Through Scandinavia to Moscow

In past ages, disorders and massacres and open murders have drenched with blood her streets and her great public squares, and Stockholm’s dungeons have their tales of horror and wickedness to tell. She was cruel and turbulent when Sweden herself was harsh and savage, she is now equally serene and contented under the liberal rule of enlightened King Oscar II, and is become one of the best-ordered and most beautiful cities of the world. By reason of the many islands within her limits, she is called the “Venice of the North,” and by reason of her cleanliness, the substantial character of her modern buildings, and the efficiency of her municipal government she is termed the “Edinburgh of the Baltic.” Stockholm is more scientifically advanced, and more modernly wide-awake than are the German and English cities of to-day. She has a fine and bountiful water supply, an elaborate and efficient telephone system, and is probably more thoroughly and effectively illuminated by electricity than any city in Europe. The older quarters of the city are well paved and scrupulously clean; in the newer sections are blocks of stately buildings of modern design, and wide boulevards and avenues paved with asphalt and squares of stone. Her public buildings, her numerous Plats and Torgs and lovely parks are all exquisitely kept.

We spent one delightful morning crossing the wide stone bridge of Norrbro, and viewing the Royal Palace, the State Apartments, and Royal Library, and the fine old church of Riddarsholm, which is the Westminster Abbey of Sweden, her Pantheon, where lie entombed the bones of Gustavus Adolphus and the ashes of Charles XII, and members of the House of Vasa, along with other illustrious Swedes. The old church is of red brick, topped by a curious wrought-iron steeple, and is the shrine to which come all patriotic Swedes, there to contemplate the departed glories of their fatherland.

Of an afternoon, we visited the famous Djurgaard (deer park) and then went on to the park called Skansen, where are gathered a most interesting collection illustrative of the ancient Swedish way of living, as well as examples of the ancient industries, exemplified by charming lively peasant girls clad in their divers Provincial costumes. We then also climbed the tower set upon the hill, whence spread out before us a superb vista of the city and its many islands and surrounding waters, and wide-sweeping woods and forests. We also crossed among the islands upon dapper electric launches which ferry between, and then came back to dine in a fashionable restaurant under the Grand Hotel near the quay, where were small tables, and where sat men in dress coats and handsome women in evening dress – generally high-necked – and we were given fresh strawberries – this September 13th – and savory mutton chops and fresh-grown peas, and fruits and ices.

The streets at all hours of the day and evening were astir and gay. The many officers in blue and gray uniforms, patterned after the German styles, the Dalecarlian girls in their picturesque bright barred aprons and braided hair, carrying packages and bundles – the messenger boys of the North – the blue-eyed and yellow-haired men and women neatly and soberly clad, and the absence of all beggars – we did not come across a single one, – the multitude of boats, great and small, constantly moving rapidly up and down and across the many lanes of water, all these gave animation to the city.

The streets of Stockholm are filled with women, more like the German towns, while, just as there, scores of sturdy men stand idly around decked out in soldier’s uniform. Rosy-cheeked young women wait upon you in the restaurants; women armed with big brooms sweep at the crossings; women come in from the country driving carts loaded with produce of the farm; and women also largely “man” the small boats that ply along the waters between the islands. Woman is here as greatly in evidence as she is in Boston, but of a huskier, heartier type.

Visiting the markets, I found a great profusion of strawberries, whortleberries, blueberries and others I did not know, and withal, most of the vegetables my Kanawha garden would yield in June. These fruits of tree and soil are brought into the city by chunky native horses hitched to little two-wheeled carts, which horses, when they reach their destination, are securely halted by a strap or line passed around their two fore fetlocks, tying the feet tight together, a treatment an American horse would scarcely endure.

