CHAPTER VI
THE TWO UPPSALAS; GEFLE AND SÖDERHAMN
Söderhamn, Sweden,
August 25, 191—
Dear Cynthia:
From Stockholm I went to Uppsala, which is a short distance to the north—only an hour and a half by train; and Swedish trains are slow affairs. At Uppsala is a fine Gothic cathedral of red brick. It is the largest church in Sweden, and its high buttressed walls as well as its twin spires tower grandly above all of the other buildings of the town. Red brick, I know, does not sound beautiful, but it is—at Uppsala—especially when it comes after a whole gallery of mental pictures of gray stone churches. Like many other things in Sweden, the church was founded in the thirteenth century. But the present building is quite new; it was completed only about twenty years ago. Uppsala Cathedral, like Riddarholmen Church, contains the ashes of many of the greatest Swedes; but those buried at Uppsala were more truly great, in the best sense of the word, than most of the noted ones buried at Stockholm. Practically all made worthy contributions to the world.
One of them, Saint Eric, is buried behind the high altar, in a sixteenth century shrine of silver, shaped like a church, with gables and turrets. So far as I have been able to learn, King Eric—for he was a king as well as a saint—won his canonization by forcing Finland and the more remote northern part of Sweden to accept Christianity. But he is also called Eric Lag-gifvare in an ancient saga which credits him with giving to his people “King Eric’s Laws.” If he was really the giver, he gave them an excellent code, which did not overlook the Swedish woman. To every wife was granted equal power with her husband over locks, bolts and bars; and by this code she also gained the right to a third of her husband’s property after his death. In view of the fact that King Eric lived nearly eight hundred years ago, I think that an excellent beginning. He was one of the pioneers of the equal rights movement.
Speaking of saints brings me to the Finsta Chapel, also behind the altar, where are buried Prince Birger Pedersson and his wife, Ingeborg Bengtsdotter. These two people—Birger, the son of Peter, and Ingeborg, the daughter of Bengt—were the parents of Saint Birgitta, who was obviously named for her father, Birger. To the Swedes she is always the great and good Birgitta, but among English-speaking people she is generally called Bridget, which has led to her being confused with the Irish Saint Bridget, or Brigid, who was born more than eight hundred years before. The Irish saint is responsible for the popularity of the name Bridget among the Irish; while the very common Swedish name Britta is, I suspect, a condensed survival of the old pre-Reformation Saint’s name Birgitta.
Saint Birgitta was born in 1302 in Vadstena, on Lake Vettern. On the night of her birth, says legend, there appeared a bright cloud in the sky on which stood a maiden who announced: “Of Birger is born a daughter whose admirable voice shall be heard over the whole world.” We may question the authenticity of the legend, but it is a fact that Birgitta was the most important Swede of the Roman Catholic era. In 1346, with the aid of King Magnus, she founded upon her Vadstena estate the first abbey for men and women existing upon a distinctly co-operative basis. Her daughter, St. Katherine, became the first head of this mother abbey of the Brigittine order, which later had houses scattered all over Europe.
But Birgitta, if contemporary accounts may be believed, did not limit her energies to the encouragement of monastic life. She was a leader in long religious pilgrimages, going once even to Jerusalem. And so daring was she and so convinced that she had been given the right to speak with authority that she did not hesitate to point out to the pope himself the error of his ways. By some she was hailed as a prophet; by others she was denounced as a witch. Certainly she was a woman of high ideals and great ability. It was fitting that the emblem on her crest should be white angel’s wings. Saint Birgitta herself and her daughter were buried at Vadstena; their portraits, however, are on the walls of Finsta Chapel.
The greatest of all Swedish mystics, Emanuel Swedenborg, is also buried in the Uppsala Cathedral, to which place his remains were brought in 1908 from England, where for long years they had lain. Did you know that Swedenborg was a great scientist, a man who in various lines of science made predictions and discoveries far in advance of his time? He was born in 1688. It was not until he had reached middle age that he abandoned scientific research and took up the study of religion, which led him eventually to believe himself divinely commissioned to preach a new gospel of the New Jerusalem. There is no doubt that Swedenborg was perfectly honest with himself and with others. Those who knew and talked with him felt that he was “truth itself.” And though his theology may seem unacceptable, his religion gave much which the world will always need. “The life of religion,” he taught, “is to do good”; and “the kingdom of heaven is a kingdom of uses.” This prophet, however, was one who received but little honor in his own country. There are many more adherents of the Swedenborgian teachings in the United States than in Sweden, in proportion to population.
