COPENHAGEN ONCE MORE; CASTLES IN DENMARK
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK,
September 11, 191—
_My dear Cynthia_:
I have looped the loop, as you see—up through Sweden and down
through Norway—and am again in Denmark’s capital. The _King Haakon_
left Christiania on schedule time and had what I presume was a
representative summer voyage to Copenhagen, a voyage which leads me
to wonder what it would be like to make the passage in winter. The
Cattegat, the strait separating Sweden from Denmark on the east, is
notoriously rough, though; so my experience was not a complete surprise.
By a great streak of good fortune I entirely escaped being sea-sick.
The boat sailed at two, and at first I sat on deck and watched the
coast of Norway, which for a time we followed quite closely; by three
o’clock, however, it seemed that nothing in the way of a view equal to
the fiord coast would appear, so I decided that here was a good time
to go to bed early and rest up; for I had been constantly on the go in
Christiana. And down to bed I went.
I must have promptly fallen into a doze, for the next thing I knew it
was late in the afternoon, the boat was rolling badly, and from fore
and aft came sounds such as mark the last stages of sea-sickness. As
time passed the sea grew rougher, and I felt more and more as one must
feel who is strapped to the back of a bucking broncho. The sea-sick
sounds increased in volume and number; and they were not restricted to
the “gentler sex,” but very frequently came from masculine throats.
As I awakened at intervals through the night, I discovered that the
history of the early evening was repeating itself. The two women and
two children who shared a stateroom with me were desperately sick; but
I was not a bit, for I stubbornly concentrated my thoughts on something
pleasant and clove to my berth with my spinal column, like an abalone
to a rock, fervently thanking my Stars and Stripes that for once I had
known enough to go to bed when I was tired.
Not till late the next morning, when I knew by the calm that we were
past Helsingborg and Elsinore and were in the quiet Öresund, did I
venture to rise; and when I did, I dressed as soon as possible and
hurried on deck into the fresh air. By that time most of my fellow
passengers were on deck, too. They were a dismal-looking assemblage.
Scarcely one looked as if he had escaped. All seemed to have been at
least mildly ill: a few were pale and wan; more were ghastly white; and
others—many others—were almost pea green in color. I thanked my Stars
and Stripes again, and more fervently, when I saw them.
It was much pleasanter to look at Copenhagen which we were approaching
than at my fellow humans. We were entering the harbor with a bright
blue sky above and a twinkling, sparkling blue sea about us. The
spires and towers of the quaint old Danish capital seemed to beckon
invitingly; and again I felt as if I were returning home. It is thrice
delightful to _return_ to a place. But I am not sure that I should feel
such pleasure in returning to Christiania or Stockholm; Copenhagen, as
I have said, has an unusual degree of personality and charm.
The Stork Fountain, near which I had my breakfast, seemed like an old
friend. It is in the heart of the city, and appears to be a favorite
landmark. Children, especially, enjoy playing around it under the
spreading bronze wings of the storks; and it is appropriate that they
should, for Hans Christian Andersen made the stork the children’s bird,
and particularly the bird of the Danish children. Indeed, reared as I
was on Andersen’s tales, I incline to think of the stork as the emblem
of Danish childhood—a sort of rival of the three rampant lions on the
royal coat-of-arms, which is merely the emblem of the Danish grown-ups.
When I was in Copenhagen before, it had been arranged by Cousin Lars
that I was to stay with him upon my return. He did not know just when I
was due in Copenhagen, however, so, besides breakfasting, I attended to
several errands and did some shopping before going to his home in the
residential part of the city.
I also explored the University of Copenhagen, which stands near
Frue Kirke. The interior of the building is more pleasing than the
smoke-begrimed exterior would lead one to suppose; the walls of the
vestibule are tastefully decorated with frescoes, and good sculptures
are placed here and there. Students in large numbers were in evidence,
looking very much like those whom I had seen in Sweden and Norway,
except that the caps which they wore were marked by buttons of the red
and white of Dannebrog, instead of blue and yellow, or red, white and
blue.