Another day H and I wandered across the Norrbro and beyond the Palace and down near the Storkyrko Brink, and discovered a curious little coffeehouse, tucked away up a flight of creaking stairs, in an ancient building which seemed to be a counting-house below and offices above. Here were set against the walls little mahogany tables holding three and four, where plates were laid without a cloth, and ale and beer were served in tall pewter mugs. We called for the foaming brown brew and asked for roed spoette, our old Danish joy, and lunched delightfully. The room was filled with big, burly, red-cheeked men, merchants and sea captains, H thought, from what bits of conversation she could pick up. A most substantial company they were, who evidently came here to strike weighty bargains as well as to eat and drink and smoke. We were doubtless lunching in a well-known and most ancient rendezvous, much like the historic grill room I discovered in London, called “Toms,” where Dickens’ and Mr. Pickwick’s chairs are shown to the visitor, and the waiter will inform you on just what sort of kidney broil and roasted sausage each made his daily meal.

Stockholm divides with Copenhagen the honors of being the metropolis of the Scandinavian world, boldly asserting her superiority over Kristiania, for she is the larger city. She is easily first in Sweden in all save scholarship and learning – in that, Upsala, the Cornell and Harvard of the North, holds unrivaled lead.

The fine stores and shops, along such streets as the Dronning Gatan and Regerings Gatan and adjacent thoroughfares, H declares quite equal to those of Copenhagen; while in an ancient and narrow alleyway she discovered a perfect mint of embroideries and linens, articles of feminine apparel which rejoice her heart.

On our last evening we attended the Royal Opera, occupying a box quite to ourselves, where we heard good singing and well-rendered music by the Royal Band, beheld a fashionably-dressed and intelligent-looking audience, and were stared at by old King Oscar who sat rigid in his box, and glared at us with a mighty black opera-glass until he had studied each feature of the stranger guests, and by his persistence thereby directed upon us the curiosity of every other pair of opera glasses in the house. The example of the King was quite in accordance with Continental custom, where the glare of opera-glasses is astonishingly bold. Nor does the impudent stare stop at that, but in Stockholm, just as in Paris and Berlin, between the acts very many of the men rise up, put on their hats, turn their backs to the stage, and deliberately focus their glasses upon the faces of every attractive woman in the theater, no matter how near she may be, nor how annoying this treatment may appear; and often two or three young men will then compare notes, and unite in a common stare, bold and insolent. To avoid this unpleasant ordeal, ladies very generally rise from their seats, leave the theater and promenade in the foyers until the curtain rises and the impudent glasses are put down.

We have secured tickets and berths for the voyage to St. Petersburg across the Baltic Sea and Gulf of Finland. We sail to-night, and are to arrive on Tuesday morning, a voyage of three nights and two days, a distance of six hundred miles.

We have now visited the three capitals of Scandinavia, Copenhagen, Kristiania and Stockholm, and have spent a month among these kindred peoples.

While I had learned in America to esteem the vigor, the intelligence and the worth of our Scandinavian immigration, no finer race contributing to the citizenship of the Republic, yet it has been only when I have met the Dane and Norsk and Swede upon their native soil, and beheld their noble cities, so alert and clean and modern, and traversed their hills and valleys, and climbed their mountain heights and floated upon their fjords, that I have learned fitly to admire and appreciate the grandeur and greatness of Scandinavia.

XVI

How We Entered Russia – The Passport System – Difficult to Get Into Russia and More Difficult to Get Out

St. Petersburg, Russia, September 16, 1902.

It is not easy to get into Russia; it is yet more difficult to get out.

Before leaving the United States, I had taken due precautions and secured a passport from the State Department, signed by Secretary Hay, with the Great Seal of the United States upon it. In that passport I was described. I had also provided myself with a special letter from the State Department, in which all consuls and officials of the United States in foreign lands had been bidden to pay particular heed to my welfare, for I was vouched for as a worthy and respected citizen of the Republic.

I presumed that, armed with these credentials, I should find all doors and gateways open to my passage. I assumed that the autocracy of the Russian Empire would be delighted to welcome a citizen of the great Republic, so well accredited. Imagine my surprise, when I presented myself at the ticket office of the Russian steamship line, by which we would travel to St. Petersburg, and was refused a ticket because I did not then have my passport in hand, so that the ticket-seller might duly scrutinize it! An hour later, when I again presented myself with the passport and laid down the coin, I was a second time refused. The passport had not been certified by the American Minister in Stockholm, our port of departure, nor had it been viséed by the Russian Consul General of the port.