The ashes of Carl Linné, the greatest of modern systematists, rest at Uppsala; and it is appropriate that they should, for Linné spent the best years of his life at Uppsala University, teaching and carrying on the researches which laid the foundation for all modern biological study. I have always been much impressed with the daring which this Swede displayed by classing humankind, together with apes, with the “quadrumana in the order of primates.” In view of the fact that Linné lived a century before Darwin, that was a pretty long stride; and I am so grateful to him for making it. When I reflect that we humans are developed animals, I feel that—all things considered—we are doing pretty well, and can keep up my courage; but were I dependent upon the “fallen-angel” theory, I should frequently despair utterly over the seemingly hopeless depths of evil into which the angel has descended.
Gustav Vasa, whose memory all lovers of justice and liberty delight to honor, is buried in the oldest chapel of the cathedral, which stands directly behind the altar. The windows of the room are of beautiful stained glass, and on the walls are seven frescoes by Sandberg, representing incidents in the life of the great king. To me, the most interesting of these were the ones calling to mind the adventures of Gustav intervening between his imprisonment by King Christian II of Denmark and his triumphal entrance into Stockholm as king of free Sweden. One of these frescoes represents the king while in hiding from the Danes working as a farm laborer and threshing out grain for a Dalecarlian peasant.
Lest all of this talk of dead Swedes give you the impression that Uppsala is a veritable city of the dead, I must not delay longer in telling about Uppsala University, the place of youth and fulness of life. It is the older of the two Swedish universities and was founded in 1477. It is co-educational and has a student enrollment of something over two thousand. The University House, so called, is a stately new building of brick and stone. Near the main entrance is a large statue of Geijer, the greatest Swedish historian. In the vestibule are several more statues of eminent Swedes. The ceilings of the vestibule are supported by pillars of black granite, while in the corridors the columns are of beautiful green marble, which the guard pointed out with considerable pride. The stone was “made in Sweden.” The aula, or assembly room, is large and airy, well lighted and well equipped, and has a seating capacity of about two thousand. I noticed good paintings upon the walls of several of the class rooms; and in one large lecture room was a mammoth work in oils by Mas-Olle—of a young Swedish woman standing on the edge of a dale blowing her lure. The evening shades of purple and amethyst in the valley were unusually well done.
In the faculty rooms were several interesting old portraits. That of Queen Christina especially held my attention. Christina, the daughter of Gustav Adolf, was, I suppose, the most freakish and eccentric of all of the sovereigns of Sweden. She had, among other peculiarities, a love for scholarly pursuits, to which she subordinated her duties as a sovereign. Moreover, she had no sympathy with the warlike spirit which dominated Sweden at the time. The uncultured Swedes could hardly regard such a successor to the great Gustav Adolf with enthusiasm. Consequently, Christina was permitted to resign in favor of her cousin, Charles X, who, you will remember, left little to be desired in the way of qualities as a warrior. The ex-queen then shook the dust of Sweden from her shoes, and later she abjured the faith for which her father fought and became a Roman Catholic, spending much of the last part of her life at Rome. The portrait at Uppsala, which was done by Abraham Wuchters, seems faithfully to reflect the dominating will and the brilliant but poorly-balanced mind of the queen.
“Carolina Rediviva” is the name of the University library—a name having its origin in an old university building, which in the time of Gustav Adolf was called Carolina Academy. Carolina Rediviva is decidedly the largest library in Sweden, and contains many treasures of various sorts. Among these are beautiful examples of illuminated work from the eleventh century on. One of the manuscripts has every initial letter in gold. A copy of the first book printed in Swedish, from about the middle of the sixteenth century, and a copy of a Bible of Martin Luther, containing his autograph and that of Melanchthon, are there also.
