JOURNEYING ACROSS SWEDEN; STOCKHOLM
STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN,
August 20, 191—
_My dear Cynthia_:
I do not mind admitting now that I was distinctly disappointed with my
first glimpses of the Swedish landscape. You probably noticed that in
my last letter I ‘demned it by faint praise.’ But since writing that
letter I have crossed the peninsula from Gothenburg to Stockholm, and I
have found that—at least so far as the eye will reach on either side
of the railroad track—Sweden is far more beautiful than I had ever
dreamed. It was such a satisfaction to the Swedish half of me to learn
that.
The country was woodsy and rolling and rocky all the way; and it was
more than that. As we journeyed, conifers, particularly fir and pine,
were added to the dainty white-limbed birches and the oaks. Between
Lakes Vennern and Vettern for many miles we passed through dense
forests, largely evergreens. The trees pressed closely in on both sides
of the track, so that I could almost touch their plumy green arms with
my hand. There were plenty of rocks, too, but in the form of sightly
crags or rugged bluffs which were really a contribution to the picture.
Here and there were houses, mostly the typical dark red with white
trimmings, which added a pleasant bit of color, peeping from between
the openings in the forests, or well exposed and surrounded by fields.
In some of the fields were men plowing with teams of oxen; in others
were sheaves of rye or oats stuck on long, pointed stakes to dry. These
spitted sheaves in some cases bore ghostly, grotesque resemblance to
human beings. The railroad stations were mostly of red brick, with neat
grounds frequently planted to flowers.
I have not yet mentioned the water. That deserves a paragraph by
itself. If I had not already given you to understand that between
Gothenburg and Stockholm there are houses and fields and forests and
crags, I should be tempted to state that there is water everywhere.
While this is not strictly true, water is astonishingly plentiful and
is all mixed up with everything else. It has been said that when, in
the act of creation, Jehovah parted the water from the land, he forgot
Sweden. It certainly looks as if someone had forgotten. There are
ditches between the fields to draw off the water; and lakes, large and
small, from which brimming rivers flow, are scattered about in the most
extravagant manner. Near Stockholm the lakes are closer together than
at the Gothenburg end of the line. With their framing of gray, rocky
bluffs and tall, dark forests reflected on their silvery surfaces,
occasionally dotted with water lilies in full bloom, these lakes are
charming indeed. Swedes have been fond of water since Viking times,
you know. And last Friday they seemed to be enjoying their lakes to
the full; some were swimming, and splashing and diving, like genuine
amphibians; others were in boats—proud little steamers which made the
reflected landscape tremble and quiver as they puffed and snorted about
with a self-important air, and simple rowboats which glided modestly
over the mirrored landscape. The train grazed the margin of one lake in
which was a boat-load of laughing white-kerchiefed girls, rowed by a
brown-armed young man, laughing, too. They were gathering pond lilies.
As the train entered the city by way of a bridge across the Gotha
Canal, we noted a little Gothenburg steamer making its way between
the green banks. It had taken about forty-eight hours longer than
we to make the trip to the capital. But the trip by canal is a most
delightful one, I have been told.
When I used the pronoun _we_ in the foregoing, I did not have in mind
the sum total of passengers who traveled in the same train with me
from Gothenburg to Stockholm, but rather a woman who occupied the same
compartment as I, on the train.
My lady, Fröken Nordstern—which, being interpreted, means Miss North
Star—boarded the train at Gothenburg. Her air told me on the instant
that she was a kindred spirit, so I responded as cordially as possible
to her pleasant “God morgon.” After that it was easy to find an excuse
for conversation. I soon found that the fröken was wide-awake and
interested in the best things of the present, and zealous to contribute
her share to the onward and upward progress of humanity. She spoke
English very well; therefore, with my mongrel Scandinavian—which she
was so good as to call Swedish—we had ample linguistic media for the
expression of our thoughts.
We had exchanged remarks upon the subject of Gothenburg, where she is
at the head of a small business house, and had branched out slightly
in other directions, when she suddenly turned to me and announced that
she would like to ask some rather personal questions. As I liked her, I
replied that I was willing, and she proceeded.
Was I a vegetarian?