Cousin Lars was not at home when I reached his place, but his
housekeeper was there to receive me, and he came in shortly after my
arrival. During my brief visit he made as much fuss over me as the
proverbial hen does over the proverbial one chicken; the routine of
the household was turned topsy-turvy in my interest, and I had a very
pleasant, homey sort of time. I soon found that he had planned various
excursions and parties for me, but most of the plans had to be dropped
because of the very limited time I could stay in Copenhagen.
Upon my arrival, I discovered on the table in my room various newspaper
clippings which my cousin had made, with me in mind, while I was
away in the North. The schools had opened during my absence and the
clippings all had to do with the Danish educational system, of which
democratic Cousin Lars is very proud. And he may well be, for I think
that it is no exaggeration to say that the Danish public school system
is the finest in Europe. From one of the clippings I learned that
every child in the schools of Copenhagen is being taught to swim; from
another, that excellent courses in extension work are given in the
evenings at sufficiently low prices to enable all those who wish to
improve their educations to do so.
These scraps of information roused in me a desire to visit some of the
Danish schools; so Cousin Lars directed me to two near-by schools,
one a boys’ “gymnasium” and one a public grade school (folke skole).
As in most European countries, the public schools are attended only
by the children of the poor—the so-called “working classes.” All who
can possibly afford it send their children to private schools, lest
they lose caste. The gymnasium is a private institution corresponding
approximately to our high school.
I went to the gymnasium first, where I visited a class of boys in
modern European history. A young man who was also teacher of English
was in charge. At the bell signal the two dozen boys marched in and
remained standing beside their desks while the teacher introduced me.
“You have all heard of a land called the Far West,” said he in English.
“We have with us this morning a lady from that far land who has come
to observe your cleverness in history.” The boys laughed, and at a
sign from the teacher seated themselves. A boy in the front row handed
me a text book and a copy of our old friend, Putzger’s Atlas, which
they used; and the lesson began. The subject was Napoleon’s campaigns,
and at times the discussion became even exciting. But the order in
the room was unspeakable; it was _nil_. The boys—quite a number of
them—visited with each other, and talked in whispers and undertones
together instead of attending to their lessons. Frequently the master
had difficulty in making himself heard above the noise, and in hearing
the students who were reciting. At least a half dozen times while I
was there he produced a slight lull by “Sh-Sh,” but that was all; he
seemed quite used to just that degree of inattention and disorder and
did not appear to mind that a visitor was there taking it all in. The
teaching, however, was remarkably good, everything considered, and the
boys who were called upon to recite appeared well prepared. After all,
order is only a minor point. Unfortunately I had to leave before the
end of the period. When I rose to go, the class also rose as one boy,
and remained standing while I took my leave and made my exit.
Next I went to visit a public school. It was recess when I arrived,
and I found the boys and girls in the large yards at the back of the
building, playing in the drizzling rain, under the supervision of
several teachers. The bell rang almost immediately, and the children
marched in. I had expressed to the principal a desire to visit one of
the classes—I did not care which—and presently was introduced to a
teacher who asked me to visit his beginning class in English. I had for
the time forgotten that English was taught in the grades in Denmark,
and was very glad of a chance to see it done. The class consisted of
twenty-two little boys and girls averaging about eleven years of age.
All were healthy, happy little children, clean, and neatly dressed,
though children of the poor. To my relief, the order here was perfect.
The children paid strict attention to business. The lesson was
conducted entirely in English and was admirably taught and admirably
learned; the teacher was a master in his profession. He seemed fond of
the work and fond of every one of his flock. His evident success helps
me to the conviction that there are men who would make first class
primary teachers, even for the tiny beginners, the orthodox theory to
the contrary notwithstanding. It was a distinct pleasure to me to
witness those little Danish children reading, writing, and speaking my
native tongue. Teacher as well as pupils spoke with an accent, but the
pronunciation was remarkably good. Two or three times, however, the
teacher turned to me to inquire, “Can you understand our English?” And
when I replied that it was perfectly clear to me, the children looked
pleased. I shortly learned that I was not to be a mere auditor. When
the first part of the lesson had been covered, the teacher asked me
whether I would read it for the children in order that they might hear
a pronunciation free from accent. I was delighted at the chance, so I
rose and the children held their breaths while I read:
“Work while you work, and play while you play,
That is the way to be happy and gay,”
and other friendly maxims of my childhood days. When I had finished, a
general smile of satisfaction spread over the class. The children had
evidently measured their pronunciation against mine and had decided
that there was not so great a difference after all. When they had
worked through another translation, I again read for them; and again
the children smiled their pleasure. And so we alternated until it was
time for me to go. When I rose there was a little rustle as of a flock
of birds rising in the air; and every little child was on his feet; and
every one smiled a farewell as I left the room. I should have loved to
borrow the class to teach for a while.
