BORNHOLM AND THE BORNHOLMERS
RÖNNE, BORNHOLM,
August 6, 191—
_My dear Cynthia_:
“Bornholm!” I hear you exclaim. “Wherever in all Europe is Bornholm?”
Bornholm, I reply, is the “backwoods” of Denmark, the “pearl of the
Baltic,” and altogether the loveliest place in the world—next to the
choicest bits of my own fair land. Look on your map of Denmark, and you
will see in the extreme east, as if it had strayed away from the other
Danish islands and become lost, a trapezoid-shaped scrap of territory;
that is Bornholm—the birthplace of my mother. When a child, I was
very fond of reading “Robinson Crusoe” and “Swiss Family Robinson,”
in consequence of which my ideal terrestrial paradise was a desert
island near the Equator. And many were the dreams which I wove about
the tropical spot, well populated with talking parrots and chattering
monkeys. But if I could now, rich with my present experience, dream
them over again, I should substitute Bornholm, in the Baltic—at least
for summer residence.
I flew over here one evening more than a week ago, in the cabin of
_Örnen_ (The Eagle), the triggest little steamship you ever could
imagine. We left at about nine o’clock, and Cousin Lars and his sons
were at the pier to wave good-by, as planned. Contrary to even her
summer habits, the Baltic was again beautifully calm for my sailing, so
the crossing was made on schedule time, and we reached here at about
six o’clock the next morning.
As you may well imagine, I rose early, and was on deck to see the
arrival. When I came out of the cabin I saw a high, dark bank to the
east. That was Bornholm. It is higher than the other Danish islands,
and more rocky. In fact, geologically, it belongs to Sweden, for it is
a continuation of the rock-ribbed Scandinavian peninsula. Soon I could
distinguish trees and houses and windmills, and presently we glided
past the light-houses at the ends of the breakwater and were in Rönne
harbor, where a new cousin was on hand to bid me good-morning.
Rönne, which has a population of about nine thousand, is the capital of
Bornholm. So far as I have been able to learn, the little town is noted
only for its quaintness; and it is certainly quaint. Practically all of
the houses except the public buildings are long and low and box-shaped,
with red-tiled or slate roofs and brick or stone walls. Bay windows and
other architectural protuberances are conspicuous by their absence;
windows of the small “German” variety which swing open like doors are
in time-honored vogue instead; and their broad sills are simply crowded
with potted plants. But there are no flower-filled “yards” or lawns in
front to delight the passer-by. Gardens, the Danes seem to believe,
are primarily for the pleasure of the owner, and are to be enjoyed in
seclusion and privacy. Consequently, they are behind the houses and are
generally surrounded by a high, close fence. My great aunt Karen, to
whose home I went upon reaching here, has such a garden in her “back
yard,”—with patches of velvety grass, draperies of vines clinging to
the fence, hedges of roses, and brilliant beds of blooming annuals. And
in the midst of this “garden of delight” is the vine-covered arbor in
which we had our meals.
The shops, as well as the dwelling houses, are low and box-shaped; and
their show windows are small and crowded. There are no bold sign-boards
on the gable ends of the buildings, as in the United States; instead,
modest little “shingles” are generally stuck out by the tradesmen.
Dwelling houses, as well as shops, extend to the sidewalks, and many
encroach shamelessly upon them, even monopolizing the whole width, and
pushing the pedestrian out into the street. In fact, it is very evident
that the houses in centuries past were just placed “any which way,” and
that later the sidewalks were filled in, along as straight a line as
possible. Like the streets, they are of cobble stone, and are marked
off from the former only by being a few inches higher. After what I
have said, you would hardly expect these streets to be of the avenue or
boulevard variety, would you?
On my second day in Rönne I gained much quiet pleasure from wandering
about the little town, noting the places of importance, and gazing in
the shop windows at the rows of wooden shoes and other practical wares
intended primarily for the native; and at the models of Danish castles
and churches, and the exquisite displays of pottery and statuary, more
calculated to catch the eye of the opulent tourist. Such shops are
clustered around Storetorv, the Large Square, to which the country
people come in regularly to sell their produce. In the midst of the
“torv” is a queer old stone fountain decorated with gigantic bronze
snails.
Forming part of Store Gade, Rönne’s main street, are two small
stones, one of them bearing the date “1658.” All true Bornholmers
are as proud of these stones as New Englanders are of Plymouth
Rock, with its “1620;” for on this spot fell the Swedish commander,
Printzenskjold—shot, time-honored tradition says, by a silver button,
torn from the vest of the shooter and used as a bullet—when the
Bornholmers rose in revolt against Swedish domination. By the treaty
of Roskilde which followed Charles X’s unwelcome visit over the frozen
Great Belt, the Swedish king, you may remember, secured several Danish
provinces. Bornholm was one of these. But the Bornholmers had not been
consulted regarding the cession; and as they preferred to be Danes,
they did not “stay put.” That is how it happens that I am half Danish
in descent, rather than wholly Swedish—a distinction largely without a
difference. And the distinction hangs upon a silver button.
