MORE ABOUT COPENHAGEN; THE COPENHAGENERS’ COUNTRY GARDENS
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK,
July 26, 191—.
_My dear Cynthia_:
You have probably noticed that I have not as yet mentioned the art
museums of Copenhagen. That fact is due to the modesty of the amateur
in the presence of the professional. However, as I know that you will
want my “reaction,” I confess to having visited two museums of art.
Thorwaldsen’s I visited yesterday. It is a huge, ugly, tomb-shaped
building, constructed at the expense of the city of Copenhagen as a
permanent home for the works of the greatest of Danish sculptors. And
it is really a tomb as well as a museum, for Bertel Thorwaldsen, in
whose honor it was erected, lies buried in the court under a great
mass of dark ivy. As in ancient classical tombs, a frescoed border
around the outside wall depicts scenes from the life of the entombed
one. Among other events connected with Thorwaldsen’s successes is
represented his triumphal return to Copenhagen in 1838, after the
long, hard years of apprenticeship to his art in Rome. Above the main
entrance is the gift of the late King Christian—a Victory reigning
in her quadriga. This beautiful piece of bronze was designed by
Thorwaldsen himself, but was executed by another Danish sculptor,
Herman Bissen.
What impressed me most of all about the museum was the tremendous
amount of work which Thorwaldsen turned off. There are scores and
hundreds of sculptures, drawings and paintings by him. As you know,
most of his subjects are classical—as would be expected of the founder
of the neo-classical school. But there are really very few of his works
for which I care. Thorwaldsen’s people do not look as if they had ever
accomplished anything; they bear too few marks of life’s battles;
they are too passive, too gentle, too restful. The “Christ,” I admit,
possesses a benignance and serenity which is overmastering; and the
bas-reliefs of “Night” and “Morning” are exquisite. But the draperies
of some of his Greeks do look painfully like wash-boards. Judging from
the “Lion of Lucerne,” Thorwaldsen was more successful with animals.
The “Lion” is my favorite. He has kept his trust, has fought a good
fight, and is dying grandly—but in anguish of mind because even the
sacrifice of life itself was insufficient to save the lilies of France.
However, I do not consider the “Lion” characteristic of Thorwaldsen’s
work. Do you?
Unlike Thorwaldsen’s Museum, the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, which I
also visited, had its origin in individual generosity. Its founder
was Captain Carl Jacobsen, “Ph. D., Brewer,” who is the Carnegie and
Rockefeller of Denmark. He is a great lover of art, and his country
has profited accordingly. Jacobsen money has paid for the New and Old
Glyptoteks, two of the finest art museums in Scandinavia. Probably
you are shocked at the idea of the love of art being fostered by
“beery” money. I was at first, I acknowledge, and I still wish that
the “wherewithal” had been secured in some other way; but I have been
assured that the Carlsberg brew is of a particularly pure quality—as
beers go—and that the Jacobsens are really patriotic, public-spirited
Danes.
The New Glyptotek is a handsome building occupying a whole city block.
The interior is beautifully decorated with rare woods, colored marbles,
and frescoes. And it contains collections of paintings and sculptures
representing most of the countries of Europe. As you well know, I
was never orthodox in my preferences among works of art—especially
paintings. It was probably in consequence of this peculiarity that I
was drawn to a canvas which most people would, I suppose, pass by. The
picture is “Denmark,” by Elizabeth Jerichau-Baumann, and was painted
more than sixty years ago. Denmark is represented by a young woman,
strong, determined, and fearless, standing amidst sheaves of rye; in
her left hand she bears Dannebrog, the red-and-white crusaders’ flag
of the Danes, which she is prepared to defend with the two-edged sword
grasped in her right.
[Illustration: “Denmark” by Elizabeth Jerichau-Baumann]
[Illustration: Grave Monument by Rudolph Tegnér]
The sculptures in the New Carlsberg are, I think, finer than the
paintings. The French collection is the most complete to be found
outside of France itself. It is not necessary to tell you that in
plastic art France is far ahead of Denmark. Yet there were several
Danish pieces for which I cared very much—some by Herman Bissen, and
particularly some by Jens Adolf Jerichau. I was much attracted by
the latter’s “Little Girl with a Dead Bird.” It is in white marble.