The teacher thanked me heartily for my demonstration of English
pronunciation and gave me a most cordial invitation to visit his
advanced course in English. Last term, he said, two English ladies
had visited this class and had read for the children, thus greatly
stimulating their interest in the language. Verily, everything is grist
that comes to that man’s mill.
My dip into the educational system of Denmark was finished off by a
visit to the school museum, which impressed me as being unique. The
museum contains every sort of device to help the teacher—models,
charts, pictures, natural history specimens. The prices are plainly
marked on the “helps” but the objects are not for sale; they are merely
on exhibition for the benefit of the teacher who is trying to keep
up to date in her methods. The devices can be obtained at the school
supply shops. An excellent teachers’ library is housed in the museum
also. And trained educators are on hand to answer questions and to give
advice to all perplexed pedagogues.
The idea of having a museum for the inspiration of teachers seemed to
me an excellent one, but I supposed it something peculiar to Denmark
until the chief director, who spake excellent English, informed me that
we had one in my own country—at St. Louis, Missouri. The director also
told me several things about the schools of Denmark. The caste system
which formerly worked such hardships against the children of the poor,
he said, is breaking down; and now the children can pass from the
public schools to the gymnasium, which prepares for the University;
and promising students who can not afford to pay tuition are granted
scholarships. There is no opposition to married women’s teaching in
the public schools; and if they have children of their own, it is
rather assumed that they make better teachers than unmarried ones. The
salaries of public school teachers in Denmark seem to compare favorably
with those in the Far West, in view of the difference in the cost of
living. After a certain number of years of service all teachers are
retired upon a pension; and teachers in the country have always a farm
which they work, thus having a source of income besides their salaries.
The school system of the Scandinavian countries, as I have indicated,
is very fine; and it is very effective. By it the people are educated
both mentally and physically; compulsory education laws exist and are
enforced; the amount of illiteracy has been reduced to something less
than one per cent. Elementary education is free, and opportunities
of various sorts for higher education are given to all at but little
cost. Much emphasis is placed upon practical as well as “academic”
studies; one finds in the lower schools careful training in hygiene and
gymnastics, cooking, sewing and sloyd.
The Scandinavian countries are in the forefront in their adoption
of all modern educational devices and agencies; and they lead the
world in their system of people’s high schools (folkehöjskoler),
which originated in Denmark, but have been introduced into the other
Scandinavian lands. Bishop Grundtvig, who founded the first school of
the kind in 1844, worked upon the belief that people gain most good
from education acquired after the age of eighteen. And the people’s
high schools as they now exist are for adults between the ages of
eighteen and thirty. They are particularly for country dwellers.
There are five-month winter terms for men and three-month summer terms
for women. The living expenses and tuition combined are surprisingly
slight—only about ten dollars per month. No entrance examinations
exist, and no final examinations. Many subjects of study are offered,
and great freedom is permitted the students in their selection. These
people’s high schools are undoubtedly tremendously important factors in
raising the standard of Scandinavian civilization.
The evening following my visit to the school museum Cousin Lars and
I went to the Tivoli, the famous amusement park where high and low
in Denmark play; for he said that not to see the Tivoli was not to
understand Copenhagen. The admission fee is only fifty öre, or about
thirteen cents, for adults and twenty-five for children, hence there
are very few whose poverty would shut them out from a chance for
relaxation and enjoyment. The place, which was founded by George
Carstensen as early as 1843, contains all sorts of arrangements and
devices for the amusement, pleasure, and instruction of the people of
Copenhagen. Under the trees are tables and benches where refreshments
are served, and there are several good restaurants close at hand.