Bornholm still celebrates the anniversary of her victory over the
Swedes; and within the last few years, at Hasle, where the revolt had
its origin, a large monumental stone was erected, bearing the Danish
coat-of-arms and the names of the men who headed the revolt. Of these,
Jens Pedersen Kofoed, a Bornholmer who was a member of the Danish
army, and Paul Anker, the pastor of the church of Hasle, are the most
important.
At some distance from the “liberty stones” is Bornholm’s Museum,—the
special pride of all Bornholmers; and well it might be, for the
collection there, in view of the smallness of the island, is an
unusually large and fine one. The curator, a woman and a true
Bornholmer, proudly informed me that Copenhagen would be most happy to
possess the African collection. To me the objects of most interest,
however, were those throwing light upon Bornholm’s own history. These
range from rude stone utensils out of the shadowy past of the island
to an exhibit of graceful royal Copenhagen porcelain;—for Bornholm
it is that supplies the clay from which the beautiful ware is made.
The cost of manufacture seems to be too great to admit of the use of
the porcelain for distinctly practical purposes; consequently, its
functions are largely ornamental, and it appears chiefly in the form of
vases, plaques, and statuettes. The last-named class I gazed at most
lingeringly, for the subjects were varied and especially alluring.
There were wonderfully-glazed robin-red-breasts sunning themselves;
perky foxes with noses pointing skyward; sleepy, yawning tigers; cats
crouching to spring upon unconscious nibbling mice; kerchiefed Bornholm
old ladies carrying market baskets, and busily knitting as they walked;
and a fond pair of children, one of whom was hugging the very life out
of a tousled fat puppy. So skilful had been the artist that I caught
myself actually pitying the porcelain pup.
[Illustration: Bornholm’s Museum and St. Morten’s Street, Rönne]
[Illustration: Bridge Crossing the Old Moat at Hammershuus Castle]
In one room was an unusually large collection of “grandfather” clocks,
with elaborately and quaintly decorated faces, and with crude, clumsy
weights. Bornholm at one time was famous for the manufacture of this
style of time-piece. And in another room were glass-cases filled with
dummy Bornholm men and women and helpless-looking dummy babies, clad in
the fashions of various past ages. The garb of these dummies convinced
me that fashions are not actually growing worse; for surely clothes
cannot be uglier or more uncomfortable in appearance than the ancient
elegance behind the glass doors within the museum.
One souvenir of unusual historical importance, the key to old
Hammershuus Castle, is also on display among the exhibits. The castle,
Bornholm’s chief stronghold for centuries, was occupied by the
Swedish garrison for some months previous to the revolt in 1658. But
Hammershuus has now long been in ruins, and its key is resting from its
labors among the other antique relics in Bornholm’s Museum.
In the art collection are several paintings by famous Danes; and a
whole room is set aside for the works of Lars Hansen Tobiasen, the
portrait artist who was Bornholm’s own son. As yet, only a few of his
pictures have been placed in the room—including portraits of himself
and his parents, and of Oelenschläger, Denmark’s greatest poet. One
painting by Tobiasen seemed to me quite unique; it is the arm of a
young woman. That sounds cadaverous, doesn’t it?—like an anatomical
chart, or an illustration in a medical journal. But the portrait
suggested anything but that;—for a portrait it was—of the arm of a
Danish damsel instead of her face—expressive of individual character
as well as of beauty of color and line. Tobiasen spent twenty years of
his life in Sweden, where he painted the royal family, and some of his
pictures are there. Others are in Rönne, still in the possession of
relatives; but with the passing of this generation, the curator told
me, these last are by the artist’s will to go to the museum.
In a shed near the main building are the skeletons of moose and
reindeer which roamed through the forests of prehistoric Bornholm. And
outside in the yard are many runestones, graven by the hands of pagan
Bornholmers. The island seems to have specialized upon these stones
in times past, as well as upon grandfather clocks; for even to-day
they stand here and there by the wayside and are, in many cases, still
clearly marked with ancient runic characters.
After a short visit with my great aunt in Rönne, I spent a few happy
days with my Uncle Johannes and Aunt Ingeborg in the interior of the
island. My uncle and aunt drove to town to fetch me, and while Uncle
let the fat horses jog along on their homeward way at a pace to suit
themselves, I had a good opportunity to see the objects of interest
which Tante (the Danish for aunt), pointed out on the beautiful
landscape. That place with the black smoke stacks was the great pottery
factory; there, where the white walls shone between the trees, one of
my cousins used to live; the large, four-armed windmill on the right
did not pump water, as I had ignorantly supposed, but ground grist;
the handsome, cream-colored villa on the left was the summer home of a
wealthy Copenhagen merchant; and so on, until the journey ended.
