The Project Gutenberg eBook, Through Scandinavia to Moscow, by William Seymour Edwards

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Title: Through Scandinavia to Moscow

Author: William Seymour Edwards

Release Date: February 19, 2013 [eBook #42132]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

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THROUGH SCANDINAVIA TO MOSCOW

WITH
MANY ILLUSTRATIONS
AND MAPS

By
WILLIAM SEYMOUR EDWARDS
Author of
“IN TO THE YUKON,” ETC.

 

 

CINCINNATI
The Robert Clarke Co.
1906

COPYRIGHT 1906, By
WILLIAM SEYMOUR EDWARDS

DEDICATION

To my life-long chum,
my father,
these pages are affectionately dedicated.

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FOREWORD

These pages are made up of letters written during a little journey through Scandinavia and into Russia as far as Moscow, some four years ago, before the smashing of the Russians by the Japanese. They were written to my father, and are necessarily intimate letters, in which I have jotted down what I saw and felt as the moment moved me. The truth is, I was on my honey-moon trip, and the world sang merrily to me—even in sombre Russia.

Afterward, some of these letters were published here and there; now they are put together into this little book. I had my kodak with me and have thus been able to add to the text some of the scenes my lens made note of.

It was my endeavor at the time, that the kindly circle who read the letters should see as I saw, feel as I felt, and apprehend as I apprehended; that they should share with me the delight of travel through serene and industrious Denmark, among the grand and stupendous fjelds and fjords of romantic Norway; should visit with me a moment the Capital of once militant Sweden, and join me in the excitement of a plunge into semi-barbarous Russia. The transition from Scandinavia to Russia was sharp. I went from lands where the modern spirit finds full expression, as seen in the splendid schools and libraries of Denmark, in the democratic and Americanized atmosphere of Norway, in the scientific and mechanical progressiveness of Sweden. Entering Russia, I found myself amidst social and political conditions, mediaeval and malevolent. The wanton luxury of the enormously rich, the pinching poverty of the very poor, the political and social exaltation of the very few, the ruthless suppression of the many, here stared me in the face on every hand. The smoldering embers of discontent, profound discontent, were even then apparent. In the brief interval which has since elapsed, this smoldering discontent has become the blazing conflagration of Revolution. Driven against his will by inexorable fate, the Czar has at first convoked the Imperial Douma and then, terrified by its growing aggressiveness, has summarily decreed its death. Panic-struck by the apparition of popular liberty, which his own act has called forth, he is now in sinister retreat toward despotic reaction; the consternation of the unwilling Bureaucracy, day by day increases; terror, abject terror, increasingly haunts the splendid palaces of the Autocracy; and the inevitable and irrepressible movement of the Russian people toward liberty and modern order is begun.

The symptoms of social and political ailment which then discovered themselves to me are now apparent to all the world. And it is this verification of the suggestions of these letters which may now, perhaps, justify their publication.

William Seymour Edwards.

Charleston-Kanawha, West Virginia,

September 1, 1906.

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CONTENTS

IX. A Day Upon the Sogne Fjord 75 X. From Stalheim to Eida—The Waterfall of Skjerve Fos—The Mighty Hardanger Fjord 80 XI. The Buarbrae and Folgefonden Glaciers—Cataracts and Mountain Tarns—Odda to Horre 89 XII. Over the Lonely Haukeli Fjeld—Witches and Pixies, and Maidens Milking Goats 96 XIII. Descending from the Fjelde—The Telemarken Fjords—The Arctic Twilight 106 XIV. Kristiania to Stockholm—A Wedding Party—Differing Norsk and Swede 118 XV. Stockholm the Venice of the North—Life and Color of the Swedish Capital—Manners of the People and their King 128 XVI. How We Entered Russia—The Passport System—Difficult to Get Into Russia and More Difficult to Get Out 136 XVII. St. Petersburg—The Great Wealth of the Few—The Bitter Poverty of the Many—Conditions Similar to Those Preceding the French Revolution 148 XVIII. En Route to Moscow—Under Military Guard—Suspected of Designs on Life of the Czar 158 XIX. Our Arrival at Moscow—Splendor and Squalor—Enlightenment and Superstition—Russia Asiatic Rather Than European 167 XX. The Splendid Pageant of the Russian Mass—The Separateness of Russian Religious Feeling From Modern Thought—Russia Mediaeval and Pagan 180 XXI. The First Snows—Moscow to Warsaw—Fat Farm Lands and Frightful Poverty of the Mujiks Who Own them and Till them—I Recover My Passport 189 XXII. The Slav and the Jew—The Slav’s Envy and Jealousy of the Jew 201 XXIII. Across Germany and Holland to England—A Hamburg Wein Stube—The “Simple Fisher-Folk” of Maarken—Two Gulden at Den Haag 214 XXIV. Map of North Europe.   Map of Scandinavia and Baltic Russia, in profile.