Theoretically, I stated, I was; the thought of devouring my fellow
animals for food was abhorrent to me; but actually I was carnivorous in
my habits—a piece of inconsistency made possible by dwarfed powers of
imagination.
Was I interested in the peace movement?
Yes.
Did I belong to some organization working to banish from the earth the
possibility of nation taking up arms against nation?
No; but I was a teacher of history, and I never lost an opportunity to
point out the superiority of plowshares to swords and pruning hooks to
spears.
Why didn’t I belong to a peace society? Did I not think that I could be
more useful to the cause of peace if I belonged to an organization?
I had never given the matter serious thought, I replied.
Would I join a peace organization when I returned to my own country?
Yes; and I was grateful for the jolt.
My North Star lady now looked more hopeful. Lastly, did I believe in
equal suffrage?
Here was my chance to come out strong. I was _born_ a suffragist, I
declared.
Fröken Nordstern grasped my hand and gave it a hearty squeeze of
comradeship. The last answer evidently counted at least fifty per cent.
I judge that I passed the examination with about B+.
After that we got on famously. The fröken gave an interesting account
of what the Scandinavian people—the very great grandchildren of the
warlike old Vikings—were doing to effect permanent peace and good will
among the nations; and they are doing much, considering their numbers.
Later in the summer she expected to attend the Scandinavian peace
congress to be held in Christiania. It would be pleasant, she said, if
I could spare the time to attend. It would, indeed, said I. And then I
took the opportunity to express the gratification and relief which I
had felt that no Scandinavian blood had been shed when Norway separated
from Sweden in 1905. Characteristically, _after_ this was spoken, it
occurred to me that I might be skating on pretty thin ice; but my
pacifist friend showed her breadth of mind by promptly and warmly
expressing not only her sympathy with my view but also good-will and
best wishes for Norway, adding, however, that she was a loyal Swede.
But equal suffrage was her dearest interest, for she believed that it
would greatly increase the weight of the women’s wishes in connection
with other reforms; and we talked long upon the subject. Iceland,
Finland and Norway had full suffrage, she pointed out; Danish women
could vote on many questions; the women of Sweden had had municipal
suffrage since 1862, and the lower house of the Swedish parliament had
recently passed the bill giving women full suffrage. King Gustav had
shown his sympathy towards the reform. The delay was due merely to the
conservative upper house. But Scandinavia, she declared, was easily
leading Europe in the emancipation of women. This I knew to be a fact;
I had swelled with pride over Scandinavia’s progress in this regard
long before touching Scandinavian soil. But I did not know, until
Fröken Nordstern told me, that Fredrika Bremer, the Swedish novelist
whose books I long have loved, was a pioneer in the movement. Swedish
women owe much to Miss Bremer, and in token of this, the great national
organization for the enfranchisement and social betterment of women was
named the Fredrika Bremer Association.
If you secure a chance to read Selma Lagerlöf’s “Ma’mselle Fredrika,”
Cynthia, do not let it pass. The story is in the collection entitled
“Invisible Links.” My fröken had a copy of the volume with her and took
pleasure in reading over again with me the charming, mystical tribute
of Miss Lagerlöf, in behalf of Sweden’s “bachelor women,” to the
services of Miss Bremer. The story was new to me, but it is certainly
one of the finest that Selma Lagerlöf has produced.
We talked also of Ellen Key. I suppose that she is best known in the
United States by her book on “The Century of the Child,” which is
an attempt to educate parents up to a proper sense of their duty to
their children; for Miss Key believes that the education of parents
is of far more importance than the education of children. But her
books, “The Woman Movement,” “Love and Marriage,” etc., have received
considerable American attention, as you probably know. She differs from
most feminists in that she constantly emphasizes the mother quality of
woman as well as her humanity. In this, I think, she performs a great
service. However, there seems little doubt but that Ellen Key’s radical
views upon love and marriage have contributed much towards giving the
word “feminist” an uncomplimentary connotation. My North Star lady was
gratified to learn that I was not scandalized over Miss Key’s views
to the point of denunciation; but we agreed that hers seemed rather a
dangerous doctrine to preach at the present stage of moral evolution.