As we drove into the court at Uncle’s, my cousins, a fair-haired,
rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed flock, came running out to greet us. These
children were so well-trained, and so natural and wholesome that they
were a real pleasure to me. But do not conclude from this statement
that I am implying a comparison invidious to the American child, or
that I hold up Danish children as models of deportment; for I have met
some _enfants terrible_ during the last week or two, even among my own
kith and kin. I attribute the superiority of these particular cousins
to their quiet country rearing.
And that reminds me to speak of the great interest and curiosity with
which they regarded me upon my first arrival. While I talked with
Uncle, my cousins sat silently by, completely absorbed in watching
me; and when he noticed them their father laughed and said, “Yes, my
children; this is a genuine, native-born American.” Then he explained
that I was the first native American that the children had ever
seen. Few aliens except _bona fide_ tourists reach the center of the
island—and they merely pass through. It would take an Eskimo or a
Patagonian to rouse a similar degree of interest in a country child of
the cosmopolitan Far West.
The manner in which I mutilated the king’s Danish was also a source
of much interest to them; for I suppose that they had never before
heard broken Danish. They were too polite to show amusement; even at
my most grotesque blunders not a smile crossed their faces; they were
simply alert and fascinated—and silent. But when it occurred to them
to try upon me the English which they had learned in the grades, we
were promptly upon a very sociable footing; they took turns practicing
their English vocabularies on me, and were delighted to find that
the formulae had worked—that their school-learned language was
comprehensible to me.
To the children of the neighbors I was also a whole menagerie of
interest. They referred to me as “de fremmede dame” (the foreign lady),
and whenever I opened my mouth to speak they waited around with bated
breath to see what liberties I should take with their native tongue.
* * * * *
Old-fashioned Danish farms are quite different from anything which we
have in America; therefore, you might like to know about Barquist,
my uncle’s place. On the afternoon of my arrival I went all over
it with Uncle as a cicerone, and with Astrid, the smaller of the
twins, clinging to my hand and practising her English whenever the
opportunity offered. Such a farm as Barquist is called a “gaard” (or
court), because of the fact that all of the buildings are arranged in
rectangular fashion about the stone-paved interior. The long dwelling
house forms one side of the quadrangle; the sides are made up of
machine shops and wagon sheds and store houses for hay and grain; and
at the other end are the stables in which the live stock are kept.
Roofed-over driveways separate the house from the other buildings.
When the gates to the court are shut, the quadrangle forms a complete
inclosure, and, consequently, furnishes much protection from stormy
weather. The back doors of the dwelling house open into the court, in
the middle of which stands the pump; and the front ones open into a
large flower garden, which, you see, is _outside_ of the quadrangle.
Brick and plaster form the building material for the walls, and all
of the roofs are covered with thatch of rye straw, which must, of
course, be quite frequently renewed. As you may imagine, the thatched
roofs lend a very picturesque air to the quadrangle, especially when
there is a stork’s nest in one corner. But straw roofs are going out
of use because of the danger of fire from lightning; tiles are being
substituted, and slate, and plain, prosaic shingles.
Surrounding the buildings on every side were fields of barley and
rye, golden unto the harvest. Dotted with silky red poppies and deep
blue cornflowers as they were, these grainfields presented a charming
picture. Uncle admitted the beauty of nature’s color scheme, but added,
“To us farmers, the poppies and cornflowers are weeds; they choke out
the grain.”
The interior of the house was a comfort, for it did not have the
“cluttered up,” junk-shop appearance produced in some American homes
by over-furnishing. There was plenty of room to walk around without
stumbling over, or knocking off, anything. The guest room, in which I
slept, was so large that I felt out of doors in it. And the furniture
was of corresponding proportions; the clothes-press could tuck away the
whole wardrobe of an ordinary family; and the bed was even nearer kin
to that in which Hans Christian Andersen’s true princess slept than the
one in my hotel room in Copenhagen. Cross my heart, Cynthia, there were
nearly a dozen feather ticks of various sizes on that bed. Taught by my
Copenhagen experience, I promptly dumped most of them on the floor,
where they remained until morning, when I replaced them and gave them
a poke or two, to produce a slept-on appearance, lest my aunt by any
chance be led to suspect that I was not partial to Danish beds.
In the brick-paved kitchen is a built-in oven, also of brick, such as
was used in New England in colonial days. Most of the baking for the
family is done here, but uncle also exchanges grain with the baker for
immense loaves of rye bread. And the baker, I suppose, transfers the
grain to the miller, in return for flour, in the placid, old-fashioned
way.
