Sweden

AN IMPRESSION OF A SWEDISH CHRISTMAS

Cold, bleak, and uninviting is the outlook as my taxi speeds through the City towards Millwall Docks, where awaits the steamer that is to take me to Sweden, and, wreathed in grey swirls of smoke and rain clouds, London seems hardly the kind of city that one should deplore leaving, yet as I reach the wharf where lies the Saga and feel the full force of the gusty north-east wind that is lashing my face like a steel whip, I almost regret my decision to see what a Swedish Christmas is like, so distinct are the possibilities of even more inclement weather out at sea. It being too late to turn back, however, I determine to make the best of a bad job and hurry on board, the captain informing me that the crossing is likely to be a good one and that, though the force of the wind and the direction in which it is blowing are unfavourable, the first is gradually subsiding and the second very likely to be changed. I remember many occasions when similar prophecies have been as confidently made without justification, yet attempt to delude myself into believing that at least this one will prove correct, and consequently follow the stewardess to my cabin, hoping for the best. As we reach the open sea, however, I soon realise that the captain’s optimism has hardly been justified. It is a black night with clouds covering the sky and a haze low down on the horizon. It is not thick enough for the fog-horns to be sounding, but the shore soon becomes invisible, while the wind continues in the same unfavourable quarter without showing any sign of diminution.

Like all Swedish Lloyd ships, the Saga is everything that a steamer should be where good accommodation and cuisine are concerned, but, unlike the majority of boats belonging to the same line, she is hardly an ideal vessel to be on under adverse conditions, and very soon I become acutely conscious of a rolling and pitching that send me flying down to my berth, while the boat begins to slow down appreciably owing to the head-wind that is blowing against us. For the first twelve hours, however, apart from the rolling and pitching, which are sufficiently prolonged to spell disaster to any traveller at all prone to sea-sickness, the discomfort which I experience is neither greater nor less than that which usually characterises a crossing of the North Sea undertaken in winter. But a few hours before daybreak the gale increases in volume and intensity, and the boat begins to sway and rock much as I have seen a row-boat do when among breakers, while the waves start beating violently against the boat, booming like heavy guns, and the hull quivers as if sorely hit. It is impossible to sleep and nearly as difficult to take any nourishment, as the slightest movement that I make from recumbency is immediately followed by rapidly increasing nausea, and, impotent to do aught but suffer patiently, I await until such moment as the fury of the wind and storm will have spent itself, while fog-horn and wave combine to make a music whose clamour is so incessant that even the most seasoned traveller would, I fancy, find it difficult to sleep soundly through it all. Then, on the morning of the third day, as the first sickly light of morn is streaking the dingy, pallid sky, the wind suddenly flags. I look out from my porthole and see that, though the waves are still rather too boisterous for my liking, there is every prospect of a quieter termination to our journey. Arising, I go up on deck, hoping to hear that we are nearing Gothenburg, but am told that owing to the adverse wind of the previous day there is no possibility of reaching the Swedish port until about seven that evening, which means to say that I shall have to travel nearly twenty-four hours across country and without a break if I wish to be in time for the Christmas festivities. Deploring my ill-fortune, I turned to the Swedish Bradshaw and with the assistance of sympathetic Swedes try to devise a way or means of reaching Rättvik in a more expeditious fashion, but, soon realising that there is no alternative route, decide to spend the day as pleasantly as possible, and so beguile the time whenever not occupied in partaking of the generous meals that are such a feature of life on board a Swedish steamer, playing bridge with my Swedish friends, a game that they usually play with variations that make it as great a gamble as cut-throat bridge. And so the day passes pleasantly enough, the sea growing calmer and calmer from the moment we come in sight of the Danish coast, though we naturally resent the way in which the North Sea has added insult to injury by not only providing us with one of the roughest passages of the year, but also robbing us of the one redeeming feature that would have made us forget our sufferings—that is to say, made it impossible for any of us to see the approach to Gothenburg, which is that city’s chief claim to beauty.

Soon the Saga reaches the rocky archipelago of the Skärgård and begins to forge her way through the innumerable islands that lie at the mouth of the river Göta älv, with a fair wind to help and a white ribbon of foam trailing from both her sides. Then, after exchanging signals with the shore, we pass various lighthouses and are soon fast to a large wharf with lights gleaming all about us. Lights fringing the river and harbour or running up the low-lying hills that surround the city; shipping of every kind, from great, imposing liners to freight steamers or fishing-smacks; whistles sounding, bells ringing, while all around is that mysterious undercurrent of sound that attests the presence of a large city. Quickly we land and notice the snow that lies thick on the ground, while there is a nippiness in the dry night air so invigorating that, though I realise the temperature is considerably below freezing-point, I am hardly conscious of it. And, following my porter, I hail a taxi and hasten to the main station to take the night train to Stockholm.