However, I suppose that prophets are occasionally far ahead of their
times.
Some Swedes accuse Miss Key of spreading impure and immoral ideas,
Fröken Nordstern said; and they feel that they must apologize to the
world for her. Yet many of her critics, when it comes to the question
of real nobility of character, are not worthy to tie her shoe strings.
For that Ellen Key is a woman of rare character—as well as rare
intellect—no one can doubt who knows the facts of her life—a life
devoted to the uplift of humanity by teaching, writing, lecturing, and
_living_.
Upon the shores of Lake Vettern, near which our train passed, Ellen Key
now lives—lives an abundant life. In fact, the motto over her doorway
of “Strand,” her home, is “Memento vivere”—Remember to live. And by
her will she has provided in a lovely way to contribute the influence
of her personality for mortal good as long as possible after she has
gone to join the “choir invisible.” Her beautiful home is to be left
just as it is, except for her physical presence, in control of a body
of trustees who will invite working women, sufficiently intelligent to
appreciate the culture of “Strand,” to come, four at a time, each to
spend a month there between April and October, as “the guests of Ellen
Key.”
My memory of the long journey across Sweden will always be pleasanter
because Fröken Nordstern had a part in it. She was on a very
hurried—for Sweden—business trip to the capital and I have not
seen her since we parted at the station here. It would be a distinct
pleasure to meet her again some time.
Now for Stockholm. It is perfectly charming, whether seen by night or
day; but I saw its night beauty first. When the train pulled in, though
it was past nine o’clock, darkness had scarcely settled down. The city
lights, however, had been turned on, and they glimmered in zig-zag
lines across the many canals over which the train rumbled, producing
a weird, fairyland effect which quite excited me and promised new
interests.
At the station, hotel agents were lined up in three rows, but they
were so numerous that I was bewildered and sought help of a helmeted
policeman who stood near at hand. “Temperance Hotel”! he called, and
a properly labeled agent popped out of a line. In a twinkling I was
seated in a drosky and on my way. The horse wore an arch of bells
which tinkled festively as we drove through the dark, high-walled
“foreign-looking” streets; the memory of the long, pleasant day
was in the background of my mind; the charm of the first sight of
the glimmering, zig-zag lights of Stockholm was in the fore; and I
felt exactly as if I were some one else—a character, perhaps, in a
story-book with a good ending.
But when the next morning dawned golden and glorious I realized to the
full that I was something more enviable than that; I was a happy woman
on a vacation in the land of the Swede.
Stockholm has not such a marked personality, such charming quaintness,
as Copenhagen; but it is more, much more, beautiful, than Denmark’s
capital. If the site had been selected, and the city all planned out
by a modern landscape architect, it could scarcely be more charming.
The place, however, is nearly seven centuries old and its founder,
the Swedish warrior, Birger Jarl, was primarily looking for a good
harbor, easily defended, when he selected the passageway between Lake
Mälar and the Baltic, and proceeded to fortify the rocky, woodsy
islands. It is this alternation of rugged, heavily forested island and
mainland, and lake and river and sea which has given this “Venice of
the North” a setting much more beautiful than Venice itself. But the
hand and brain of the beauty-loving Swede has contributed greatly to
the natural attractions. Most of the streets are wide, well-paved, and
clean. Here and there, carefully distributed over the city, are little
parks, bright with grass and trees and flowers, and further adorned
by handsome fountains and by statues of men who have contributed
toward the up-building of Sweden. The tasteful bridges which span the
broad canals also add their share to the variety. And the buildings,
especially the public ones, in many cases combine in an interesting
manner an artistic charm with a dignified reserve characteristic of the
Scandinavian north.
When in Germany I think that I told you about the “trinkhallen.” The
more temperate Swedes have “vattenbutiker” (water shops, or stores).
These are little booths, generally at street corners, where one can
buy mineral waters, and various other temperance drinks, and little
cakes; and may consume them out in the open air, perched on the high
seats beside the counter. Vattenbutiker are as strictly respectable as
automats, with which Stockholm is adequately supplied.