In the dining room was a very old grandfather’s clock which ticked
stolidly away, keeping more or less accurate time—mostly less. As a
time-keeper it was not much, but you, as a fancier of the antique,
would have loved the venerable case and the crotchety works. I wish,
too, that you might have seen the lovely potted plants on the broad
sill of the sunny dining-room windows. I never before saw such begonias
as Aunt Ingeborg can grow.
One morning shortly after my arrival, Uncle announced that we were to
go for an all-day picnic. I was quite willing, I assure you. My aunt,
who is of the plump, comfortable, bustling type, soon had two great
baskets packed with luncheon. These were stowed away under the broad
rear seat of the carriage. By eight o’clock we were off,—but the sun
was well on his way by that hour. There were objects of interest all
along the road, so Carle, my oldest cousin, and I studied my tourist
map, which names every highway, large farm, church, and windmill on
the island. Uncle laughed and called us “aegte turists”—genuine
tourists—but he was really as much interested in the harmless gossip
supplied by the map as any of the rest of us.
Bornholm is a great place for cycling; once or twice we passed
veritable flocks of cyclists. But I did not see a trace of an
automobile. When I remarked upon their absence Uncle said that it was
a mere accident that we had met none, for there were automobiles on
Bornholm. But they had not been there long. Originally, a few of the
Copenhageners who spent their summers on the island brought their
machines with them,—but only for a short period, for the automobiles
frightened the unsophisticated Bornholm horses quite out of their
wits. After the machines had paid their first mad, chugging, snorting,
honking visit to the island, and had left numerous splintered and
smashed vehicles and irate farmers in their wake, a local law was
passed prohibiting the desecration of placid little Bornholm by the
mechanical monsters. Recently, however, the ban had been removed (Even
the “pearl of the Baltic” follows in the wake of the procession), and
at present, Uncle triumphantly announced—Uncle is a progressive in
spite of his thatched roof—not only are tourist autos admitted, but
the island even harbors two or three naturalized immigrant machines.
At about ten o’clock we stopped for luncheon in a beautiful grove where
there were tables and benches under the trees. While Tante went to a
near-by inn for a pot of hot coffee, and the girls unpacked a basket
and set a table, Uncle cut huge slices of rye bread and fed them to the
horses. But please do not generalize from this last and conclude that
Danish horses regularly live on rye bread; it was merely an extra,
like an apple or a carrot in America, because we were picnicking.
And wasn’t it pleasant to picnic out under those grand old beeches?
And wasn’t I ravenously hungry, notwithstanding a seven-o’clock
breakfast? And didn’t Tante Ingeborg have the most delicious things to
eat?—pickled herring, for instance, and smoked salmon sandwiches, and
“rödgröd”—probably the most typical Danish dish—made by cooking sago
in fruit juice, in which have been dropped raisins, currants, spices,
and other tasty morsels, until the whole is of the consistency of
custard. But then I am always hungry in Denmark, and the food is always
delicious. Were I to stay here very long I should degenerate into an
absolute epicure.
As we neared Hammershuus Castle—our first goal—the road ran along the
northeast coast through Allinge, a pretty little summer resort. Here we
noticed a number of sun-browned women, wearing gay-colored bandanas on
their heads in Topsy fashion, and carrying alpenstocks in their hands.
They had been climbing over the cliffs. After passing Allinge, to our
left was The Hammer, an imposing promontory of granite, which is being
rapidly quarried away; and just ahead were the castle ruins. At the inn
near at hand the horses were unhitched and stabled, the lunch baskets
were removed and carried to a group of trees where there was a table
just the right size, and here we had another meal; and all were again
hungry.
Then we explored the ruins. Hammershuus was first built in the
thirteenth century and for much of the time since it has played an
important part in Denmark’s history. For a long time it, with the
remainder of Bornholm, was an object of dispute between the archbishops
of Lund and the Danish kings. During much of the sixteenth century the
German city of Lübeck controlled the castle; in the seventeenth, as
I have told you, Sweden for a short period held dominion over it and
the island. For some time after Denmark resumed control, Hammershuus
remained the stronghold of Bornholm; but presently the islet near at
hand, Christiansö, was fortified, and the old castle was permitted to
fall into ruins. Its destruction was hastened by the fact that stone
was taken from it for public buildings in Rönne; and subsequently
it became a sort of public quarry. Until within a century ago, the
domestic vandalism continued. Nevertheless, the Hammershuus ruins are
the finest in Denmark to-day.