I immediately drove to the American Ministry, a mile away, where the Swedish clerk endorsed my passport as being genuine, and gave me a note to the Russian official. A drive of another mile brought me to a tall stone building, above the door of which reposed the Imperial Eagle. Ascending two flights of stairs, I was shown into a small ante-room, and, after waiting some time, was ushered into a large, well-lighted chamber, where a big, round-headed, bearded man, in Russian uniform, sat at a long table. He was writing. He did not deign to look up. After standing some moments before this important personage, I called his attention in my best French, to the fact that I was there. Still he made no reply, but kept on writing. I noticed that he was nearly to the bottom of the page; when he had finished it, he looked up and inquired in German what I wanted. I replied in German that I called upon him to have my passport viséed, and handed him the document and the note. He read the latter and looked at the former, but the description of my person was in English and he was evidently stumped. He gazed at me and the paper, took up a metal stamp, pressed it on an ink pad, made on the passport the imprint of some Russian characters, signed his name to them, and advised me that I was his debtor to the extent of twenty kroners (about five dollars). He then turned again to his writing.

I had thus spent three hours in driving about the city, visiting these officials, and now hurried to the steamship office, where on presenting my passport duly viséed, I at last obtained the tickets. Upon boarding the ship, at a later hour, we were notified to call at the Captain’s office and surrender our passports, which were then once more verified, along with our tickets, before we cast off from the pier.

We left Stockholm about eight o’clock in the evening. We were a party of four, – H and myself, and the two delightful friends whom we met that day at Maristuen, at the head of the Laera Dal, in Norway. The suggestions then first made had ripened into a definite plan, and we agreed to join forces for our journey through Russia. Our friends were Mr. and Mrs. Condit, of Chicago, and we found their ready western wit and genial fellowship on more than one occasion of most signal aid.

We crossed the Baltic Sea in the night, and touched at the Russian port of Hangoe, in Finland, early Sunday morning. Here I noticed a messenger in uniform leave the ship bearing a long iron box heavily padlocked, and was informed that this box contained the passports of the passengers, which he was to take to St. Petersburg by a special Imperial train that would put him there in twenty-three hours, when the passports would be immediately filed with the police department, verified, recorded and given to certain other officials who would meet our ship on its arrival at the mouth of the river Neva on Tuesday morning, and who would examine and scrutinize us and then return them to us. If in the meantime, we should happen to change our minds and want to remain a few days in Finland, say at Helsingfors, we would be liable to arrest for not having our passports now gone to St. Petersburg. We might not change our minds or alter our itinerary. It was now St. Petersburg or jail.

The twilight was just fading into night when we cast off from the pier and slowly made our way among the islands. The sail down the narrow channel to the sea was in the light of the full moon. The myriad electric lights of the city were blazing behind us. We passed the black hulls of many vessels anchored in the harbor, and in turn were passed by scores of little boats, with a big light on the foremast, which were scurrying about carrying passengers between the islands. Along the wooded shores were villas and country-seats, and ever and anon, there seemed to be open clearings and farms, and then we came into the blackness of wide waters. We were out upon the Baltic Sea.

In the morning we were among more islands; the Aaland Archipelago; we had had only two hours of the open sea. The sun was behind a mass of scudding clouds, gray and threatening; and great banks of blacker clouds were rolling up from the south. A gale was blowing – a furious gale – which drove the waters and whirling foam wherever open space allowed. The wind was bitterly cold, and grew ever colder, while higher and higher rose the tempest. We were in great danger, although at the time I did not know it.

The steering of the Swedish pilots was skillful, and the little ship obeyed the helm perfectly, swinging round sharp points, and traversing narrow channels where, even in quiet waters, it is dangerous to navigate.

About noon we slipped in between two rocky islets, scarcely a cable-tow’s length apart, rising only a few feet above the level of the sea, and turning sharp to port came into the rock-bound harbor of Hangoe, a town of Finland, whence the railway goes on to Helsingfors and St. Petersburg.

The gale now grew into a tornado with deluges of rain, a storm so fierce that, until it should subside, the Captain refused to leave the protection of the port.