Are you surprised to learn that Sweden has preferred “water shops” to
“drinking halls”? If so, I must tell you that from being among the most
drunken and intemperate parts of Europe, as they were fifty years ago,
the Scandinavian lands have become temperate and are the leaders in
the European “dry” movement. Under Gustav III, who reigned in the last
part of the eighteenth century, the manufacture of alcoholic liquors
was made a government monopoly. This made the Swedes heavy drinkers,
and soon a state of affairs existed which was heading Sweden rapidly
towards destruction. In the other Scandinavian countries drunkenness
and demoralization were almost as prevalent. But, in 1865, through the
efforts of Peter Wieselgren of Gothenburg, the so-called Gothenburg
system was introduced. This system provided that the monopoly of liquor
distillation be given over to responsible philanthropic companies which
controlled the sale and were permitted to retain only five per cent.
of the profits from the traffic; the remainder must go to objects of
public service. Norway, shortly afterwards, introduced a similar method
of regulation and restriction. To me, one very interesting fact about
the system is that part of the profits goes towards teaching the evils
of intemperance. In Norway, the profits also go towards the building
of better roads, the support of the National Theatre in Christiania,
the upkeep of children’s hospitals, and other similar useful purposes.
The other Scandinavian lands were promptly influenced by the reform
movement in Sweden and Norway; and all over Scandinavia increasingly
severe restrictive laws were passed from time to time. The Scandinavian
countries are all now well on the highroad towards total prohibition.
Indeed, Iceland, Greenland, and the Faroes are teetotalers. Norway
is almost completely under local option; Sweden is well in line;
and sentiment is rapidly growing in Denmark. What is of special
encouragement to a democrat from the “land of the free” is the fact
that the Scandinavian people themselves have come to see the evil of
the drink habit, and have cooperated to abolish it. In the Scandinavian
lands, you must know, the government is “of the people, by the people,
and for the people,” about as completely as in the United States. I am
not at all certain that it is not more so.
Lest I have deluded you into believing that, in consequence of their
freedom from evil practices, the Scandinavians have fully qualified for
the harps and crowns of the New Jerusalem, I hasten to inform you that
Scandinavia is in the grip of the tobacco habit; the people smoke like
bad chimneys. And what is worse, the cigarette is the favorite form of
the “weed.” All seem to smoke it except the babies. Small boys scarcely
in their teens puff lustily at cigarettes; and I have seen several
respectable-looking women smoking in the open-air cafés. Among women,
however, the practice is limited to the upper middle class and the
upper class.
Now, to return to Sweden’s capital. Riddarholmen, or the Island of
the Knights, was one of the first three islands of the city to be
fortified. On a square on this island is a statue of Birger Jarl
mounted on a lofty pillar, from which he gazes over the happy city
whose foundations he laid. This chieftain also conquered Finland
and, hence, secured the basis of the later “Greater Sweden.” Though
never crowned King of Sweden himself—largely because he was absent
fighting the Finns when a vacancy occurred in the kingship—he was,
nevertheless, the “father of the Folkungar Kings” and was really the
power behind the throne during the rule of his son Waldemar. As a
member of the “gentler sex” you will be interested to know that Birger
had laws passed which gave to daughters half as much of the property of
their parents as sons received, which, though still leaving room for
amendment, was a decided improvement upon nothing.
For nearly a century and a half after the rise of Birger Jarl to royal
power, Sweden remained an independent nation; but, in 1397, by the
union of Calmar, she, with Norway and Denmark, became a member of
the Scandinavian federation. This was in the days of Queen Margaret,
daughter of the Danish King Waldemar IV, and widow of Haakon VI of
Norway. At first Margaret ruled the two countries as regent for her
son Olaf, but in her rule she showed such wisdom that when Olaf
died, though there was no precedent for a female sovereign in the
Scandinavian lands, the Danish nobles elected her as their “sovereign
lady, princess, and guardian of all Denmark”; and the Norwegians
followed suit. But the Queen herself adopted the modest title,
“Margaret, by the Grace of God, daughter of Waldemar, King of Denmark.”
It happened that Sweden was at the time under the rule of Albert of
Mecklenberg, who was far more German than Swedish in his interests.