Half a dozen coaches, all spotlessly clean and splendidly heated, with doors and windows that shut so hermetically that it is impossible for any draught to penetrate, most of these third class with corridors and even sleepers, where for an inconsiderable sum even the poorest can be assured of a comfortable berth; a profusion of water-jugs whose water is changed every two or three hours and that are within easy reach of every carriage; rails that are so well laid that there is as little jolting as on the best English or American lines, and, coupled with this, a number of second-class Pullman carriages that are as comfortable as any in England, and a service that is run efficiently and up to time. Though the train starts at an hour when the majority of people are just beginning to think of dinner, I retire almost immediately, in view of the very early hour at which I have to change trains at Hallsberg, and after a restful night am awakened in good time and alight without being unduly hurried at the junction, where I am to take another train for the north. It is too dark to see the country, but the line, quays, and station are thick with snow, and I see to the left of the main station building a huge Christmas tree that is already lit with many electric candles and gaily decorated with a profusion of tiny Swedish flags and the customary Christmas ornaments. I then remember that the next day is Christmas Eve, the great day in Sweden, and congratulate myself on my foresight in having wasted so little time in Gothenburg. It is considerably colder than when I left the steamer, but as I follow my porter to the train which is to convey me to Krylbo I feel a dryness in the air that is so exhilarating that the prospect of even lower temperatures to be encountered in Dalecarlia no longer frightens me, and so remain for a time on the platform watching the fur-coated and fur-capped Swedes who are passing to and fro.

For the greater part of the next day we travel through a countryside whose soil is now chilled to stone and yet resplendent with the imagery of the snow that is covering it, snow as dazzling as white marble and with the sheen of satin, inconceivably pure and exquisite in its transparency. We pass innumerable forests of silver-boled birches, pines and fir trees, to which the snow has lent the most fantastic shapes, and over great streams that are frozen on either bank with only a narrow ribbon of open water. And interspersed at comparatively rare intervals—for Sweden is one of the most thinly populated countries in Europe—are small towns and villages with red houses that gleam out from among the snow. At every station the customary Christmas tree, brilliantly illuminated, greets us, and the impression is left me of a robust race of men and women whose vital spark feeds on the frozen air in which it lives, while shortly after three I see the sun setting in the east and tier upon tier of trees and forest-clad hill that are tinged with rose-pink. A memorable sight. Then shortly after sunset I enter Dalecarlia, and after two and a half hours’ further journey reach my destination.