A large aquarium and a zoo contribute equally to the pleasure of
the children and the grown-ups. The buildings are in oriental style
and are fitted with arrangements for thousands of colored electric
lights, which are turned on only upon special festive occasions. The
night of our visit was just an ordinary occasion, but the park was
thronged with great crowds. While the young people were occupied at
the merry-go-round, shooting galleries and other more exciting and
adventurous places, the parents stood or sat around and watched the
pantomime play or listened to the various bands. One of these bands
was made up of several dozen men who played the national and popular
airs, and played them well. The Scandinavians are a musical people;
Scandinavia gave the world Jenny Lind, Christine Nilsson and Edvard
Grieg, you know.
Yesterday was Sunday, and it was arranged that I was to go on a tour
of Danish country castles in the part of Seeland which is to the
north of Copenhagen. As Cousin Lars had been over the same route only
a couple of weeks before, he decided not to go. The boys were to
accompany me instead. The “boys” are Cousin Lars’s two sons; Waldemar
is sufficiently grown up to be grizzled at the temples, and Jens has a
daughter who is old enough to have the whooping cough and thus keep her
mother at home for the day; nevertheless Cousin Lars calls them “the
boys,” and so do I. Yesterday, at least, the two threw dull care away
and acted in a very juvenile manner. The boys have homes of their own,
but it was decided that we were all to have breakfast together in order
to have an early start; however, through a misunderstanding, Jens took
breakfast at home, and Waldemar was late in arriving; consequently,
we came very near missing the train. As it was, we simply pelted down
the three or four blocks to the station, where the train stood with
snorting engine ready to move out. Jens had got a late start too, but
was already at the station gate. He waved the tickets when he saw us
rush panting up, called out, “Come on,” and climbed aboard. We tumbled
into the starting car just in time to be taken along.
Through an ideal country landscape we journeyed—a landscape which
reminded me strongly of Bornholm—to the little town of Hilleröd. Here
we left the train and walked about a mile to Frederiksborg Castle,
which is the finest sample of early Danish Renaissance architecture.
The castle is situated in a lake on three islands and has wide
encircling walls and bridges and moats and towers, just as the castle
of one’s dreams should have. The building was erected by Frederick II,
in 1562, but various parts of it have been burned since, and the only
remains of the original structure are two round towers bearing the
date of erection and the King’s motto, “My trust is in God alone,” in
German. Those were the days of German influence in Denmark. Christian
IV, the great Renaissance builder, erected the fine building of which
the present one is largely a restoration; and it was the favorite
residence of this king and of his successors for many generations.
In 1859 a terrible fire destroyed Christian’s castle but by means of
government contributions and private subscriptions it was promptly
rebuilt. Captain J. C. Jacobsen, “Ph. D., Brewer,” in particular, whom
I have mentioned before in connection with Copenhagen art museums,
contributed large sums toward the work of restoration. His money paid
for the fine Neptune fountain in the outer court, erected to replace
the one which was stolen and carried off by the Swedes in the stirring
days of 1658.
In 1877 Captain Jacobsen secured permission from King Christian IX to
found a museum of national history in the castle. The expenses of the
upkeep and development of the museum are met by an endowment fund
established by the founder and by a share of the annual income from the
Carlsberg breweries.
After wandering about the courts for a while, the boys and I entered
the castle to explore. Naturally, the early and obscure ages of
Danish history are chiefly strung together with representations
of Danish royalty, and the events—to a greater or less degree
legendary—associated with their reigns, while the later periods are
more and more given over to the work of the Danish people. In the
vestibule, which contains the earliest exhibit, are statues of King
Gorm the Old, who reunited under one crown all of the Danish lands, and
Queen Thyra. This royal couple of the ninth century combined the old
and the new, the dying heathen religion and the growing Christianity;
Thyra was a Christian, and through her influence Gorm, who still
worshiped the gods of his fathers, was induced to permit the preaching
of the Christian missionaries. In the vestibule with the statues are
casts of the two rune stones which marked the graves of the king and
queen.