Albert was also one of the early “antis”; he poked fun at Margaret’s
sex and gave her to understand that in exercising sovereign power she
was out of her “sphere.” Meanwhile, through the oppression of his
Swedish subjects and the favor which he showed to the Germans, Albert
made himself so hated in Sweden that the Swedish nobles appealed to
the Danish queen to be their ruler. Here was a choice opportunity for
revenge which Margaret did not let slip; she invaded Sweden, overcame
Albert and his German army and took Albert himself prisoner.
[Illustration: Statue of Birger Jarl, Stockholm]
[Illustration: Museum of the North, Stockholm]
Then came the Union of Calmar, formed in the name of Eric of Pomerania,
Margaret’s grand nephew, who was chosen her heir; Margaret, however,
was the real ruler of the Scandinavian lands as long as she lived.
The treaty stipulated that the union should be a merely personal one
and that each kingdom should retain its own nationality and laws. But
Margaret had a vision of a Scandinavian nation; consequently, she
worked towards the amalgamation of the three peoples by appointing
Swedes to local offices in Denmark and Danes to similar positions
in Sweden, and by other welding devices. It was a magnificent idea,
and worthy of the great stateswoman that Margaret was. But it was
doomed to failure. Though the Queen apparently tried to be prudent and
tactful, the patriotic Swedes naturally viewed her as the usurper of
their national liberties. Under the stupid Eric and his successors,
dissatisfaction increased; the fifteenth century was punctuated with
Swedish revolts. None proved successful, however, before the monster
Christian II of Denmark had massacred in the Stockholm market place
nearly one hundred Swedish nobles, _after_ they had sworn allegiance to
him.
This Stockholm “blood bath,” as the Swedes say, “drowned the union of
Calmar”; and it nerved Gustav Vasa, son of one of the murdered nobles,
to become the George Washington of Sweden. Supported, first by the
mountain people of Dalecarlia, and later by the Swedes as a whole, he
drove out the Danish oppressors, gave back to Sweden her independence,
and in 1523 became the first king of the powerful house of Vasa.
But to return to the square guarded by the statue of Birger Jarl. Near
the high-pedestaled figure is Riddarholms Kyrkan, the Westminster
Abbey of Sweden. Here rest many of the Swedish celebrities, royal and
otherwise, good and bad together. The building itself is handsome—in
Gothic style with rich windows. The floor is largely composed of slabs
marking tombs of notable Swedes, in some cases three centuries dead. In
places on the pavement the carved reliefs have been nearly obliterated
by the tread of feet of intervening generations. Around the sides
are the chapels in which are buried many Swedish rulers. As I looked
at the tombs behind the gratings, I remembered what happened to the
royal French remains at the time of the Revolution and made a new and
stronger resolution in favor of cremation.
The famous grandson of Gustav Vasa, Gustav Adolf, who lost his life on
the battlefield of Lützen in the Thirty Years’ War, after he and his
valiant Swedes had struck the decisive blow for Protestant freedom, is
buried there in an elaborately carved coffin, surrounded by standards
captured from the enemy, tattered and torn, but still gay in color. In
the chapel opposite to that of Gustav Adolf are the huge coffins of
Charles X and Charles XII. Charles X, you may remember, was the king
who adventured into Denmark over the ice-bridged Great Belt two hundred
and fifty years ago. Charles XII, the “last of the Vikings,” while
a mere boy was able for a time to hold at bay and even to chastise
severely the sovereigns of Russia, Poland and Denmark, who, presuming
upon the youth of her king, were plotting to rob Sweden of her Baltic
lands.
The chapel of the present dynasty, the Bernadotte, is near the door.
Here is the sarcophagus of the founder of the line, Charles John, of
red marble with claw feet. The plain blue marble tomb of the great and
good Oscar II, the late king, is also here. Beside it is a wreath tied
with white ribbon, bearing the names of the present king and queen,
Gustav and Victoria.
I went to “Skansen” in company with Fröken Söderquist, from whose
sister in Chicago I had brought a letter of introduction. Skansen is
one of Stockholm’s most characteristic institutions—a natural park
and a museum combined. It is really a branch of the Museum of the
North, which is near at hand. The exhibit in the park consists mostly
of runestones, Lapp huts and Lapps themselves, and houses furnished to
show how the Swedes lived in ages past—even as early as the sixteenth
century. The houses, which have been moved in from the country and
set up in the park, are _bona fide_ old buildings dating from the
periods which they illustrate. I inspected several of them and found a
considerable degree of similarity existing between them, though their
original occupants had lived in different centuries and different parts
of Sweden.
