As “Absalon” (the Danish form of “Absalom”)
was the best he could find, he adopted that.
This Bishop Absalon and his brother Esbjörn Snare, who built and
fortified Kallundberg on the opposite coast of Zealand, were the
mainstays of Denmark eight centuries ago. The brothers were twins, and
the sons of a famous warrior name Asker Ryg, who lived at Fjenneslev, in
the middle of Zealand. One day Asker Ryg went to battle, leaving a church
at Fjenneslev half built. He left word with his wife that should a son be
born during his absence she was to have a tower built on this church, so
that he might know the good news as soon as he should come in sight of
the town. If a daughter should be born, no tower was to be built. Some
time later Asker Ryg returned, and as he mounted the hill near Fjenneslev
he saw a church with two towers. Axel and Esbjörn Snare were the cause,
and they later proved worthy of their father’s rejoicing.
To-day Bishop Absalon continues to be the pride of the Copenhageners. In
a square facing the island of Slotsholmen, which he made his strongest
fortification, he sits in bronze, forever reining in his charger. He also
guards the entrance to the new town hall, which of course I must call
Raadhuset. I understand that an American architect (perhaps troubled with
professional jealousy) says that if he put up a building like that in
America his next step would be to pull it down. At any rate it cost the
city six million _kronor_, more than a million and a half dollars, and is
fitted out with a marvelous wealth of detail. On the walls of one of the
stairways are two very interesting pictures representing the city in 1587
and 1611 respectively. It was about that time that the herring fisheries
attracted so many merchants that the name of the town was changed from
Axelhus to Kopmannaehafn, or “Merchants’ Haven.” Prominent in each of
these pictures is a gallows on which two unfortunates are hanging.
Probably they had stolen half a loaf of bread or committed some equally
atrocious crime.
The Raadhus has a tower three hundred and forty feet in height, from
which you get a fine view and a good idea of the city. On the wall,
nearly up to the top, is a diagram, comparing this in height with various
other high buildings and towers. Washington Monument and the Eiffel
Tower are represented, and St. Peter’s, St. Paul’s, and St. Botolph’s
in Boston, England, and the Chicago Masonic Temple, and a motley array
of other high buildings. For some strange reason Woolworth’s skyscraper
is omitted, as is also the Singer Building. Not one of New York’s
skyscrapers is given a place in this hall of fame. I think I shall ask
the mayor what he has against New York.
From the top of this tower you may see why Copenhagen is called the
“City of Spires”—no, I should have spelled “spires” with a small “s,”
as this was not the city where they held the diet. Christian IV is
responsible for many of the spires which rise in all directions, for
so many in fact that a certain author, in a perfectly vile pun, calls
him an “aspiring” monarch. Of late years the old seventeenth-century
Christian has had to divide the honors, in this particular, with Brewer
Jacobsen. It is astounding to see how greatly the city has profited by
the Carlsberg brewer’s generosity. Two fine collections of antiquities
and of sculpture this philanthropist has given to the city, the
Frederiksborg castle-museum, and the Ny-Glyptothek. Besides these he has
made innumerable smaller gifts. Whenever a tower needs to be built or
repaired, Brewer Jacobsen comes to the rescue and builds it or repairs
it. Even now I understand he is contemplating the erection of a new
spire on the famous Frue Kirke, to replace the one destroyed by a former
bombardment of the city. At first it seemed rather ridiculous that so
much of the city’s architectural splendor is due to beer, but I really
believe the brewer has done much for the cause of temperance. His “beer”
is something like ginger pop, and is scarcely more intoxicating than
milk. It is so light that it is considered by many teetotalers as a
temperance drink. If his temperance beer can compete with more harmful
productions, he certainly is to be congratulated.
As for the buildings of Christian IV, their name is legion, for they
are many. It is curious that so much of his making has lasted for three
centuries or more, despite bombardments and innumerable fires. From the
tower we see a curious spire formed of the interlacing tails of dragons.
This was one of Christian IV’s towers. In other directions we see the
spires of his summer palace, Rosenborg, and many other buildings which
recall this great architect-king, among them Regenson, the college which
he built for poor students; the Round Tower, which he built for the use
of his astronomers, and his arsenal. He had the twin spires placed on the
cathedral of Roskilde, and he built the famous castle of Frederiksborg,
which his modern colleague in philanthropy, Brewer Jacobsen, has
transformed into a museum. It is said that with his own hands he built
the old tower on the Frue Kirke, and so reliable an authority as
Hjalmar Boyesen says: “With level and square in his pocket, he walked
about testing the soundness of the work of his carpenters, masons, and
architects.”
He must have been a wonderful old king, even if he was not particularly
modest about naming cities for himself. He founded the modern Christiania
and named it for himself, and also Christianssund, in the south of
Norway. Doesn’t he remind you of Alexander the Great in that respect?