To my left is the wide frozen expanse of Lake Siljan, looking eerie and mysterious in the moonlight, and to the right and running up low wooded hills of firs and pines the villas and town of Rättvik, picturesquely situated on an inlet of the lake. And as soon as I alight from the train an old coachman in white sheepskin and fur cap comes forward to greet me. A few words are exchanged between us that neither can understand, but very soon he realises that I am indeed the traveller whom he is expecting, and seizing my handbag he bids me follow to where a low sledge is waiting, a long flat box on runners, in which I am asked to lie full length and then enveloped in a Dalecarlian fur-lined rug. A crack of the whip and soon we are driving down an avenue of snow-laden trees, among which I see the lights of houses twinkling at every turn, while the horse’s bells are jingling merrily, and the transforming touch of snow and moon is so magical that every object that we pass becomes imbued with indescribable beauty and poetry. In ten minutes we turn sharply to the left and, following a short drive, see some thirty yards before us a brilliantly illuminated log-built house whose inmates are evidently expecting me, for as soon as the sledge draws up before the front door it is immediately opened and a woman whom I guess to be my hostess steps forward to greet me with a smile that is so infectious that I immediately feel at home. From the drawing-room just opposite the entrance hall I hear the sound of merry laughter, and am told that everybody is lending a helping hand in decorating the Christmas tree for the evening, and that if I am not too tired they would be delighted if I came down to help after going to my room. And hearing that it is a time-honoured Swedish custom, I express my pleasure and readiness to do so, and after going upstairs to repair the damages of the journey, return to the drawing-room. As I enter, the laughter subsides for a time, and very formally presentations are made, the men invariably standing up stiffly, putting out their hands, bowing, and giving their surnames, the girls, equally formally but with far more grace, extending their hands towards me as I am presented to them. Then, the claims of ceremony having been satisfied, I approach the Christmas tree and am handed a seal and some sealing-wax and several small packages, obviously Christmas gifts, which I am asked to seal as neatly as possible. All, I notice, are accompanied by dedications in verse, and hearing that no present can be offered at Christmas without a rhymed dedication, thank my stars that I have no present to offer. By this time the Christmas tree is almost fully dressed, and my charming hostess informs me that except for the Christmas gifts that are decorating its branches it will remain much as it is at present until twenty days after Christmas. We then go up to our respective rooms and dress for dinner, while I recall to mind the many conflicting reports which I have heard with regard to a Swedish Christmas Eve meal and fervently hope I shall not have too many novel dishes to sample, so great is my fear of offending the susceptibilities of my hostess. Half an hour later and we are all assembled in the dining-room, and I have my first taste of the Christmas fare of the country. The first course is a kind of soup that evokes familiar memories but to which I am unable to give a name, then the pièce de résistance is brought in, a large fish called lutfish, which is prepared from a species of stockfish that is caught in large numbers in the North Sea. It is usually eaten boiled, and is taken with Russian green peas, sauté potatoes and white sauce, being greatly appreciated in the south of Sweden. Pleasant to the taste and slightly reminiscent of the cod, of which it is a kind of cousin, it is kept in water and soda and steeped in lye or wood-ash for a period of at least two and a half weeks, and is afterwards taken out two days before eating and laid in a cold-water bath, where it remains until required. Following the fish course is the traditional ham and sausage, which in Scandinavian countries usually takes the place of the turkey or goose of the West, the meal concluding with a kind of porridge made of rice, a wonderful concoction of sugar and eggs that is called spettekaka, or spit-cake, and an abundant dessert in which nuts and raisins predominate.

As accompaniment or subsequent to the above, the inevitable snaps cocktail at the beginning of dinner, followed by a light French wine with the fish, Swedish punsch at the coffee stage, and a very delectable hot beverage called glögg, which is almost as comforting a drink to take after a long, cold outing as the mulled claret for which the high table of St. John’s College, Oxford, has become so famous. Compounded of wine, sugar, brandy, almonds and raisins, and flavoured with nejlika, or pinks, glögg is, of the many gastronomic experiments that I have made abroad, one of the few which I have really appreciated.