The old pile had quite enough of the characteristics of the orthodox
mediæval castle to satisfy the most romantic student of feudalism and
chivalry. It stood on a high promontory with sheer cliffs on three
sides. On the fourth was a moat through which flowed an arm of the sea,
spanned by a draw-bridge. It is very easy to trace the whole ground
plan of the castle, for many of the great walls of unhewn stone still
stand, picturesquely overgrown with shrubs and trees. I was especially
interested in the dungeon, as I had never seen one before; but after we
had half climbed and half slid down into it, I found that it differed
very little from a deep, dark, windowless cellar. In this dungeon,
says tradition, the unhappy Eleonore Christine, daughter of Christian
IV, and her husband, Corfitz Ulfeldt, were confined while prisoners
at Hammershuus. Ulfeldt had committed treason against his country;
Eleonore Christine was merely guilty of loyalty to her husband. They
were imprisoned at the castle just two years after the Swedish garrison
sent over to hold the island was forced to surrender to the doughty
Bornholmers. Those were stirring times for little old Denmark.
Having explored the dungeon and identified the various parts of the
castle by means of the map in my guide book, we wandered around the
outer walls. What was once a moat is now a pretty, deep, little dell,
crossed by a gracefully-arched bridge of red brick. Below, and seaward,
near the base of the cliffs, are several queer, wave-sculptured rocks.
One of them, the Lions’ Heads, is especially well named. Beyond these,
far to the north, we detected the outlines of the coast of Sweden.
Bornholm, you see, is much nearer to Sweden than it is to any Danish
territory.
After leaving Hammershuus, we drove along the southeast coast to Rö, to
see Helligdommen Klippen (Holy Cathedral Cliffs). As it was about five
o’clock when we arrived at Rö, we first had supper under the trees,
with coffee, piping hot, obtained just across the way. Then, by means
of a winding stairway, we reached the base of the cliffs. Here was a
little gasoline launch which took us up and down the coast to see the
fantastic wave-worn rock, now and then puffing into the deep caves
dug out by the breakers. In some places the cliffs look as if Mother
Nature when in an angry mood had seized a mighty knife and slashed
right and left, working havoc with the solid granite; here were long
slices of rock; there were slender columns and spires standing alone
in the water; and occasionally there appeared a distinct variation
of pattern, bearing resemblance to natural objects. Our guide in the
launch made the most of these. “Look at the profile of the Bornholm
damsel, formed by that mass of rocks,” said he; and “There is St.
Peter; can’t you see his cross and keys?”—and so on.
On every ledge of the cliffs where soil could find place were velvety
mosses, delicate, plumy ferns, and flowers brightly blooming; gaily
colored fish darted about in the water; and—most beautiful of all—a
glorious sunset crowned and scene and the day with a blaze of orange
and crimson and gold and rose which covered half of the sky and was
reflected on the surface of the placid Baltic.
Perhaps, as compared with the wild, majestic sweep of our Western
scenery, all of this seems very miniature and very tame. But it is not
fair to compare it with anything so different. Helligdommen, when I saw
it, had a charm all its own—like an English landscape. I shall never
forget its beauty.
It would have been very pleasant to spend the whole summer at Uncle
Johannes’, but duty called, and the time for my other visits was short;
so I soon returned to Rönne, bound for the northeastern part of the
island. The railroad journey from Rönne to Nexö was one of the drollest
experiences which I have had in Europe. Generally speaking, there is
not anything funny about a ride by train;—but there are railroads
and railroads; and of her own particular variety little old Bornholm
certainly has a very exclusive monopoly. The cars are very small, as
if they were the half-grown children of American ones; and the trains
are almost incredibly leisurely. Positively, I believe that my train
spent two-thirds of the time backing and switching and waiting at
stations. During the remaining third it ambled and sauntered between
stopping points; and upon finally reaching one, the locomotive gave a
ridiculous, hysterical shriek, as if overcome by the prodigiousness of
the feat which it had performed. But this toy train suits Bornholmers
very well, for they have plenty of time; and it suited me, for it gave
ample opportunity for studying the landscape. An American express would
never do at all on that twenty-three-mile long island; it would be a
giant in dwarf’s quarters. The Rönne-to-Nexö line, which is the main
railroad line in Bornholm, is not sufficiently long to enable a train
of the American express variety to assume normal speed with safety.
From Nexö to Svaneke, whither I was bound, I had to go by post wagon. A
post chaise is just a sort of rudimentary stage coach, and as I am an
old stager—as you know—I immediately bethought me of a seat on top
with the driver, and lost no time before asking for it. Some one else
had got ahead of me, however, and I had to ride inside with two women
and two children; hence, I had only an occasional and fragmentary view
out of the dusty window in the rear.
Svaneke, which is picturesquely situated upon the northeast coast of
Bornholm, is a fishing town of about thirteen hundred inhabitants. It
is, if possible, quainter than Rönne. Its streets are crooked beyond
belief; they dip and turn, zig-zag, and run in circles;—at least, that
is the impression which I gained from wandering helplessly around in
them; for I never went out alone without becoming lost and having to
undergo the humiliation of inquiring the way to my destination. Another
baffling characteristic of the place is that the houses are more
completely duplicates of one another than are those at Rönne.