But the distinctive gem of the collection is the “Silver Bible” (Codex Argenteus), of Ulfilas. It is by far the oldest example of the Gothic language in existence, and is a thing of great beauty as well as a priceless treasure from a philological viewpoint. It was a real joy to me to see it; I have wanted to do so for years. The guard turned over the book in order that I might view both the cover and the parchment pages. Originally the parchment was of a purple color and the lettering was of silver; but the purple has long since faded into a beautiful rose, and the letters have oxidized black. The cover, however—from which the Bible gets its name—is of bright, richly worked silver and is only three centuries old. The cover was made in Sweden. This Gothic Bible was rediscovered to the world in Germany during the sixteenth century. Later it was carried away to Sweden by the soldiers of Gustav Adolf, and subsequently was given to Queen Christina, shortly after which it reached its present abode.
I am not a defender of international highway robbery, nevertheless I feel that there is a decided appropriateness in Sweden’s being the guardian of this oldest relic of Gothic culture. For Scandinavia is commonly recognized as the cradle-land of the Teutonic peoples, of which the Goths were a branch, and the Scandinavians are the purest blooded existing descendants of the ancient Teutons. Of the three Scandinavian countries, Sweden, too, seems the best entitled to the honor of possessing the Goths’ Bible, for one of her provinces is still named Gothland—a survival of the name applied in historic times to the whole south of Sweden, whose inhabitants were called Goths, as their neighbors to the North were called Swedes. It almost seems as if the bringing of the Bible of Ulfilas to Sweden were a restoration—a return to the home of its remotest origin.
The handwriting of a person who has passed from this life helps me, far more than does his tomb, to a realization of his personality and of the force of his one-time existence. Hence, the sight of the collection of autographic writings of some of the greatest figures of Sweden’s past which occupy the room with the Silver Bible, was a real contribution to my contact with the humanity of the ages. The strong, bold autographs of Gustav Vasa and Gustav Adolf, the signatures of Swedenborg, and Tegnér, and Linné spoke eloquently to me of giant achievement; as did also the delicate, modest hand of Fredrika Bremer, a giant too, whose spirit still lives mightily in the women of Sweden. This closer contact with Miss Bremer made me want to read again “The Home” and “Strife and Peace,” and other works of hers which contributed to the pleasures of my girlhood.
Before taking final leave of Sweden’s oldest university, I want to remind you that it was this university which conferred upon Selma Lagerlöf the honorary degree of doctor of letters in 1907; and she stood beneath the monument to Carl Linné in the Uppsala cathedral when the laurel wreath was placed upon her brow. Two years later she received the Nobel prize.
My last remark moves me to ask: Did you know that Alfred Nobel, the founder of the Nobel Prize Fund, was a Swede? And did you know that he was the inventor of dynamite, smokeless powder, and other explosives, by which he made his fortune? His arrangement for the prize fund reminds me of the Gothenburg temperance system; the money made from the invention and manufacture of war materials contributes not only toward a prize fund for those who have excelled in science and literature, but also for those who have done most in the interest of universal peace.
My pilgrimage from the famous modern Uppsala to Gamla or Old Uppsala will always be one of the choicest of my Scandinavian memories. Gamla Uppsala was the ancient capital of Sweden and the last stronghold of the pagan cult of Thor and Odin. In the dark forests of this Uppsala during heathen times lives of men as well as of beasts were sacrificed to the mighty gods of the North.
The old town is less than four miles from the new, and the road stretched so smooth and inviting that I decided to walk there. And I promptly realized that my decision was a wise one, for the landscape was charming—suggestive of dear old Bornholm, and yet with a Swedish stamp. Patches of woods in varied greens and of golden fields with bright farmhouses here and there furnished perfect backgrounds for the harvesters near at hand; and the pinks and blues and reds of the dresses worn by the white-aproned and white-kerchiefed women working among the sheaves gave just the needed touch of color to the foreground of the picture.
After I had passed the turn in the road, the famous mounds of Gamla Uppsala came clearly into sight, with the steep, gabled roof of the old church peeping above them. As I wished to take a picture of the mounds, I turned off the highway and followed the railroad track, from which approach I could obtain a more unobscured view.
I did not take to walking the railroad ties, however, with perfect security of mind, for my observation of affairs European had convinced me that but rarely are passengers permitted to stand on car platforms, even “at their own risk.” Consequently, I quaked inwardly upon perceiving a brass-buttoned man on the track ahead; but I walked past him with my best American air, and proceeded to adjust my camera. Presently the official approached me, and suddenly I remembered that “ignorance of the law excuses no one.” Visions of arrest and disgrace loomed large. With a waist-deep Swedish bow, the man of the shining buttons handed me a paper. It was a black strip from the film-pack of my camera which I had thrown away, and which had blown in his vicinity! After I had thanked him and explained that I had discarded the paper, he politely asked a question or two about the operation of my camera, executed another ninety-degree bow, and withdrew. Obviously the man was not so unsophisticated as really to think that strip of paper of any value. He simply used it as an excuse for attempting to satisfy masculine curiosity roused by the foreign-looking person upon his railroad track. Swedes do occasionally stoop to such depths of diplomatic cunning!