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ILLUSTRATIONS

href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@42132@[email protected]#i055" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">The Gammel Strand 23 Along the Quays, Copenhagen 26 An Ancient Moat, Now the Lovely Oersteds Park 30 A Vista of the Sund 32 Elsinore 33 The Sund from Kronborg’s Ramparts 35 The Fishing Boats, Elsinore 37 A Snap-shot for a Dime, Kronborg 39 Kronborg 41 Karl Johans Gade, Kristiania 42 Vegetable Market, Kristiania 44 Kristiania, A View of the City 46 Our Norwegian Train 48 Along the Etna Elv 50 Hailing our Steamer, The Rand Fjord 51 The Old Salt 53 Ole Mon 55 Feeding the Ponies, Tomlevolden 58 Church of Vestre Slidre 58 The Distant Snows 60 The Baegna Elv 62 The Granheims Vand 63 A Herd of Cows, Fosheim 63 A Hamlet Beneath the Fjeld 65 The Author by the Slidre Vand 67 Ricking the Rye 67 The Protected Road 69 Three Thousand Feet of Waterfall 71 Our Little Ship, Laerdalsoeren 74 The Sogne Fjord—Along the Sogne Fjord 76 Sudals Gate, on the Sogne Fjord 78 The Naerodal 80 Greeting our Boat, Aurland 83 The Hardanger Fjord 85 The Soer Fjord—Hardanger 87 Commingling Lote and Skars Fos 90

href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@42132@[email protected]#i186" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">The Espelands Fos 90 Glacier of Buarbrae 92 The Gors Vand 92 The Descending Road to Horre 94 A Mile Stone 97 Cattle on the Haukeli Fjeld 97 The Desolate Haukeli Fjeld 99 Norse Maiden Milking Goat (2 illustrations) 103 Our Hostesses, Haukeli-Saeter 106 A Norse Cabin 106 A Goat Herd’s Saeter 110 Haukeli-Saeter 110 Tending the Herds 112 Drying Out the Oats 112 Dalen on the Bandaks Vand 115 Norse Women Raking Hay 117 Stockholm 119 King’s Palace, Stockholm 122 Ancient Swedish Fortress 124 A Swedish Church 124 A Band of Swedish Horses 126 The Shore of Lake Maelaren, Stockholm 129 Cathedral of Riddarsholm 131 Norrbro, Stockholm 133 Facing the Gale 140 The Pier, Helsingfors 142 Fishing Boats Along the Quay, Helsingfors 142 Market Square, Helsingfors 144 The Doebln at her Pier, Helsingfors 144 A Wild Sea—Leaving Helsingfors 145 Fishing Boats at Mouth of the Neva 145 Entering the Neva 149 Along the Neva 149 Our Droschky, St. Petersburg 151 Along the Nevsky-Prospekt 151 Cathedral of Our Lady of Kazan 154

href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@42132@[email protected]#i298" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">Our Squealing Stallions 154 Our Izvostchik 156 Our Landau, St. Petersburg 160 A Noble’s Troika, St. Petersburg 161 The Railway Porters, St. Petersburg 161 Our Military Guard, Bargaining for Apples 165 The Holy Savior Gate, Kremlin 165 Along the Gostinoi Dvor, Moscow 167 Cathedral of the Assumption, Kremlin 167 The Red Square, Moscow 170 Begging Pilgrims, St. Basil 170 Cathedral of St. Basil the Blessed, Moscow 172 Ancient Pavements, Moscow 176 Bread Vendors, Moscow 176 The Kremlin beyond the Moskva 179 Cathedral of St. Savior 181 A Tram-Car, Moscow 188 The Out-of-Works 188 Cemetery, Novo Dievitchy 190 Monastery Church, Novo Dievitchy 190 Holy Beggar, Novo Dievitchy 191 The Kremlin Beneath the Snows 193 A Station Stop, En Route to Warsaw 197 Catching a Kopeek—A Beggar 204 A Cold Day 208 Along the River Moskva, Moscow 209 A Russian Jew 211 Jewish Types, taken in Russia 213 Jewish Types, taken in America 213 A Dainty Nurse-maid, Berlin 215 Hamburg Street Traffic 218 Our Bill of Fare 220 A Gentleman of Maarken 222 A Kinder of Maarken 222 Among Vrow and Kinderen, Maarken 224

tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">A Load of Hay, Holland 227 Along the Zuyder Zee 227 The Fish Market, Den Haag 228 The Gossips, Den Haag 228 A Watery Lane, Den Haag 229 Dutch Toilers 229 Map of North Europe. Map of Scandinavia and Baltic Russia, in profile.

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Through Scandinavia to Moscow.

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I.
London to Denmark Across the North Sea.

Esbjerg, Denmark, August 25, 1902.