On a particularly crooked street, near the edge of the town, are three
of the typical Bornholm houses; all are low and box-shaped, with
red-tiled roofs, and with small German windows, the wide sills of which
are crowded with potted plants, beautifully growing and blooming. In
these three houses live three aunts of mine, all of them sisters and
all of them widows. To these aunts, my visit was an epoch-making event;
I came as a delegate from my mother whom they had not seen for forty
years. At a family congress held shortly after my arrival the time
which I had to spare for Svaneke was carefully divided up, in order
that each aunt might have a fair chance at her American niece; and in
consequence of this treaty, the niece vibrated somewhat like an erratic
pendulum between the three dear, quaint old homes. Breakfast at Tante
Hulda’s, luncheon at Tante Anna’s, dinner at Tante Laura’s, with one or
more of the appertaining cousins present,—thus ran the schedule, with
an occasional reversal or combination. Only the place where I was to
have afternoon coffee was left unprovided for; I had that wherever I
happened to be at coffee time.
My nights, however, were spent with my oldest aunt, Anna, who lives in
the middle of the row. All of her children have homes of their own,
except the youngest, who has followed the call of the Viking and is
away at sea. Her home is a perfect museum of souvenirs of him and his
voyages; there are Japanese curios, tapa cloth from the South Seas,
armadillo baskets, nautilus shells, South American parakeets, and I do
not know what else. Imagine squawking parakeets in little old Bornholm!
In its air of “foreignness,” the interior of Tante Anna’s house
contrasted interestingly with the homes of my other two aunts, which
are typical of Bornholm. But everything was interesting and charming
and everything was wonderfully quiet and restful. I recommend Svaneke
for all victims of nervous prostration.
One day, like Charles Lamb, I went cousin-hunting out in the
country,—but in the company of a cousin instead of a sister. We
cycled, Dagmar and I; and started early and had a long, lovely day. The
landscape in this part of the island is the most beautiful that I have
seen since my arrival here. The poppy-and-cornflower-strewn grain was
ripe, and here and there the harvesting had begun. Occasionally the
whirr of a reaping machine was heard, but very frequently I noticed
folk reaping and binding by hand in primitive fashion. The men led,
cutting the grain with their sickles; behind them came the women who
bound it into sheaves, which they piled ready for the hauling. The
colored dresses of the women contrasted brightly with the background of
fields and gave the touch of perfection to the picture.
But the passing landscape was made up of much more than harvest
fields and reapers. There was a rare variety. Patches of rosy
clover and of alfalfa, with blossoms shading from pale amethyst
to deep, dark purple—patronized by thousands of golden yellow
butterflies—alternated with the fields of wheat and barley, oats and
rye already mentioned. Some of the fields were unfenced; others were
inclosed by thick, green hedges, or by walls of unhewn stone, with at
times a waste corner given over to purple heather. Here and there over
the patches of pasture please imagine a few sleek dairy cows, and a
few more plump sheep. Add trees to the panoramic picture—some casting
broad, cool shadows across the finely-paved road, along which you cycle
in imagination with me, others grouped here and there between us and
the horizon—majestic oaks and beeches, and white-limbed birches, with
dainty, fern-like leaves.
And now put in the houses. Just coming into view on one side is
a mossy, thatched-roofed gaard, with dazzling white walls partly
concealed by clumps of trees; on the other side, a little nearer at
hand, note a red brick building peeping forth from the clustering
foliage; and yonder is a white one with red tiles substituted for
thatch. As you cycle past, there will be a constant shifting and
changing of styles and colors, according to whether the farms are new
or old, small or large. Tuck into the panorama a few large windmills
here and there, with long arms slowly and lazily grinding out Danish
grist; and finally finish off your picture by adding an occasional
church, at first just peeping its spire or tower over the rolling
surface of the ground, but as you approach looming large, in Lutheran
dignity conscious of State support.
We rode all day in the midst of this beautiful landscape, now and then
making a cousinly call. And always, for the sake of the cousinship,
these cousins welcomed their clanswoman from the Land of the
Setting Sun; and everywhere they insisted that we partake of coffee,
regardless of the amount of which we had already drunk; and always they
accompanied us to the main road when we departed, remembered the “Hils
hjemme” (Greet those at home for us) when the good-byes were said, and
were waving a final farewell when we took a last look at the turn of
the road. Verily, cousin-hunting in a foreign land may be a wondrous
pleasant pastime—if the foreign land be an ancestral homeland.
Near the end of our ride we came to Östermarie Church, of the parish
in which my mother lived as a child. And there in the church-yard were
many old grave-stones with family names; names that were familiar, but
strange—when found there. The ancient church is in ruins, but twenty
years ago a new one was built, after an old pattern, with a square
tower topped off with a gable. A memorial tablet to Jens Kofoed, who
helped save Bornholm for Denmark, has been carefully transferred from
the old building to the new.