The three so-called burial mounds of Frey, Thor, and Odin, the mightiest gods of Northern paganism, stand in a row, Odin’s being nearest the church. They are real burial mounds, as was proved when they were opened some years since and were found to contain the remains of human beings, with the usual pagan equipment of weapons, and utensils, and other objects intended to contribute to the welfare of the Asgard-bound traveler. From the top of Odin’s mound I obtained a good view of the surrounding country. Near at hand was a lower and flatter eminence. Upon it in heathen times the Swedish parliament assembled and under the open sky enacted the laws; and even as late as the sixteenth century Gustav Vasa addressed his people from the mound. This good old custom of holding open-air parliaments seems to have existed in times past wherever Scandinavians ruled. The Thingvellir of Iceland got its name from the fact that the Thing, or parliament, met there for its deliberations; and the quaint ceremonies by which the newly-enacted laws of the Isle of Man are still promulgated by the House of Keys from the top of Tynwald Hill on the fifth of each July are a vestige of the same custom, and are Scandinavian in origin.
Gamla Uppsala church is of such substantial construction as to suggest that in ancient times its functions, like those of the rotundas of Bornholm, were military as well as religious. Its walls are very thick and are of rough, irregular stone, built up with cement which gives them the appearance of conglomerate. The church is very old; in fact, its origin is lost in the mists of the dawn of Swedish history. But this history states that Uppsala was made a diocese early in the twelfth century, and it is believed that the church was established nearly a hundred years before that. Some parts of the present building certainly date well back toward the eleventh century.
A note on the church door informed me that admission could be gained by applying to the schoolmaster or organist, so I went around the parliament mound to the white wooden school building. The schoolmaster’s family lived on the upper floor, and the schoolmaster’s wife responded to my knock, and called her boy—a little chap of nine or ten years, barefooted and close-cropped—who went forth with me, carrying two mighty keys. The smaller of these was about as large as that regularly and conspicuously carried by Saint Peter, and the larger was ponderous indeed. My little boy was, of course, accompanied by another little boy—one about two sizes larger. The ponderous key belonged to the outside door of the church, which was of dark oak, very worm-eaten and old and possessed of decorative wrought-iron hinges with handsome scrolls spreading over its venerable oaken surface. But the key was so large and the boy so small that he had difficulty in turning it in the lock, even though he caught his toes in the scrolls of the hinges and climbed up the side of the door, monkey fashion, to get a purchase upon the key. Through our united efforts, however, the door was finally opened. It admitted us into a tunnel-like, white-plastered vestibule at the end of which was the door for which the smaller key was designed. This key being more nearly the boy’s size, the inner door was opened without difficulty.
The walls of the main room were plastered white, and the altar and pulpit looked quite new; but the church contained many ancient relics. The small boy was evidently the regular exhibitor of these; and he recited his explanation of them with a perfectly expressionless face, and in the mechanical tone of an unimaginative book-agent. “That,” said the infant (in Swedish), “is a Christus from the twelfth century. Those”—pointing to a hideous row of carved and painted wooden saints—“are from the fourteenth century. There is a bridal stool from the Middle Ages.” Back against a wall was a chest which looked many centuries old, made from an unhewn tree trunk, iron bound. When I asked what it contained, he opened the little door or lid on top and fished out a wooden Christus, which consisted only of a very rudely carved body and head. The limbs had been broken or worn off. The figure, the boy announced, dated from the eleventh century. In a little room off the main one were portraits of ancient Swedish clergymen, and censers and other ecclesiastical utensils dating from Roman Catholic times. There was also a copy of the first Bible printed in Swedish. Our round of the church being completed, I paid the boy the fifty-öre fee at the outside door. He uttered the customary “Tack så mycke” (Many thanks), grabbed off his cap with a crisp, business-like “Adjö,” and scampered off, the larger-sized boy close at his heels.