Not far from these relics of Gorm and Thyra is a very interesting
painted frieze depicting the English chapter of Danish history—or the
Danish chapter of English—including a representation of King Canute on
his throne on the strand, rebuking his flatterers after he has proved
to them that in spite of his commands the waves advance. Though only
remotely connected with Danish history, there is also a fine copy of
the famous Bayeux tapestry representing the Norman conquest of England
in 1066. In fact, the museum is somewhat unique in the number of
copies and models of famous things and places which it contains. There
are models of all of the buildings of any note, I think, in Denmark,
not omitting Hammershus Castle and Österlars Church in little old
Bornholm; and the Dannevirke with the wall of Thyra Dannebod, built
across the lower part of the peninsula of Jutland to keep out the
southern enemy, is there too.
We passed through a bewildering succession of rooms containing many
reminders of Denmark’s past, over which we were anxious to linger; but
there was little time, so we moved on. In the hunters’ hall, as the
boys insisted on calling it—it was called the “Knights’ Room” in the
guide book—we did linger a little. Around the wall is a stucco frieze
with bas-relief figures of deer, foxes, hares and other animals of
the chase; and the curious thing about it was that the antlers of the
stags are _bona fide_ antlers. Since these are darker in color than the
remainder of the deer, the effect is somewhat weird. The old fenders
and grates are still in position in the black marble fireplace; but the
gallery from which the players of King Christian’s time dispensed music
while the king and his courtiers made merry below is no more to be seen.
Frederiksborg Castle is a great national gallery, as well as a museum
in the ordinary sense. Naturally, there are many paintings and “graven
images” of Danish royalty, from the tolerant heathen, Gorm the Old,
whom I have already mentioned, down to the late King Christian IX.
There are several pictures of this last king. In one of these he is
represented as visiting Iceland in 1874; in another he is portrayed
as receiving in audience at Amalienborg Palace in Copenhagen the
delegation from the Norwegian parliament announcing the election of
Haakon VII as king of Norway. The Norwegians, you will remember, when
they finally were able to set up an independent establishment, had to
adopt a king. Haakon of Norway is a son of Christian IX.
But the great Danes who never wore kingly crowns or sat upon the
ancient throne of Denmark are not forgotten; and the smaller ones
who served their day and country in time of war or peace also have
a place—even to “J. C. Jacobsen, Ph. D., Captain, Founder of the
Carlsberg Fund.” Saxo Grammaticus, the first Danish historian,
who lived in the credulous days of the twelfth century, is there
in sculpture; and keeping company with him is a statue of Snorre
Sturlason, the Icelandic historian of the same period, to whom we are
indebted for the “Younger Edda,” and the “Heimskringla,” the annals
of the early kings of Norway. I have no reason to believe, however,
that either of these sat for their portraits, any more than did King
Gorm and Queen Thyra. In the gallery are also portraits of Hans
Christian Andersen, the sage with the child’s heart; Niels Steensen,
the great anatomist and geologist; Ludwig Holberg, the founder of
Danish literature; Niels Finsen, the great physician and humanitarian;
Lieutenant-Colonel Dalgas, founder of the Society for the Cultivation
of the Danish Heaths, through whose efforts Denmark has recovered
from the heather waste and put under cultivation even more land than
was stolen from her by the Germans in 1864. Adam Oehlenschläger, the
greatest Danish poet, is represented by both painting and bust. He was
to Denmark what Tegnér was to Sweden. Indeed, to some extent Tegnér was
a disciple of Oehlenschläger. In the room reserved for this poet is the
furniture used by him; also manuscripts, sketch books, spectacles and
watches which belonged to him; and drawings in lead pencil of his two
children, done by himself. Upon the wall is the wreath with which he
was crowned by Tegnér in the cathedral of Lund.
The chapel of the castle, in which six Danish kings have been crowned,
is very elaborately and richly decorated with much of gilding and
stucco and carving and many religious paintings. And in it is a gem
of a pulpit in ebony and silver. The organ now used is of German
manufacture and is three hundred years old. Its keys are of ivory,
very thick, and are partially covered with engraved silver plates. The
instrument was given to King Christian IV by his German brother-in-law.