We came down from London to Harwich toward the end of the day. Our train was a “Special” running to catch the steamer for Denmark. We were delayed a couple of hours in the dingy, dirty London station by reason of a great fog which had crept in over Harwich from the North Sea, and then, the boat had to wait upon the tide.

The instant the train backed in alongside the station platform—only ten minutes before it would pull out—there was the usual scramble and grab to seize a seat in the first-carriage-you-can and pandemonium reigned. H is well trained by this time, however, and I quickly had her comfortably ensconced in a seat by a window with bags and shawls pyramided by her side the better to hold a place for me. Meantime, I hurried to a truck where stood awaiting me a well-tipped porter and together we safely stowed two “boxes” into a certain particular “luggage van,” the number of which I was careful to note so that I might be sure quickly to find the “luggage” again, when we should arrive at Harwich, else a stranger might walk off with it as aptly as with his own.

Our “carriage” was packed “full-up” with several men and women, who looked dourly at us and at each other as they sat glumly squeezed together, elbows in each other’s ribs. So forbidding was the prospect confronting me that I did not presume to attempt a conversation. These comrades, however, soon dropped out at the way-stations, until only one lone man was left, when I took heart and made bold to accost him. I found him very civil and, recognizing me to be a foreign visitor, he spoke with freedom. One Englishman never forgives another for sitting beside him, unintroduced, and squeezing him up in a railway carriage; but he harbors no such grudge against his American cousin, equally the victim of British methods.

Our vis-à-vis had been a volunteer-trooper in South Africa, and had just come back to England, after two years’ hardship and exposure. He had given up a good position in order to serve his country, and had been promised that the place would be kept open for him against his return. He tells me he now finds a stay-at-home holds his job. He has “a wife and two little lads to keep,” and so far he has had “no luck in finding work.” There are thousands of others in as bad a fix as he, he says, returned patriots who are starving for lack of work. He denounced the entire Boer-smashing business most savagely and declared that as for South Africa, he “would not take the whole of it for a gift.” We hear this sort of talk everywhere among the people we casually meet. The average Englishman takes small pride in his Army. “It gives fat jobs to the aristocracy, it is death to us,” is what I have heard a dozen times remarked. Our new acquaintance seemed to feel the better for having thus spoken out his mind, and when we parted, wished us a “prosperous voyage.”

The ship was in motion within twenty minutes after our train reached the Harwich pier. To my landsman’s thinking the air was yet murky with the fog. Big sirens were booming all about us. The melancholy clang of tidal bells sounded in sombre muffled tones from many anchored buoys. It was a drear, dank night to leave the land. We moved slowly, sounding our own hoarse whistle all the while. I stood upon the upper deck peering into the mists till we had come well out to sea. There were few boats moving, no big ones. Multitudes of small schooners and sloops rode at anchor, their danger lights faintly gleaming. I wondered we did not run down and crush them, but the pilot seemed to apprehend the presence of another boat even before the smallest ray of light shone through the fog. One or two great ships we came shockingly close upon. At least, I was jarred more than once when their huge black hulks and reaching masts suddenly grew up before me out of the dead white curtain of the mists. The estuary which leads from Harwich to the sea is long and tortuous. Only a pilot who has been born upon it, and from boyhood learned its currents and its tides, its shallows and its shoals, may dare to guide a boat along it, even in broad day. How much greater the skill and knowledge required thus to steer a ship through these labyrinthine channels amidst the fogs and blackness of such a night! The Captain told me he was always uneasy when coming out, no matter when, and never felt safe until far out upon the sea. Even in open water he must keep the sharpest kind of a watch lest some one of the myriad fishing craft which haunt these waters, should lie athwart the way.

The sea was quiet, rolling with a long slow swell. The rising wind soughed softly through the rigging when, toward midnight, I at last turned in.

All day Sunday the North Sea lay smooth and glassy as a pond; no hint of the turmoil and tempest which so often rage upon its shallow depths. We did not see many vessels; far to the north I made out the smoke of a steamer which the captain said was bound for Kristiansand, in Norway; and south of us were a few sail, which I took to be fishing luggers from Holland. Nor were there many seabirds flying. The sky hung low and in the gray air was the feel of a storm in the offing. Toward dark, about eight o’clock, a misty rain settled down upon us, and the rising wind began swashing the dripping waters along the decks. Toward half past nine we descried a dim glimmer in the east,—a beacon light flickering through the

night,—and then another with different intervals of flash, a mile or two out upon the left, and then our ears caught the deep bellow of a fog horn across the sea. We were nearing the west coast of the Province of Jutland, in Denmark. Our port lay dead ahead between the lights. Another hour of cautious navigating, for there are many sand bars and shifting shoals along this coast, and we came steaming slowly, very slowly, among trembling lights—fishing smacks at anchor with their night signals burning—and then we crept up to a big black wharf. We were arrived at Esbjerg.