The little girl, barefooted and simply dressed, is sitting upon a rock
with the bird tenderly held between her hands; and upon her face is an
expression of gentle pity which gives a peculiar charm to the whole
figure. But, to me, the most pleasing of all the Danish sculptures
was a grave monument by an obscure young artist, Rudolf Tegnér. It
represents the mourning figure of a young woman, whose face is left
buried in the original mass of white marble. There is an exquisite
delicacy about the slender, drooping form to which no picture that I
might send you could do justice. A similar figure, in bronze, marks the
grave of the artist’s mother at Elsinore.
Perhaps you would be interested in learning how I spent yesterday,
which was Sunday. Like all of my Danish days, this was crammed with
new impressions. In the morning I attended services at Vor Frue
Kirke—the Church of Our Lady. In this church are the greyish blue
marble originals of Thorwaldsen’s “Christ and Apostles.” The statues
are of heroic size and are exceedingly impressive. Besides myself,
there were six other tourists viewing the church—five alert-looking
boys and a middle aged man, evidently their tutor. One glance was
sufficient to tell me that they were Americans. I, too, must have had
a “Made-in-America” appearance, for before I had uttered a sound one
of the boys who happened to stand near me while I was studying the
“Christ,” began to address me in “American,” commenting intelligently
upon the beautiful figure. The unassuming friendliness of the boy quite
warmed my heart. When services began the party seated themselves in
the rear of the room and took notes and read their guide-books for a
time; and then tiptoed quietly out. I felt lonesome when they had gone,
and decided to go cousin-hunting the very next day.
Like the vast majority of Scandinavian churches, Our Lady is State
Lutheran. But the Scandinavians, though instinctively religious, are
by no means regular church-goers; and summer Sundays in Copenhagen
are more likely to be devoted to recreation than to formal worship.
Consequently, the congregation was a mere scattered handful; most
of the worshipers were old people who came early, wearing solemn
expressions, and carrying prayer-books. The preacher was a little old
man in black gown and white linen ruff, suggestive of pictures of Sir
Walter Raleigh. From a lofty and magnificent pulpit, reached by a
staircase, he preached his sermon. The solemn faces of the congregation
had led me to expect a self-righteous, theological presentation
containing conspicuous thanks to God that Danish State Lutherans are
not as other men; but I was much relieved to hear a live human message,
not read, but clearly and feelingly spoken, in which the pastor urged
his hearers to lives of loving service to their fellow humans. I liked
the little old pastor, and forgot that I was homesick for “my own
United States.”
I think that you would have enjoyed the music, Cynthia, for it
possessed a dignity and reserve conducive to reverence. You may be
interested to learn that the choir was composed entirely of women, and
that a woman played the pipe organ.
After the services were ended, I had luncheon in a restaurant close at
hand; and then I went for a long, rambling walk, visiting some places
which I had seen before and others that were new. I passed Runde Taarn
again, bound for Kongens Nytorv, one of the finest squares of the
capital, pleasant with shade trees, well-kept lawns, and an abundance
of flowers, among which the cosmopolitan scarlet geranium seemed as
much at home as in California. On the Nytorv is the Royal Theatre, an
imposing Renaissance structure.
Twelve different streets lead out of the square. I made my exit by
the most famous one, Bredgade (Broad Street), which for part of its
length is lined with handsome shops. Copenhagen shopkeepers have a
shrewd but gratifying way of keeping up the shades of their windows
on Sundays, thus enabling the worldly-minded to enjoy gratuitously
the beauty of the wares and to select the very articles which they
would purchase were they rich. As I long since learned to ‘name the
birds without a gun, to love the wood-rose and leave it on its stalk,’
I am particularly fond of this mental shopping; it is a pleasant
pastime, devoid of the worry and wear of the physical kind. The
display of antiques, pictures, and porcelains on Bredgade is unusually
interesting. Antiques, in general, but rarely attract me—except as
do curios in a museum—for many of them have little else than their
age to recommend them; and age, in itself, is no virtue. Some of the
old furniture, and the bronzes which I saw in the windows on Bredgade,
were, however, very handsome.
But the paintings and the porcelains especially caught my eye. To
my mind (and I believe you would agree with me), many of the works
by young Scandinavian artists would hold their own against modern
paintings in any European country. They are genuinely Scandinavian.