After leaving the chapel we spent some time in the park again. The
grass was wonderfully green yesterday under the summer sunshine; and
there was something peculiarly homelike and cosy about the rounded
masses of the dark green trees. It seemed as natural to be on this
excursion connected with the castles of Denmark as it was to go off to
spend the day among the mountains of my Far West when I was a child.
An open-air Sunday appears also to appeal especially to the Danes,
for there were great numbers of happy, frank-faced people sitting or
walking about the grounds, among the trees, or loitering upon the
picturesque arched bridges.
After a time we went to the pavilion where we had luncheon under
the trees, in view of the fine old towers of Frederiksborg. Then we
drove in a drosky through the beautiful National Forest to Fredensborg
Castle, which was built in commemoration of peace between Denmark and
Sweden (“Fred”—pronounced with a long _e_—means peace in Danish).
This is situated upon the beautiful lake, Esrom Sö, and is the autumnal
residence of the Danish royal family. It is by no means as pretentious
as Frederiksborg, but it is pleasant. The buildings are white and have
a large octagonal court in front. The interior is richly furnished;
there are the usual frescoes and tapestries, rich brocades, gold leaf
and carvings. The housekeeper showed us through the rooms. She seemed
particularly proud of the dining room, furnished in beautiful blue
tints, and possessed of a ceiling of remarkable height.
One room, called the “Garden Room,” is lighted with many great windows
which overlook a garden of the French style, containing a number of
marble statues and marble vases thrown into sharp relief against
smooth-cut lawns and trim flower beds. But I have always felt that
there is something painfully incongruous about a carved marble vase
with carved marble flowers out in a garden filled with Nature’s own
floral triumphs; and white marble statues in such a setting are
suggestive of graveyards and ghosts. We cared much more for the broad
park of the Castle of Peace; it is the most beautiful park that I have
ever seen. Spreading trees in soft, curving masses are scattered over
the rolling grassy slopes in a manner charming indeed; but the real
glory of the park is the avenues lined with gigantic Danish beeches,
the branches meeting overhead. To such trees can the adjective “noble”
be well applied. The only similar avenues that I know of in our own
land are those shaded by great plane trees on the Capitol grounds
at Washington. But at Fredensborg there are wonderful vistas that
Washington does not possess. Through one leafy arcade we caught a
glimpse of a white-winged yacht sailing on the blue surface of the lake
and outlined against the bluer summer sky; at the end of another avenue
were the towers of Frederiksborg Castle looming above the clustering
trees. I was quite moved by the perfection of the varied scenery,
and wandered about the gardens of the Castle of Peace in the hope of
absorbing something lasting from it all.
“In Denmark there lies a castle named Kronborg,” wrote Hans Christian
Andersen in his tale of “Holger Danske,” which I read and loved as a
child. But as a child I only dreamed of grand old Kronborg; yesterday I
saw the castle of my dreams. As all lovers of Shakespeare know, it is
at the town of Elsinore—called by the Danes Helsingör—and is situated
at the entrance to Öresund. This guardian of the Sound was built by
Frederick II in the last part of the sixteenth century. Three broad red
brick walls surround the old fortress, and from between the ancient
bricks sturdy young trees have sprouted; a fair-sized young oak has
also forced its way through the iron-barred window of the inner wall.
Kronborg is still a fortress and still guards the Sound, but not as
jealously as of yore; for more than a century the cannon of the castle
have boomed only in friendly greeting to passing vessels. As Andersen
put it, this is the cannon’s way of saying “Good-day” and “Thank you.”
First we explored the interior of the inner wall of the castle,
following a droll old guard who carried a lighted torch. In the
seventeenth century when the Swedes overran Denmark they got control of
the castle and held it for some time. The Swedish general used one of
the large rooms as his office. In another room still stands the great
cooking tank—heated by means of a fireplace in the wall—in which
could be prepared food enough for three thousand men at one time. Near
at hand are manger-like bins of stone, in which the invaders stored
their food supply. In the bottom of one of these receptacles were some
patches of white and yellow plaster which had fallen from the wall
above. These the Danish guard solemnly declared, with a tiny twinkle in
his eye, were Swedish fried eggs left in the hurry of the final Swedish
departure from Kronborg. Below the floor containing the kitchens and
store rooms are mostly dungeons—terrible, dark, airless, dripping
dungeons—many of them V-shaped with places for iron gates which were
graduated in size so as to make the inclosures smaller and smaller,
finally becoming mere cages in which the poor imprisoned wretches had
not sufficient space to lie down.