Boyesen says he was so democratic that he delighted to attend a party at
the apothecary’s, where the jolly guests smashed all the windows; which
makes me wonder whether, if he were alive to-day, he would join the jolly
suffragettes of England in smashing windows.
You poor Judicia! I have kept you standing up in the Raadhus tower a
long time, haven’t I? I hope you have not been cold, but if you have
you can warm yourself by walking down some three hundred steps. From
the Raadhus-Plads there is a series of streets leading to Kongens
Nytorv, and here, between these two important squares, you will find
_echt_ Copenhagen. It is lovingly called by the Danes _Ströget_, or the
“Promenade.” Half of Copenhagen must go through here every day, though
it is hardly wide enough for two teams to pass. Ströget is one of the
few places in the city where electric cars are prohibited, and only an
old-fashioned omnibus plies back and forth. I believe it would create a
civil war if any company tried to desecrate this beloved, busy Ströget
with an electric car line. You get jostled and elbowed all the way along,
which would strike you as “not quite nice” in the Copenhageners, were it
not that they expect to be equally jostled and elbowed. You see, people
have elbowed their way through here for centuries, and that is part of
the charm of it.
Midway in Ströget is a most interesting institution called Amagertorv,
where for centuries the women of Amager have sold fruit and flowers.
These women are the descendants of the Dutch people whom Christian II
imported from Holland some four centuries ago. He fell in love with a
Dutch girl whom he called _Dyveke_, or “Little Dove.” Later she became
his morganatic wife, and the house which this very bad Christian built
for her still stands on the corner of Nielsgade. In order that she might
have congenial company he imported several hundred of her compatriots,
and it is the descendants of these who still sell fruit and flowers in
Amagertorv.
In Kongens Nytorv, the eastern terminus of Ströget, no less than
thirteen streets converge. Here is situated, among other fine buildings,
“Kongelige Teatret.” I refuse to interpret such obvious bits of the
Danish tongue. It would be an insult to your intelligence. It was here
that Holberg, the great dramatist, won his fame. I am sorry to say that
his modern compatriot, Asta Nielsen, has won far more fame in certain
circles. Perhaps you don’t know, Judicia, that Asta devotes her time and
her histrionic talent entirely to moving pictures now. All over Italy and
Germany I saw flaming advertisements of her as about to perform through
the medium of moving pictures “The Dance of Death” and other equally
thrilling dances. Oh, she is undoubtedly very popular with the patrons of
the “movies,” but nevertheless I think I should prefer to be Holberg dead
than Asta Nielsen alive.
In the middle of Kongens Nytorv is a well-known statue, which the Danes
call _Hesten_ or the “Horse.” It represents Christian V riding down
a writhing form, but whether that form represents abstract Envy or
concrete Sweden no one seems to know. At any rate, Alexander the Great,
Artemisia, Minerva, and Hercules are admiringly looking on, though how
the Danes managed to corral all these people into Kongens Nytorv I don’t
know. It is curious, too, that Hercules and Minerva have also found their
way over to Slotsholmen, and there, together with Nemesis and Æsculapius,
look up at Frederick VII.
Right here I must tell you something about Copenhagen’s many statues and
fountains. In the Raadhus-Plads three of the weirdest dragons that were
ever invented spout from their monstrous snouts three foolish little
jets of water. The small boys used to play over these and stick corks
in the dragons’ snouts, and so the clever authorities built a wide moat
all around it, and now those boys have got to swim for it if they want
to play practical jokes on the dragons. In Gammeltorv there is an old
fountain which spouts golden apples on the king’s birthday and other
national holidays. In another part of the city Gefion is represented
plowing furiously with four bulls. This Gefion was an ancient goddess who
was to have as much territory as she could plow up in a single night.
By dint of great energy she plowed all the territory from Skaane, the
southernmost province of Sweden, to the southernmost part of Zealand. The
island of Zealand then broke off from Sweden and became the perpetual
heritage of the Danes.
Another interesting monument represents an old soldier holding a little
boy on his shoulder while the boy blows a horn. It is entitled _Den lille
Hornblaeser_. Isn’t that great, and doesn’t the tender, affectionate,
kitten-stroking tone get into your voice involuntarily when you say it?
On the Holmens-Kanal, which, by the way, is a street, there is a statue
to Niels Juel, who led the Danes to a great victory against the Swedes
two and a half centuries ago. The statue is made from the guns of Ivar
Hvitfeld’s frigate, _Danebrog_, which Ivar blew up in Kjöge Bay to save
the rest of the fleet. It hardly seems fair that Ivar’s guns should have
been used to build a statue to Niels, but such is the case.
The most unique statue I have ever seen stands in the museum, and
formerly stood in “Gray Brothers’ Square.” It is called _Skamstötte_, or
“Pillar of Shame,” and bears the inscription “To the eternal shame and
disgrace of Corfitz Ulfeldt, the traitor.”