It is such a satisfaction to know that the Scandinavian lands have
really begun to make a distinct contribution to the art treasures
of the world. And as for porcelain, I am simply mad over the Royal
Copenhagen variety; it is almost as difficult for me to pass a display
of this ware without stopping, and gazing, and lingering, as it is for
a toper to resist a grog shop. The makers of the Copenhagen pieces are
high-grade artists, and their work beggars my attempts at description.
Much of the attractiveness seems to lie in the glaze; it is exquisite,
and it gives to the delicate colors an appearance of remoteness and a
subtlety of charm and refinement which seems almost to belong to the
realm of the spiritual. Compared with the Royal Copenhagen, most other
“China” impresses me as loud and bizarre. But the prices of the pieces
which I should have wanted to buy, had I been anything more than a
mental shopper, would pay for my whole Scandinavian tour; hence, I am
not likely to carry home with me very extensive samples of the ware.
In the course of my rambles I reached the Marble Church. This building
was begun more than a century and a half ago, but lack of funds
delayed its completion until within the last thirty years, when it
was finished at the expense of Herr Tietgen, a philanthropic Danish
banker. In architectural style and richness of material, this building
contrasts strongly with Our Lady, which is really conspicuous by its
plainness—except for Thorwaldsen’s sculptures. The Marble Church, as
its name implies, is constructed primarily of marble; and it is crowned
with a great dome—suggestive of Saint Paul’s in London—covered
with copper partially gilded. A large number of busts and statues of
ecclesiastics and saints also decorate the exterior. Outside, above
the entrance, are the words, “Herrens Ord bliver evendelig” (The Word
of God is everlasting). The main room beneath the dome is perfectly
circular and is rich with wood-carvings, colored marbles, mosaics,
paintings, and statues. There is a fortune of gold-leaf in the
crucifixes and candle-sticks.
The guard at the door to whom I paid my entrance fee recommended the
view from the dome and supplied me with a pair of opera glasses; so
after viewing the interior I mounted to the top. This I accomplished
by groping my way up a dark, narrow, winding stair-case, some parts
of which were as dark as a pocket—and in the darkest part bumping
squarely into a couple of women who were on their way down. As the
Marble Church is quite a distance from Runde Taarn, I gained a new
and different view of Copenhagen from its dome; and I also gained
considerable information about the most important buildings from a
friendly Danish lady whom I found at the top.
Amalienborgtorv, or square, which is near the Marble Church, was
my next objective point. It is a stone-paved place, ungladdened by
trees or grass or flowers, with a large bronze equestrian statue of
Christian V in the center. On each of the four sides is a royal palace
in rococo style, in which the king and queen and other members of
the royal family reside during most of the year. When I crossed the
Torv, soldiers in high, bearskin caps stood on guard at the street
entrances—a sign that the king was in residence.
After Rosenborg, Amalienborg seemed so dreary and
uninteresting—especially since common visitors get no glimpse of
the interior—that I did not linger, but walked on to Grönningens
Esplanade, where St. Alban’s, the first English church to be built in
Denmark, peeps out with a charm peculiarly English from a clump of
trees bordering an arm of the Baltic.
North of St. Alban’s is Langelinie, the most beautiful promenade in
Copenhagen. To the left of the promenade is a park, and to the right
lies the harbor, filled with all sorts of water craft bearing the
flags of many nations, including our own “Old Glory,” which looked
wondrous good to me. Great crowds of people—young and old, parents and
children—dressed in their Sunday clothes, were passing to and fro upon
Langelinie, all looking healthy and happy.
I returned through the beautiful, shady park. Upon the benches under
the trees I noticed many women serenely chatting, their fingers busy
with sewing, embroidery, or knitting. Would you call such a Sabbath
occupation scandalous and unseemly? I must confess that I was more
impressed with the women’s industry than I was shocked by their
desecration of the day.
Farther on, I took a peep into the Citadel. It dates from the
seventeenth century, and is of red brick, with tree-covered ramparts.
Soldiers were standing on guard at the entrance, and were passing
back and forth between the buildings. Unlike England and the United
States, Denmark, I regret to say, requires military service of all
of her ablebodied men. She maintains what is, in proportion to her
population, a large standing army.
This morning, true to the resolution made at Frue Kirke, I called upon
Cousin Lars. Cousin Lars is really my mother’s cousin, but as he has
always been her favorite cousin he has seemed a sort of an uncle to
me. Many years ago, when I was a tiny child, Cousin Lars spent several
years in California, which he expected to make his permanent home; but
his young wife suddenly died, and it was her dying request that he take
their children back to the home land and rear them. This caused him to
return to Denmark.