[Illustration: Stork Fountain, Copenhagen]
[Illustration: Statue of Holger Danske at Marienlyst]
Within the wall near the entrance is a rough white statue of Holger
Danske, the legendary hero of Denmark, leaning upon his sword. I
expected to find Holger Danske there, for Hans Christian Andersen had
said that he was to be found, in Kronborg “in the deep, dark cellar
where nobody goes.” “He sleeps and dreams,” explained Andersen, “but in
his dreams he sees everything that happens up here in Denmark. Every
Christmas Eve comes an angel, and tells him that what he has dreamed is
right and that he may go to sleep in quiet, for that Denmark is not yet
in any real danger; but when once such a danger comes, then old Holger
Danske will rouse himself!... Then he will come forth and strike, so
that it shall be heard in all the countries in the world.”
For a time, in my skeptical growing-up years, I somewhat lost faith in
this assurance of the Danish writer; for then I learned how Germany
took from little Denmark the duchy of Schleswig-Holstein because the
Danes were helpless to prevent; but now I know, “being old,” that,
as Andersen says, “there is faith in Holger Danske.” And I recently
noticed in re-reading the story, that Andersen emphasizes the fact that
there is another strength besides the power that lies in the sword, and
that “_Holger Danske may come in many forms_”! I missed that point as a
child, or had forgotten it since leaving childhood behind.
“Holger Danske” is the strong, courageous spirit of the people of
Denmark, which has never been shown more fully than in the last half
century. In this period the Danes have shown remarkable co-operative
strength; they have conquered the heath lands, developed their
magnificent public-school system, and put their country in spick and
span shape generally.
I soon had my fill of dungeons and things underground generally, so
we went to the art gallery. Here, as one would expect, is a statue of
Shakespeare. And here are many paintings. Some of these are second-rate
works of “old masters,” and are very dark and ancient and venerable in
appearance. I fear, Cynthia, that you would have thought it horribly
improper of me not to “rave” over them, especially the dingy, swarthy,
old ones; but I could not—they were so ugly! And my cousins showed
less reverence than I; Waldemar passed them by with great scorn,
announcing that he would not pick them up from the roadside. We liked
the national portraits best, not because we considered them better
artistically—I am sure that you would have pronounced them inferior to
the old masters—but because of their historical interest.
In a tower room was a portrait of “Caroline Mathilde,” and a placard
announced that in this room the lady of that name had been imprisoned.
I could not muster up enough Danish historical data to remember who
Caroline Mathilde was; so I turned to the boys and inquired. Waldemar
did not know, but during the whole day he had shown a tremendous sense
of responsibility whenever I asked a question, and he now left no stone
unturned in his efforts to find the answer.
He first tried Jens with, “You have been to school since I. Don’t you
know who Caroline Mathilde was?”
But Jens did not possess the desired information. The historical
characters of a thousand years must be quite a “chore” to remember.
Then, for want of better material, Waldemar pounced upon a tiny scrap
of a girl—the child of the woman who sold post cards at the entrance
to the gallery—and repeated, “Who was Caroline Mathilde?”
“I don’t know,” said the child.
Waldemar looked down at the mite with a Pharisaical air. “What! Don’t
you know who was her _husband_?”
Now, wasn’t that last just like a man? “John Brown and wife!” John
Brown and poodle dog! It sounded particularly ridiculous, however,
applied to the mysterious lady of the tower—as Waldemar meant that it
should.
Caroline Mathilde, as I found when I went to look her up, was a sister
of King George III of England. When a mere child she was married to the
dissipated idiot, King Christian VII of Denmark. Naturally, she found
enduring an idiot husband a rather monotonous undertaking, and looked
for diversions, with the usual consequences. Count Struensee, the
Danish privy councillor, whose name the Queen’s enemies had mentioned
in connection with her own, was put to death by order of the King, but
Caroline Mathilde, partly because of her relation to the British Crown,
was merely imprisoned, part of the time at Kronborg.