It would take more stationery than I have in stock to tell you of all the
statues and fountains there are in this city. They must number well up
into the hundreds. If anybody in Denmark says something clever, or if he
is good-looking, or if he can write a readable book, or if he can cure
somebody of appendicitis, they put up a monument to him.
The Danes are great lovers of royalty, and intensely loyal to their
kings, though some of them have tried their subjects’ loyalty to the
utmost. Danish kingship was in the past a “despotism tempered by
sentiment,” as F. M. Butlin says. Some centuries ago, during the reign
of Frederick V, it was said that “If the citizens of the capital had
left off thrusting their heads out of their windows and shouting ‘Skaal
Kong Christian,’ our absolute monarch would have felt unhappy.” I
hope I shall not be arrested for _lèse majesté_ if I remark that their
last king, Frederick VIII, was a very dissipated man. As you doubtless
remember, he died mysteriously some time ago while sojourning incognito
in Hamburg. However, their present king, Christian X, is an excellent
monarch and much beloved by all. It is said that on hearing of his
father’s death he immediately took the Holy Communion, as an indication
of his desire to be a Christian in fact as well as in name.
This king and many of his relatives now live in the four palaces on
Amalienborg-Plads. I had the luck to be in this _plads_ the other
day at just twelve o’clock when the guard changed. It was a very
pompous ceremony. The Danebrog was much in evidence, and the immense,
black-plumed helmets of the soldiers added greatly to the solemnity of
the occasion.
Perhaps you are weary enough of sightseeing by this time to come back
with me and sample Danish _smörrebröd_ at Wivel’s restaurant, which is
the most famous in the city. This is a sort of attachment to Tivoli, and
while your mouth is watering for _smörrebröd_ I must describe Tivoli.
It is considered the finest amusement park in Europe. It is not nearly
as big as some others, but it is a model of its kind. The Copenhageners
are not an idle people, but they love to amuse themselves. Amusement
and relaxation, sheer and simple, Tivoli offers them. On holidays and
anniversaries there is a most wonderful illumination.
[Illustration: Watch Parade in Amalienborg Square.]
[Illustration: The Splendor of Tivoli on a Gala Night in Summer.]
In “Economics 1” at college I remember learning with great struggles
some horrible fabrications called _Jevons’ Criteria_. Well, the author of
that outrage, Professor Stanley Jevons himself, writes this about Tivoli
in his “Essays on Social Reform”:
“The Tivoli pleasure gardens form the best possible model of popular
recreation. Englishmen think of Denmark only as a very little nation. But
though small in quantity Denmark shames us in quality.… But my Danish
friends, when questioned on the subject [of their country’s superiority],
attributed a high civilizing influence to the Thorvaldsen Museum and
the Tivoli Gardens at Copenhagen. Of course our magistrates could not
permit so demoralizing a spectacle as ballet-dancing in the open air,
but I wish they could see Froeken Leontine and Fanny Carey dance their
_pas de deux_. They would then learn that among a truly cultured and
well-governed people dancing may be as chaste as it is a beautiful
performance. Compared with our Crystal Palace or Alexandra Palace,
Tivoli is a very minor affair; but civilization is not a question of
magnitude, and in spite of its comparatively small size Tivoli is a model
of good taste and decency, and indicates the way in which, under good
regulations, all classes may be induced to mingle.”
Butlin, in quoting the same passage, says:
“It must not be supposed that Tivoli is a kind of garden ‘settlement,’
where classes mix with the conscious intention of civilizing and being
civilized. We are rather inclined to suspect that Professor Jevons’
Danish friends were wily Danes who knew that civilizing influence was
the right kind of bait with which to lure a social reformer within the
Tivoli walls, and that the Professor, having enjoyed his evening there,
as he evidently did, felt called upon to justify his enjoyment by an
analysis of its civilizing influence.”
Well, Judicia, I have kept you waiting for that _smörrebröd_ for some
time while I quoted the authorities on Tivoli. When the _smörrebröd_
finally arrives, it looks like the most vivid of patchwork quilts. It
consists of various pieces of bread and butter “smeared” with all sorts
of substances of all sorts of colors. There are slabs of ultramarine
and ultraviolet, lake, mauve, puce, yellow ochre, carmine, buff, drab,
gray-green, black, orange, scarlet, and everything else. In _smörrebröd_
you find all the colors of the rainbow, and many others which have not
yet been catalogued. These colors, when analyzed, are found to consist
of all sorts of meats, fish, hard-boiled eggs, and parti-colored salads.
If you have a grain of progressive originality in you, you will like
_smörrebröd_. _Smör_ actually means “butter,” but I am sure that our word
“smear” is a lineal descendant, and I prefer to translate _smörrebröd_
into “smeared bread.”