Cousin Lars still loves the United States, however, and, though “blood
is thicker than water,” I really believe that he welcomed me more
heartily as a Californian, recently “come over,” than as a cousin.
For he quickly convinced me that I was thrice welcome—and caused me
to regret keenly that I had delayed so long making known to him my
presence in Copenhagen. He wished to send immediately to the hotel
for my baggage; and without consulting me he asked his housekeeper to
have a room prepared for my reception. But when I informed him that
I was booked to sail from Copenhagen to-night he abandoned his plan,
stipulating, however, that I was to be his guest upon my return.
I made my call early this morning in order to be sure to find Cousin
Lars at home, for the Danes are fresh-air people and all who can afford
to do so spend their afternoons in the city parks or in the country.
And in consequence of my early call I enjoyed the pleasure of a real
Danish home luncheon with my cousin. Yet it was not so genuinely
Danish, after all, except the food, which, like all food I have tasted
in Denmark, was good. The luncheon was really Danish-American, for
Cousin Lars, in my honor, had the table set with the silverware bought
years ago in the Far West, and at one end of the table he placed a
little silk Dannebrog with the white cross on the red field, and on
the other my own Stars and Stripes. As a sign that this was a very
festive occasion, both flags were at the very tip-top of their masts.
Our conversation was also Danish-American. At times we spoke Danish,
my contribution being of a very bad quality; at others, we spoke
“American,” Cousin Lars’ efforts showing rust for want of use; and,
occasionally, when the borrowed languages seemed inadequate, we would
resort to our own respective mother tongues and exchange remarks in
Danish _and_ American.
After luncheon I learned that Cousin Lars had planned to spend the
afternoon in the country in his “garden,” and I urged that he execute
the plan and take me along. He did, and I had such a pleasant,
untouristlike time! We started on the street cars, but a strike of
carmen interrupted our progress; then we walked the remainder of the
way—as I preferred doing so to taking a carriage—and Cousin Lars
called attention to the places of interest which we passed.
Near the outskirts of the city, a “folke skole,” or elementary public
school, which was being repainted, caught my eye, and we went in to
explore. This was one of the free schools to which the poor people send
their children. The class rooms were well lighted and well ventilated
and generally comfortable. In fact, the building pretty closely
resembled those of our own elementary schools. A few good pictures,
including portraits of Hans Christian Andersen and Bertel Thorwaldsen,
were on the walls. Upon the second floor were completely equipped
departments for the teaching of cooking and sewing; and in another part
of the building was a manual-training laboratory.
Farther out along the street I noticed a bread-line of children. A
woman was handing out generous-looking sandwiches to twenty or thirty
little people as they filed past her in an irregular line. These were
children, Cousin Lars said, whose parents were not able to supply
them with proper food. While school was in session they were supplied
with luncheons at public expense; and now, during vacation, one of
their teachers, a noble-hearted young woman, had assumed the task
of keeping the active young bodies somewhat adequately nourished.
She herself is poor, but she solicits money from private individuals
with which to purchase food; and this food she personally distributes
daily. I am glad to be able to say, however, that such cases of want
are comparatively rare. The splendid spirit of cooperation shown by
the Danish people in their industrial life has produced a degree of
prosperity which is truly remarkable, in view of the resources of the
country.
And now for the garden—for we soon reached it. It is a tiny plat
of ground of about four thousand square feet, which Cousin Lars has
planted to the choicest kind of flowers, selected with the view to
securing an unbroken succession of bloom, beginning with the earliest
varieties and ending with the latest. There are also a few shade
trees, and along the fence are berry bushes. In the rear of the lot
is an arbor covered with a picturesque tangle of woodbine and climbing
rose; and close beside it is a one-roomed bungalow, so overgrown with
clematis, now in bloom, that the little building looks like a giant
purple bouquet. The bungalow room is furnished with a table, a couch,
two or three comfortable chairs, a case containing books and magazines.
Attached like a barnacle to the outside of the building is a tiny
kitchenette, containing an oil stove and a stock of provisions.