In the chapel of the Kronborg castle, the boys told me, horses were
stalled, in the days of Swedish occupation; but now the chapel is again
a chapel, tiny, but very interesting. The royal pew, carved and painted
in all of the colors of the rainbow, is in the gallery. In the rear
of the room are the old seats formerly occupied by slaves. The altar
is finely carved. The inscriptions about the room are in German, for
German was the court language at the time of the restoration of the
chapel.
As the sun was setting, we climbed to the top of one of the tall towers
to gaze over land and sea. It was a long climb up a winding stair, but
the view was lovely. Down in the court at our feet the soldiers were
lining up to march in to supper; around about us was the landscape
which had gladdened my heart earlier in the day; across the narrow
Sound was Helsingborg on the Swedish coast, looming up, an old friend,
with Kärnan and other large buildings plainly visible. A few weeks
before, I had viewed Kronborg from Kärnan; now I had a view of Kärnan
from Kronborg. And beyond Kärnan and Helsingborg was a rare sunset sky
brilliantly colored, the glory of which the calm waters of the Sound
reflected.
As it was dinner time, the boys were fearful that I might be in a
starving condition, for so far that day I had had only three meals—one
less than the usual number; consequently, from the tower we descended
to a restaurant in Helsingör and had dinner to the accompaniment
of an unusually fine band. Then we walked down the narrow, crooked
streets—sidewalks were a mere incident—to a park in which, on a knoll
in a lonely corner under a clump of shade trees, was a great mound of
rocks. A rough slab stuck in the top bore the words “Hamlet’s Grave.”
The whole thing was of glaringly recent erection. It was put there in
self-defense, I was told, by the owner of the land. People of ignorance
were so insistent that Hamlet’s grave must be somewhere about and were
so constantly asking to be directed to it that, in order to save time
and annoyance, this “grave” was manufactured and conspicuously marked.
People who love to be fooled take much satisfaction in it; those who
have understanding know that it is a Joke.
The grave lies on the way to Marienlyst, a fashionable and famous
summer resort, for which we were bound. Marienlyst is so near to
Kronborg that we walked. In the pleasant park of Marienlyst are two
interesting bronze statues—Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, a slender,
youthful figure; and Holger Danske, a fine old warrior with a keen,
strong, kindly face. The face met my ideas of how Holger Danske should
be represented. It reflected the character and intellect of the Danish
people, just as the great muscular arms resting on the broad flat
sword blade represented their healthy physical strength. The rough
representation of Holger the Dane which I saw in the walls of Kronborg
is evidently a plaster cast of this fine bronze piece. The cast had
been placed at Kronborg to prevent the disappointment of visitors who,
like myself, made the acquaintance of Holger Danske in the days of
their childhood through dear Hans Christian Andersen’s solemn assurance
that at Kronborg “Holger Danske sits in the deep dark cellar, where
nobody goes.”
We walked along the beach at Marienlyst and watched the waves roll in
and break on the strand until the lights began to twinkle upon the
Swedish coast; then we took the train for home. For part of the way
we rode on a steam train of two-story cars, such as I had never seen
before. For the adventure of it, I wanted to ride upstairs, and after
the train had started we climbed to the second floor by means of a
narrow iron staircase at the end of the car. The climb was, for me,
rather a perilous undertaking, and was the only adventurous element
connected with the ride on top. “On top” suggests open air and is,
therefore, misleading; there was really a second story, or, perhaps,
it is better to call it a half story, for the room at the top was
decidedly low-ceiled; we had to duck our heads when we walked to seats.
But as I was mortally afraid that I should fall from the little iron
stairway to my destruction if I attempted to descend while the car was
in motion, we remained where we were until we reached Copenhagen, which
we did at eleven o’clock.
Yesterday was a large, beautiful day, crammed full of pleasant
memories. Some time again I shall return to Denmark and spend just such
another summer day among the Danish castles. But now I must soon leave
quaint old Copenhagen, the “boys,” and my kind Cousin Lars. A train
for Roskilde leaves Copenhagen at ten o’clock, and I depart on it; for
summer vacations must end.