The building materials were boards or logs and the architectural style
simple and much like the present. There were also the same small-paned
German windows which characterize the country homes in Denmark as
well as in Sweden; and their sills were filled with potted plants
just as in the Scandinavian houses of later construction. The walls
and ceilings were covered with quaint paintings or with embroidered
linen hangings. The floors were bare but well scoured. The furniture
was usually of simple pattern, but in some cases it was elaborately
and grotesquely carved, especially the heavy oaken chests which stood
along the walls. The bed in one of the houses was topped off with a
wooden canopy, and a shallow wooden clothes closet took the place
of the foot-board. In the poor cottages the beds were built into a
recess in the wall, one above the other like berths, and concealed by
a curtain. Ancient clocks—tall, severe-appearing timekeepers of the
grandfather variety—held positions of honor. The fireplaces were large
affairs with high, square hearths and square hoods, one corner of which
projected out into the room. The pewter plates and tankards on display
were genuine old-time utensils and also the spoons of pewter and of
wood. On a table in one of the cottages were models of different
varieties of seventeenth century cakes and breads. They looked as if
their originals might have been very edible and appetizing. In each
house was a man or woman dressed in the costume of the period to which
the house belonged, ready to answer questions or sell post cards, as
the case demanded. A quaint old Swede with a long gray beard, a long
white coat, long red stockings, buff knee breeches and a funny round
white cap was especially picturesque. He would have made an admirable
Scandinavian Santa Claus.
These exhibition homes from Sweden’s past are scattered in a natural
manner among the trees and rocks of Skansen as if they had been there
through all the centuries. But it is not for the houses alone that
the park is remarkable. It has other attractions—exclusive of the
conventional zoo and the swan lake. A great May pole all decorated
with festoons and stars and wreaths of various patterns stands near
the ancient Swedish homes—a pretty relic of the days when the heathen
Scandinavians worshiped the forest tree; and a handsome observation
tower with many yellow and blue flags occupies an eminence. The tower
is called “Bredablik” (Broad View). From its top, Fröken Söderquist
pointed out the important buildings of the city, and the canals and the
islands and the “Salt Sea.” This bird’s-eye view helped me more fully
to realize what a really superb site Stockholm has, and how very much
more beautiful this city is than Copenhagen. But Copenhagen is _so_
quaint and charming and generally lovable.
[Illustration: Selma Lagerlöf]
[Illustration: Interior of One of the Ancient Swedish Houses at
“Skansen,” Stockholm]
Just before sundown twenty or thirty children from the public schools,
dressed in the national costumes of various Swedish provinces,
danced folk dances and sang folk songs in the park. Their dress alone
was equal in interest to a small-sized museum. Some of the boys wore
embroidered jackets and short buff trousers fastened at the knee with
red worsted cords ending in pom-poms; one little chap cut a quaint
figure in long red stockings and buckled shoes and a white coat with
tails extending almost to his heels (he was the Scandinavian Santa
Claus in miniature); several of the girls wore gaily embroidered
bodices, with white blouses fastened with large brooches, short, very
full, pleated skirts, and brightly colored stockings; some wore little
fringed and embroidered woolen shawls across their shoulders; others
wore the shawls on their heads; while still others wore stiff white
linen caps, or pointed ones of black velvet trimmed with red. The
platform upon which the children played was decorated with many flags,
multiplying the rainbow array of color.
Near at hand was an open-air café with bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked young
women, dressed also in peasant costume, receiving and filling orders.
Here we had refreshments, and sat lazily during the lingering twilight,
listening to the music, provided, not by a phonograph, or auto-piano,
but by a large band; and the Swedes are no tyros at band-playing.
When darkness had shut down, we watched an open-air play illustrating
country life in Sweden. The stage scenery for the play included the
humble home of a poor cotter and the mansion of a wealthy nobleman; the
plot turned upon the rich young aristocrat’s falling madly in love with
the peasant’s pretty daughter.