After dinner we proceed to the drawing-room and the presents are duly handed to each in turn, after which young and old link hands and dance round the tree, the son of my hostess suddenly breaking the chain apart and conducting us in a mad, frenzied chase through the house, up and down the stairs, and past corridors, which only terminates when all are breathless with laughter and exhaustion. Recalling certain opinions which I had often heard being expressed regarding the inability of the Swedes to enjoy their pleasures in any way but sadly, I marvel at the facility with which such misconceptions arise, and conclude that those who created them had never visited Sweden at Christmas-time nor even watched Swedes at play, a more jolly and amusing party than that which I am attending it being impossible to imagine. Then, hearing that Christmas Day opens with a service in the town church that is to take place at an hour when most people are still sound asleep and that it is imperative that I should be present, if only to see the Dalecarlian peasants wearing their national costumes, plead the fatigue of the journey and retire to my room, my sleep being long haunted by memories of the merry throng which I have left dancing in the room below. Early next morning, and before the stars have paled in the sky, I am awakened by a loud knock at the door, and, dressing hurriedly, find steaming hot coffee awaiting me in the dining-room, while the choice is given me of going to church by horse or chair sledge, ski-ing being out of the question owing to my lack of the proper paraphernalia. I recall the wonderful drive of the previous evening, but feel that it is up to me to essay every kind of vehicle, and accordingly decide to utilise the chair sleigh as soon as I gather that it presents no particular difficulties—in fact, that it is very similar to a glorified hobby-horse. Then fur coats and skis are produced, and we sally forth in the direction of Rättvik, my hostess’s son staying behind to show me the way. And, like my guide, I place the left foot on the pedal of one of the runners of my chair and start kicking backwards repeatedly with my right, the sledge moving forward with every kick that I give. Obviously, the kick sleigh is almost as great a necessity in Scandinavian countries as the ski itself, and though it cannot be compared to the latter as a sport and even less as a vehicle, in spite of the considerable speed at which it will carry you downhill unaided, it is much used by the very old and the very young, as it can always be checked when proceeding too rapidly by the brakes with which it is provided, or by simply trailing the foot on the ground. In about a quarter of an hour we reach the town of Rättvik and, turning to the right, suddenly hear the bells of the old white church summoning the people to worship. And as we draw nearer we see that the greater part of the congregation has already gathered near Gustavus Vasa’s monument, most of them clad in old-world costume, the scarlet, green and gold worn by the women standing out in vivid patches of colour against the snow and lending the scene an air of pageantry and romance. Prominent among these are the women of Rättvik with their embroidered green bodices, dark blue skirts, quaintly striped aprons, and picturesque peaked caps, while among the men the most striking are those hailing from the same town, half a dozen sturdy peasants who are wearing as costume a long dark blue coat cut high in the neck, yellow chamois knee-breeches, a blue waistcoat edged with bright red piping, and red stockings held up by rosetted garters. And though the moon is shining brightly we all proceed to church to the flare of large torches which are held up high by the men, and after hearing a long and wearisome sermon, during which I doze repeatedly and even dream that I, too, am wearing Dalecarlian dress, return once again to the large granite stone inscribed in gold whence Gustavus Vasa had summoned the Dales to arms. On the way back to the house, and just before ascending the last slope leading to it, I stop to watch the sun rising over the hills, and for a few minutes enjoy an unforgettable sight. Cresting the ridge that the sun is now illuminating are tier upon tier of pines, all of such exquisite fineness that for at least two degrees on each side of the sun they become transfigured into trees of light that are not only clearly outlined in flame against the sky behind them, but that are almost as dazzling as the sun itself, while the snow that is mantling the countryside begins to assume a blue transparency and the pines among which we are standing to appear almost olive wherever their branches are not hung with great white nightcaps. Then, hearing that a deliciously hot glögg is awaiting us at the house, I automatically replace one foot on one of the runners of the chair sledge and with the other impel my vehicle into movement.

After so early a beginning to our day I am hardly surprised to find life moving a little more leisurely. And for the greater part of the day even the more active of our party content themselves with making the best of the rich fare that characterises a Swedish Christmas and doing one or two hours’ ski-ing in the neighbourhood. Once again I make essay of chair sledging, and as I proceed, again accompanied by my guide, in a northerly direction towards Mora, come across a veritable army of men, women, and children sallying forth on their slender, feathery skis up the dales and through the forest glades. Everywhere I see ski tracks that are crossing one another and laughing parties of merrymakers who are inquiring the way, while the gaiety is so infectious that I soon begin to realise the charm and fascination that lie in ski-ing on the level. Here is a favoured district which, if not comparable to Jämtland or Switzerland for the joy of a swift descent with a possible death waiting on every side that is so characteristic of these more celebrated ski-ing countries, affords, nevertheless, the most delightful and varied possibilities of lengthy ski tours on the level or in forest country without the smallest risk of avalanches or bad-weather dangers, this form of ski-ing being not only conducive to the development of initiative by the constant call that it makes on even the most nervous novice if he would avoid the many pitfalls that lie in his path, but that is equally exhilarating and utilitarian. If once a sportsman really becomes bitten with its craze, he often ends by preferring it to any other form of ski-ing.

Though space forbids my making more than casual mention of the other charming dances and excursions which my hostess and other Swedish friends kindly arranged for my benefit during the happy days that I was privileged to remain in Dalecarlia, one of the pleasantest memories which I will ever retain of a Swedish Christmas will always centre around the “släd parti” to which I was invited on Boxing Day by Miss Rehnström, of Persborg, an unforgettable drive in horse sledges that, conveying some thirty of the guests of her hotel and myself to a picnic lunch at Röjeråsen, a little village that lies some twenty or more miles west of Rättvik, conducted us across a magnificent snow-bound pine and fir forest whose humblest tree and shrub the touch of the sun had transformed into fanciful beings such as children conjure up when dreaming of Fairyland, while equally eerie and mysterious was the drive back by torchlight and the wreaths of frost mist that I saw gliding through the pine glades just after the sun had set across the lake. Of the many novel and delightful excursions which I have made in Sweden, there are few which have left me with as happy memories, and none that have so effectively stilled the little hidden craving for novelty and change which I share with most mortals. For any traveller, therefore, who looks for these things when taking a holiday, I can imagine none that is more attractive than those which I have endeavoured to portray in these pages.