[Illustration: Harvest Time in Bornholm]
[Illustration: Österlars Church, Bornholm]
Östermarie represents one of two characteristic types of Bornholm
church architecture. The other type which I have in mind is the
rotunda. These rotunda churches are among the rare sights of Denmark,
and date from well back into the Middle Ages. Österlars, the finest
sample, is Östermarie’s near neighbor at the northwest. The main part
of the building is a huge cylinder, capped with a cone-shaped roof.
Attached to the outer walls, like barnacles, with little regard to
symmetry or uniformity, are a number of buttresses. The whole structure
has a grotesque appearance, and is like nothing else I have ever
seen,—except, perhaps, as regards form, the grass huts of the South
Sea Islanders. But it is much more substantial than these; the walls
are thick and heavy; for in the old fighting days the rotundas served
as fortresses as well as houses of worship.
The northeastern part of the island possesses various reminders of
earlier days than those in which Österlars was built. Among these are
the sites of several burial mounds. During my mother’s girlhood some
of the mounds were leveled by bold farmers, unfearful of the hauntings
of outraged ghosts; and their contents—weapons, utensils, ornaments,
etc.—which the heathen Danes had buried with their dead, were brought
to light. Some of the objects reached the museum at Copenhagen in
safety; others, especially the ornaments of gold and silver, were
melted down by the thrifty but short-sighted country people. The
most famous mound of all was, however, carefully excavated by Danish
archæologists. This was on the large farm called Store Bakkegaard, not
far from my mother’s old home.
Most of the country people realized that the mounds were prehistoric
graves; and some of the farmers, for superstitious reasons, refrained
from leveling them. As you may imagine, many ghost stories grew
up around these—stories of mysterious lights which appeared and
disappeared in the trees on top of one of them; of a monstrous
three-legged cat which yowled from another; of a surpassingly beautiful
maiden with incredibly long golden locks who haunted a third. They
were “spooky” landmarks, my mother said—places past which the school
children hurried with bated breath in the early twilight of the short
winter days.
In my mother’s childhood also many believed in witches and wizards, who
were able to work destruction to their enemies, and against whom one
must be on one’s guard; and of “wise men” and “wise women,” beneficent
variations of the witch and wizard class, to whom one went with one’s
troubles, of whatever nature. Was a Bornholmer afflicted with boils or
ringworm, warts or “fits,” which failed to yield to home remedies, if
he was superstitious—as he often was—he would ignore medical advice
and consult a “wise” person, frequently with satisfactory results. A
lost sheep or a lost child, a guilty conscience or suspected disloyalty
on the part of a lass or a lover—all of these were cases which
called for the services of the “wise.” With the spread of scientific
knowledge, however, knowing ones, good and evil, tended to lose
prestige, and now, so far as I have been able to learn, they are no
more numerous in Bornholm than elsewhere; the “backwoods” in the Baltic
is becoming as hard-headed and skeptical as the remainder of the world.
On my return from Svaneke to Nexö I rode on the high seat with
the driver; and as the day was fine and the driver was affable it
seemed almost as if my old staging days had returned. One has such
a top-of-the-world feeling when on the driver’s seat of a stage
coach—even if the coach be only a post wagon. To the right hand was a
Bornholm landscape such as I have tried to describe; to the left was
the Baltic, edged by rocky cliffs, and dotted here and there with the
white or brown sail of a fishing boat.
A few miles beyond Nexö I stopped off to visit my cousin Thorwald, who
lives on a large gaard with quadrangular buildings of brick, arranged
on the same principle as Barquist, only on a larger and more elaborate
scale. While here, for the first time—I _hope_ it was the first
time—I disgraced my clan. This is how it happened. When I arrived,
Christine, my cousin’s wife, was up to her eyebrows in preparations for
a birthday party for their little girl; and promptly after my arrival
the cook fell ill. It was evident that a crisis was at hand, which I
determined to relieve. The intricacies of Danish cookery are quite
beyond me, so I knew enough to leave that to Christine; and I cast
about me for other means of helpfulness. As luck would have it, I saw
a row of milk pails near the kitchen door. Now, as you know, I was not
reared on the Far Western frontier for nothing; the mysteries of bridge
whist and the tango to me are mysteries indeed, but I _can_ milk a cow.
As the inspiration seized me, as promptly I seized a pail and went
forth to relieve the birthday party crisis. The cows were gentle;
I milked two, and returned in triumph with the brimming pail. I
acknowledge that I had had some misgivings with reference to just how
my particular form of aid would be regarded; but I was not prepared for
the sensation which my performance created. As I approached the house,
I met one of the maids who was starting out to milk. Upon seeing me,
she rushed into the house exclaiming, “De fremmede dame har malkede
köerene! De fremmede dame har malkede köerene!” And the awful tidings
spread.