Verily, the Swedes have learned to enjoy out-of-door life to the full,
both in summer and in winter. In the winter they have their snow and
ice sports, and in the summer during the long, lovely spring-like
days, they work and play out of doors as much as possible. This love
for fresh air and sunshine, combined with their excellent in-door
gymnastic system, their cleanly, temperate habits, and their cheerful
dispositions, have made the Swedes the longest-lived people in Europe.
On Sunday, Fröken Söderquist and I went to services at the Church of
Saint Nicholas, or Storkyrkan (the Great Church) as it is generally
called. This, the oldest in Stockholm, was founded by Birger Jarl
in 1264. Like almost every other Scandinavian church, it is State
Lutheran. And it is appropriate that at the rear of the building should
stand the statue of Olavus Petri, the apostle of Lutheranism, who on
this spot stood in defiance of Catholic opposition and preached his
faith.
The present building is nearly two hundred years old. The exterior is
plain and rather ugly—of gray stone, with a clock tower and chimes.
But the Gothic interior, which has been recently renovated, is really
attractive. The slender clustering pillars and the interlacing arches
which support the ceiling are of rosy brick, while the walls are of
white plaster bordered with gold. The pews also are white with gold
trimmings. In the walls are empty niches, which, in the old Roman
Catholic days, three hundred years ago, were occupied by statues of
saints. As in all old churches, there are plenty of tombs under the
floor and in the walls. The two altars at which the anointing of newly
crowned sovereigns takes place occupy a conspicuous position. They are
upholstered in velvet of the Swedish national blue, gold embroidered;
and above each is a canopy of gold topped off with a large golden crown
supported by floating cherubs.
The sermon, read by a gowned and banded clergyman from a high pulpit,
also in white and gold, was of a commonplace, prosaic character. When
it was finally ended, the preacher read announcements handed to him by
the clerk—marriage banns, notices of coming baptisms, of deaths, and
of political elections.
In the afternoon we went to the National Museum. Here are fine
exhibits from the prehistoric period and also from the historic, as
well as an excellent collection of foreign and domestic art. Like the
archæological museum in Copenhagen, this one has a beautiful display
of tools and utensils from the New Stone Age. In fact, the similarity
of the prehistoric collections of the two museums proves that the
Danes and Swedes had an identical culture. And even yet their culture
is almost identical. In the Stockholm collection from the Later Iron
Age, however, gold ornaments are much more common than in Copenhagen.
In fact, they are astonishingly numerous. One is led to the conclusion
either that in the Sweden of those days there were a few people who
loaded themselves down with jewelry, or that the wearing of jewelry was
very general. Three of the gold collars or necklaces which I observed
were positively massive, but were beautifully wrought. In this museum
is the runestone upon which is the pictorial representation of the saga
of Siegfried and the serpent. Siegfried is there roasting the dragon’s
heart; Grani, Brunhilda’s horse, is tied to a near-by tree. Among the
branches of the tree perches the bird which has told Siegfried of the
attempted villainy of his foster father.
In the historic exhibits are many relics of interesting Swedish
sovereigns: the spinet and the medicine chest of Gustav Adolf; a
beautifully jeweled prayer book which belonged to his daughter, the
eccentric Queen Christina; and the crown and sceptre of Charles X.
But I cared most of all for the picture gallery. It was such a
surprise. Sweden has an astonishing number of great living artists
now—men and women who are attracting the attention of the world by
contributing something new and truly Scandinavian to the art of the
world. Until the last century, you will remember, Scandinavia had done
practically nothing in the fine arts; and some concluded that she never
would do anything; that her race was run. But in the Stockholm gallery
are quite sufficient examples to prove the danger of hasty conclusion.
It was pleasant to talk the pictures over with Fröken Söderquist. We
both greatly enjoyed Bruno Liljefors’ charming animal sketches; and
also the quaint Dalecarlian scenes by Anders Zorn and Carl Larsson.