We were hungry, of course, after our walk, so as soon as we arrived
we proceeded to prepare a luncheon. I made coffee on the oil stove
while Cousin Lars fished all sorts of delectable canned and preserved
foods from the shelves in the barnacle and arranged them in artistic
confusion upon the table in the arbor—which is the dining room of the
establishment. And while we consumed the coffee and the delectables
Cousin Lars told me about the “garden.” It is his play place; he goes
out to work among his flowers almost every afternoon; and he and his
sons quite frequently spend their Sundays there, having a picnic
luncheon in the arbor. Until a few years ago, he had a house in town
set in the midst of a large garden; but when the din of the growing
city became too offensive, he sold the place, rented his present top
flat on a blind and, consequently, quiet street, and secured this
garden—an arrangement which he likes much better. Copenhagen is very
decidedly a city of flat-dwellers.
But the interesting and really splendid fact connected with the garden
is that Cousin Lars’s is only one of fifteen hundred little gardens,
all of which have sprung up around Copenhagen within the past ten
years. The land is leased by those who work it from the commune of
Copenhagen or from private individuals. Plats of as few as sixteen
hundred square feet may be rented from the commune for one-half to
three-fourths of an öre per square foot annually. Land owned by private
individuals rents a little higher. Water is piped to the lots by the
owners, who also furnish free wheelbarrows for use in gardening.
Several tiny lots form a block, as in a regular city, and between the
blocks run diminutive streets about ten feet wide. Some of the narrow
passageways have such picturesque names as “Rosen Allé,” “Odins Allé,”
and the like. The Christian Danes have not completely forgotten the
gods of their fathers, you see. The blocks, in tracts of ten acres or
so, are surrounded by the owners with strong open-work fences; and each
family holding land within the tract is supplied with a key to the big
gate. Over the gate appears the name of the tract, which is sometimes
“fancy,” like “Flora” and “Iris.”
The renters fence their own little plats to suit their inclinations and
pocket-books; and they build their houses after the same fashion. Since
the “gardens” are merely daytime and fresh-air institutions, generally
the buildings are one-roomed and tiny. In fact, they look as if they
might be the playhouses of an army of parent-tired little children who
had run away and set up for themselves. Many of the structures are
very cheaply built. One “playhouse,” which caught my attention, was an
abandoned street car masquerading under a luxuriant mantle of vines;
but it was every bit as much of a success as an orthodox bungalow, for
in the tiny yard several flaxen-haired, rosy-cheeked children were
shouting and playing. Instead of house numbers, the owner’s names,
as a rule, appear over the doors—generally the names of women; but
here and there I again noticed “fancy” names, such as “Johannes Haab”
(Johanne’s Hope) and “Christines Lyst” (Christine’s Joy), which suggest
how much the simple little recreation places mean to their owners.
Aside from the narrow walks, every square foot of soil in each plat is
just crammed with green things growing. In many cases where the houses
indicated poverty, the ground was largely planted to vegetables—one
garden was a single large potato field. Since the rent amounts to only
a few dollars per year, those who wish to do so can more than pay their
expenses by their vegetables; and in addition they have all of the fun
of the wholesome, out-of-door life. But most of the plats have been
converted into charming flower gardens; and of all of these Cousin
Lars’s is the most worthy of the prize.
Though many sorts and conditions of people are represented by the
fifteen hundred plats, most of the renters are poor “working people.”
As a rule, the families pass their Sundays in the gardens, and in many
cases the mother and children are there also during most of the long
summer days. After work hours the father joins them for supper in the
“playhouse,” and later the whole happy family returns to the city to
sleep.
I had heard of such “gardens” before; they have them in Germany, and
call them “Lauben,” or “Gärtchen”; and I was delighted at the chance to
see them in detail for myself. Now, I only wish that we might have them
around the great, congested cities in the United States. The population
would be so much healthier, both mentally and physically, if gardening
could be substituted for idle gossip, cheap society twaddle—or worse.
As Cousin Lars remarked on the way home, such wholesome, out-of-door
recreation would go far towards settling many problems arising from
city life.
After we had explored the place to my heart’s content, we walked to
the end of a car line and rode back to the city. Now I am again in my
room in the hotel, finishing up this letter to you, preparatory to my
departure to-night. Cousin Lars and his sons are to be at the pier to
wave good-by, so I shall not feel that I am in a “far country.” Whither
do you suppose that I am bound, Cynthia?