Thus we lay-to at Hangoe until the dawn of the following day, when we cast off from the long pier and plunged once more among the islands of the Archipelago. Hundreds of islands there were, barren and uninhabited, the big ones covered with dwarf birches, a few stunted pines and firs, the lesser islets thick with tangled grasses, or more often bare of all except lichens and gray moss, the vegetation of a desolate, wintry latitude.

The wind was now somewhat abated, but not so the sea. It was angry, stirred to its depths. It was a bad day for a landsman, – a bad day even for an old salt. Two stalwart seamen stood ever at the wheel in addition to the pilot and our Captain, and it took all their combined strength and skill to save us from certain wreck. The conflicting currents churned and swirled with maelstrom violence, while we crept steadily on among the shoals and sunken bars and hidden reefs.

It was long past noon when we swung round a bold rocky point, and saw before us Finland’s capital, Helsingfors. The city surrounds the harbor much like a crescent. On either horn, granite promontories jut out into the sea, where are fortifications, one of them the formidable fortress of Sveaborg, where we could see brown-coated Cossacks gathered in large numbers watching our entrance to the port. A great garrison there seemed to be, and everywhere floated the Russian flag, – parallel stripes of white, blue and red. Russian troops not merely man all these fortifications, but there are also soldiers within the city itself, and more are quartered in every village of consequence in Finland. The ancient Senate and House of Chevaliers are no longer permitted to enact the laws. A Russian Governor-General issues his Ukases, which the Russian bayonets are here savagely to enforce. All this you already know, but it comes vividly upon one when you see the Cossack, clad in his long kaftan-like military coat, everywhere about you visible evidence of how harshly Finland has been stripped of her rights and liberties.

Helsingfors astonished us. Lying upon a rising slope, it presents an imposing outline from the sea. It is a city of ninety-six thousand people. We were not prepared for so large and substantial a city. It has well-kept parks, well-paved streets, frequently asphalted as in Stockholm, and blocks of big granite buildings five and six stories high; the city is clean, and the streets are alive with well-dressed, rosy-cheeked, vigorous people. Everywhere there are electric tram-cars and electric lights, and on the broad thoroughfares are large and handsome shops. It is evident that in the Finnish hinterlands there is an extensive and well-to-do population.

Our ship was to lie at her pier for several hours, and the passengers were told that they might safely visit the town; if arrested for not having passports, we might refer to the Captain of the ship. So we wandered up along the quays, following a wide boulevard. Everywhere on the sidewalks and driving through the streets were Russian officials in their long gray coats and flat black caps; there were also many soldiers upon the streets.

Finland was once a province of Sweden, and the Teutonic Swedish language is yet that of the educated classes, who are chiefly of Swedish descent. In the country, however, and among the working classes, there remains the original population of primitive Finnish race, “The old Finns,” cousins to the Hungarians, and these have a Turanian language of their own. They have accepted for centuries the Swedish rule and fraternized with the Swedish leaders, but have held to their ancient tongue. Now is also the Slavonic Russian speech, by Ukase, commanded to be the language of the schools, of the courts and of the government. Thus the Finlander must be acquainted with three fundamentally different tongues, and all of the streets of Helsingfors are named in the three languages on the same placard. The Russian name is in Greek text, then in Latin text the Swedish name, and under that the native Finnish name; thus there is much babel of tongues in Helsingfors, while all the Finlanders bitterly resent the brutal attempt to substitute the Russian for their own.

Finland has, also, heretofore been privileged to coin her own money, – but now the Russian ruble is supreme. We had boarded a tram-car, as modern and comfortable as those of New York, and were whirling along the boulevard, when we tendered the conductor our fare in Russian coin (we had provided ourselves with “kopeeks” and rubles before leaving Stockholm), but he declined to take the money. He was about to stop the car and put us off, when a courtly-mannered Finn, addressing the passengers as well as the conductor, explained that, under the present laws, Russian money must be taken when tendered, and that we were entitled to ride, – so H tells me, who understood his speech, so much is it like the Danish. But the conductor, patriot that he was, refused to touch the ruble I offered him, preferring to let us ride without making charge. If I had been able to do so, I would have explained to our fellow-passengers that I intended no insult, and would thus probably have restored myself to their confidence. As it was they glowered at me as a friend of hated Russia.