Larsson works mostly in water colors; and his wife and children are
very frequently his subjects; but he does not ignore the children of
his neighbors. Recently he published, with notes, under the title
“Larssons,” a most delightful collection of family glimpses; and
another volume, more beautiful still, entitled “Andras Barn” (Other
People’s Children). Cederström’s “Bringing Home the Body of Charles
XII” is, I suppose, well known. I had seen copies of it, but did
not care for them. The original, however, I think fascinating; and
what most attracted me was not the central object, the body of the
king, borne by his officers, but the grief depicted on the face of
the hunter who stands in the snow by the roadside, bowed in sorrow.
To him Charles is not the “madman of the North,” who, after saving
Sweden from international highway robbery, nearly lost it through his
foolhardiness; he is the great and brave king of the Swedes.
Portraits in crayon of Selma Lagerlöf and of Ellen Key also interested
me. Both women have fine, strong faces, but Miss Key’s face is more
than merely strong. It shows the high serenity of a courageous spirit
with a gospel which it feels called upon to preach, even though to do
so means social ostracism. On the frame above the placid countenance
the artist had regretfully inscribed the words: “Could I but have
represented your purity of soul!”
Some of the apartments of the stately royal palace are open to
visitors. I viewed them yesterday. The rooms occupied by the late king
were of special interest. The billiard hall is hung with beautiful
tapestries—not orthodoxly made in Paris, but in Saint Petersburg at
the manufactory established by Peter the Great in 1716. Some of the
other rooms, however, contain tapestries of French workmanship. In
Oscar’s study is his desk, as he left it, with his writing materials
and the portraits of his family still upon it. The State apartments
are tremendously elegant, with carvings and frescoes, brocades and
paintings, tapestries and sculptures, gold and silver; but I have
lived in many a California bungalow that I am sure was more pleasingly
furnished and more artistic, as well as decidedly more comfortable.
I tried to see the apartments of the dowager Queen Sophie, which I
understood to be open to the public, but the guard at the door in the
blue and gray uniform and the cocked hat of the period of Charles XII
stood firmly at his post and emphatically repeated a word foreign to my
Swedish vocabulary: “Stängt! Stängt!” The soldier’s determination not
to let me pass was obvious, so I soon abandoned all plans to pry into
Queen Sophie’s privacy, and went to the Museum of the North instead.
“Stängt,” as I learned from my dictionary later, in Swedish means
“closed.”
On the way to the Museum I stopped for a few minutes at an institute
for the development of the Swedish manual arts. The object is to
preserve the peasant knowledge of old-time weaving, needlework, and the
like, and to create a demand for such work—an excellent purpose. I
wish that you might have seen some of the woven pieces, Cynthia. They
were beautiful, both in color and in composition. Some of the heavier
ones reminded me of the finest work of the Navajo Indians. I am almost
as charmed with the Scandinavian art weavings as I am with the Royal
Copenhagen porcelain.
In contrast to the industrial institute, the Museum of the North deals
with things distinctly past and gone. It is filled with Northern
antiquities of all sorts, including a tremendous amount of royal “old
clothes”—military uniforms, coronation robes, and the like. Among
these relics are a pair of silk stockings embroidered in silver, which
belonged to Gustav Adolf, and the embroidered collar and cuffs and the
shirt—still blood-stained—worn by him on the battlefield of Lützen,
where he met his death. The bay horse (I had always supposed that it
was white) which the king rode at Lützen is also there, carefully
stuffed and mounted, with the old saddle—the gift of Gustav’s
queen—on his back. This horse, my museum guide-book informs me, was
led in the king’s funeral procession, and died in 1639, seven years
after his master. The remains of the faithful old steed were kept in
the palace and were somewhat damaged by the great fire which destroyed
the royal residence in 1697. That accounts for their present rather
tattered and moth-eaten appearance. The collection of ancient armor
and weapons is very complete, and includes a sword, shield, and helmet
which belonged to Gustav Vasa, five centuries ago. In the armory are
also long rows of coaches and sleighs richly decorated, which have
borne Swedish royalty on journeys, ill-fated and otherwise.
And now I, too, must journey on. Mine will be a mere tourist
pilgrimage, and will be in the present-day, happy Sweden, so I have
pleasant anticipations. Again “Adjö! Adjö!”