Since Thorwald is not only a wealthy farmer but—what is vastly more
important—is also an officer in the Danish army, Christine has a
tremendous amount of dignity to maintain. When she learned what I had
done, she stood for a moment in petrified astonishment, and then burst
forth, “You have milked the cows! What will my friends say! What will
my friends say!” And then she left the room, utterly humiliated by the
conduct of her husband’s low-bred cousin. I am certain that she swore
the maids to secrecy, lest my exploit get abroad and she lose caste.
A scrap of consolation was offered to me, however, by Christine’s
cousin, who was also a visitor at the house. She, not being related
to me, could afford to be amused as well as scandalized. After I had
stoutly aired my views, this cousin told of a Danish high-school
teacher—a woman of phenomenal strength of mind—who had not only
shocked the whole community by milking a cow, but subsequently had
shamelessly announced that were she the queen she would milk cows if
she felt like doing so! Unfortunately, with all of her charm, little
old Bornholm is in some ways very conservative and very aristocratic;
there is much talk of “fine folk”; and her aristocracy is still
determined to a considerable degree by the mediæval qualifications of
position and wealth, rather than by intellect and character. She is
not so different from my own land, however; for there are plenty of
Americans who would sympathize with Cousin Christine’s indignation over
my plebeian performance.
Lest you be left with the impression, however, that the “pearl of the
Baltic” is far more back-woodsy and conservative than is a fact, I
wish to assure you before leaving it that Bornholm is, in many ways,
exceedingly progressive. It must be, since it is a part of Denmark,
which is in the front rank of the progressives of Europe. The farmers’
telephone system, for instance, is well established on the island,
and is well patronized; rural mail delivery also exists, the postmen
generally cycling over the smooth roads. Bornholm’s educational system
is excellent; you would be astonished at the subjects, besides English,
which are included even in the grammar school course. And I must
acknowledge—though as an American school teacher I am somewhat ashamed
to—that the teaching is more thorough than in our land; the Danish
children seem to retain and make practical use of what they learn,
as few American children do. The Bornholmers are intelligent too,
though isolated; they read and they think; all seem to make at least
one trip to Copenhagen during a lifetime, and many visit the capital
quite frequently. Also, Socialism gives evidence of being fairly well
rooted in the island, where it bids fair in future to play havoc with
time-honored aristocratic ideals.
Bornholm conservatism is in a sense a modified local patriotism; for
the Bornholmers are intensely attached to their mid-Baltic home,—a
fact, I presume, largely due to their isolation and to the consequent
necessity, to a considerable degree, for their fighting their own
battles in times past. Their love for the beautiful island naturally
makes them loath to change the old for the new, unless they see a
good reason for so doing. A cousin who is a fiercely loyal Bornholmer
is a good illustration of this. One day I asked her the Danish word
for “birch” and she replied, “The Copenhagen Danish is _birk_; the
Bornholm Danish is _burck_. I pronounce it _burck_, for _I_ am a
Bornholmer.” The Danish spoken in Copenhagen is generally considered
the best, and is charming to the ear; in my opinion, it has a dignity
which French lacks, and a beauty of sound foreign to German. The
Bornholm dialect, on the other hand, is a broad drawl which is
unqualifiedly ugly.
It must be recognized, too, that Bornholm possesses virtues which many
centrally-located places lack. Among the population of more than forty
thousand serious crimes are almost unknown. The people are friendly
and honest; they practice the Golden Rule pretty faithfully. I was
impressed with this fact while in Svaneke. We were going away to spend
the evening, and I, being the last out, proceeded to lock the door.
“Never mind to lock the door,” said Tante Anna; “just close it. There
are no thieves on Bornholm.” Later, fearful lest she had exaggerated
the honesty of the island, she discussed the matter with Tante Hulda;
and finally they remembered that some years before a man in Rönne had
been convicted of stealing a few kroners’ worth of something—I have
forgotten what.
I am writing these final lines aboard _Örnen_, sitting on a stool in
the cabin with my writing pad on my knee; for I am outward bound from
Bornholm. All of my Rönne relatives came to the boat and saw me off
with “Hils hjemmes” and repeatedly waved good-byes. I was just on deck
to take a last look. Ah, when I forget thee, Bornholm!—My nearest
cabin mate is a girl from the Faroes, who is taking a great armful
of purple heather home with her. The Faroes, you know, are a part of
Denmark. An old Norse dialect is the vernacular, but Danish is taught
in the schools, and my cabin mate, like most natives, speaks it. Hence,
we do not have to resort to a deaf-mute show in order to make ourselves
understood. The girl is stirring in her berth. I fear that the light
disturbs her, so I must put it out. As the Bornholmers say, “Farvel saa
laenge”—Good-bye for the present.