We visited the splendid Parliament buildings, where the Finnish Senate and House of Chevaliers have been wont to meet, – now closed forever by the Ukase of the Czar. I understand, also, that the Finnish judges have recently been deposed from the courts, and Russians appointed in their stead; and we were told by a friendly Finn that so completely are the people terrorized, that no patriot dare give open evidence of opposition to the Russian rule. One may only detect it by the sullen, disquieted faces of the people one meets upon the streets. In the dour glances cast at the Russian officials I saw everywhere expression of hatred and revenge.1

It was middle afternoon when we set sail again. No other vessel dared leave the port, but our Captain, being anxious to reach St. Petersburg, decided to venture on the voyage. As soon as we emerged from the protecting barriers of the islands at the harbor’s mouth, we came into open waters. A furious sea was running and the ship rolled heavily. She plunged and reared and pitched, until most of the passengers were driven to their staterooms, – indeed, so mad was now the sea that we were told there would be no more hot coffee and hot steak, since the cooks in the kitchen could not keep their legs, nor could dishes be set upon the tipping tables. Those who were able to eat might get a snack from the steward, who would hand it out – cold fish and cheese at that. The boat rolled until her gunwales were awash, and frequently the roaring waters swept across the decks. Although it was a wild and dangerous night, yet the clouds were parting and the stars were out. No grander panorama of the sea have I looked upon than these mighty foam-capped billows – greater even than our ship, – between which we hid, and on the summits of which we climbed, – the angry, pitch-black waters, the star-lit firmament, and the serene moon shining with fullest splendor.

At dawn on Tuesday morning, we passed the great naval fortification of Kronstadt, and three hours later, after threading our way among fishing boats, were entering the canal which leads from the gulf of Finland to the river Neva and the city of St. Petersburg.

South and east of us, behind low shores, the land stretched away green and flat as far as the eye could see, an apparently indefinitely extending plain. Only the glint of a gilded oriental dome, the bulbous cupola of a Russian village church, lightened here and there the green monotony. Then far to the east we saw not one but many domes glittering and flashing in the light of the lifting sun – the gilded towers of the cathedrals and churches of the city of St. Petersburg – then we saw a tangle of tall chimneys, then ships and barks and schooners and enormous barges from Lake Ladoga, and immense docks on either side. We were upon the river Neva. We were come to the city of “Petersborg,” the splendid capital of the Russian Czars.

Just as we were entering the canal, a steam-tug came up alongside us and a company of government officials in long gray coats climbed on board. They were the customs inspectors and officers of the police department. The two chief officials seated themselves at a long table. An officer of the ship directed the passengers to form in a queue, and one by one we appeared before the official examiner, while the Captain called off our names, reading the list from a little book. When my name was announced a clerk handed one of the officials a passport. It was numbered – my name was upon it – it had been received in St. Petersburg from the messenger who left Hangoe Sunday morning; – it had been filed with the police department; it had been viséed; it had been translated into Russian, and the official now read over the description to his assistants; – I was scrutinized, – the passport was found correct – the officials so endorsed it and handed it to me. The passenger immediately behind me, seemingly, did not correspond with his passport, and was directed to stand to one side. There were a number of these, who were to have a difficult time with the authorities. Our baggage was also examined, but not closely. With the Russian official the main thing is the passport, not the baggage.

We were now arrived at the pier and were ready to go ashore. Two sailors carried our small steamer trunk upon the wharf, and we were in St. Petersburg. Instantly we were surrounded by a howling mob of bearded, blond-headed, dressing-gown-coated men, clamoring for our fares. They were izvostchiks in their native kaftans. I beckoned to one of them, and pointed to our trunk. He lifted it to his shoulder and led us to his droschky, – a diminutive open vehicle, much like a small sledge on wheels. We entered it and in a moment were galloping through the streets of the city, the driver constantly shouting to his horse and yelling to all foot-farers to get out of the way. I gave him the name of our destination, Hotel de l’Europe. He seemed to comprehend my meaning, and never drew rein until we stopped before the imposing entrance of that hostelry.