I admit, Agathe, that reality is not pleasant. Its hardships, which I imagined would be so stimulating, its dangers, which I thought would be so uplifting for the soul, have already lost a good deal of the bright colours with which my imagination adorned them. »Heaven forbid!«, I hear you say, »it was indeed a wretched beginning, but courage only, Frédérique! No cowardice! And now, with the magic that a steady hand, and a brush schooled by a mistress-hand [sic], can lend, draw me a beautiful picture of patience.« Ah, how like you that is, my sweet Agathe! Come, my good angel, follow me to the harbour of Ystad, come down onto the bridge; see the Prussian flag flying; see the mail boat as it rocks on the churned-up waves; hear how the wind howls in the rigging; see the whirls of sand dancing on the beach; see how the overcast sky arches over a boundless sea.
And now climb down bravely, with uncertain steps, into the cabin; sit down with your arms folded and beg the waves and winds for mercy. We really did need patience. After an indescribably monotonous morning, we went on board on 19 August at half past two in the afternoon. The captain had postponed our departure on account of the storm, which had by now more or less subsided. We took leave of our grieving Brita, and she had to promise us that, on arriving in Stockholm, she would go to you before anything else. The wind was fairly strong. The waves ran high, causing an uncomfortable rocking, and none of us could keep our feet under us. Apart from ourselves there were no other passengers on board, which was probably just as well.
The captain and his crew were very friendly. Gradually the sky cleared, the sun broke through, and I rejoiced with all my heart at the beautiful and unusual view. The further out to sea we came, the more the uncomfortable rocking increased. The first to fall victim to seasickness was Hedda, then came, one after another, Charlotte, Agathe, Claes and Mama. Our manservant vomited, fainted, and seemed absent for the whole crossing. August held up bravely, and thanks to our gymnastics I was the very last to fall ill. […] Mama soon felt better, but my sisters had to lie down. At six in the evening we lost sight of the Swedish coast. I waved farewell to my fatherland and blew you, Agathe, a kiss.
Charlotte, ill as she was, dragged herself up on deck to see Sweden once more. Now we could see nothing around us but an immense expanse of sky and water. It was a beautiful yet frightening sight. The sea was churned up, stormy waves struck our ship, and the stench of their white foam blew into our faces. None of us could eat anything, and towards evening Papa fell ill. At eight o’clock Mama went down to the cabin to rest, and I sat alone on a bench roughly in the middle of the deck. I had thought I might watch the sunset over the sea, but this time it pleased Mr Phoebus to take to a bed of cloud, and I had to content myself with a disappointed hope. Rather than easing at sunset, the wind grew stronger still and the waves surged even harder.
The ship rose and fell, and neither the captain nor the sailors could keep their footing. Yet they were all in good spirits and chatted away merrily in Low German among themselves. I thought of Sweden, of my friends, of our journey, of the stormy sea and of God. For a moment everything felt like a dream. I closed my eyes and, for a moment, was quite happy. But two waves, breaking one after another on the deck, woke me rather roughly, for I was completely drenched in their salt water. The cold wind chilled me through, and I was forced, with the captain’s help, to go down to the cabin. Mama lay on a sofa in the men’s cabin. Our beds were fitted into the walls like cupboards.
Each cupboard had two boards, and on each board lay a mattress of horsehair. On these lay your sighing friends. It was a wretched night. The waves struck the ship like rocks, which groaned with every roll. It pitched so violently that I rolled back and forth in my berth, and whenever we lifted our heads, it was only to call something out to one another. If you then picture the dreadful din that the crew’s manoeuvres made above us, the clanging of iron bars, the shouts and cries of the sailors, the howling of the wind in the rigging and the constant crashing in our beds, you will not wonder at the sigh that poor Charlotte sent down from her board: »Ah, this night is surely our last!« I was by no means as frightened, but I too could not sleep for a moment.
My only comfort was the moon, which now and then threw its pale rays through our ceiling window into the small space.
Around three in the morning our ship sighted a landmark. It was a wonderful feeling. The captain, who had spent the whole night measuring with compass in hand and poring over his charts, now came down and told us we were near Rügen. The headwind and the current had forced him to make a detour of fourteen miles¹ and it seemed we would probably not reach Stralsund before the 21st. At half past three in the morning I went up on deck, and Charlotte soon joined me. We hoped to admire the sunrise in its full majesty, but the spirit of contrariness had once again taken hold of Phoebus’s reins, and he emerged from gloomy clouds. The morning was cool, but the sea and wind had noticeably calmed. Soon we approached a coast of Rügen known as Stubbenkammer. It consists of tall chalk cliffs which rise in brilliant white, strangely shaped arcades and ruins amid vast oak forests growing along the coast. One of these hills is called Königsstuhl.
Every year several hundred travellers visit it for the unusually beautiful view said to be had from up there. This coastline, as the sun rose out of its bed of cloud, was a marvellous sight. The whole sea gleamed like silver, and beautiful Rügen smiled at us so warmly in the bright morning sun. Gradually the whole party gathered on deck, and everyone felt much better in health. At ten o’clock we all breakfasted. There was herring with bread and butter—ah, how delicious it was! Nothing had ever tasted so good to me. Ah, my sweet Agathe, fast for a whole day and then eat a little herring with bread and butter. You would do best to publish a small treatise, »On the Excellence of Herring after Surviving Seasickness«, which I intend to bring out myself.
The whole crossing on the 20th was truly a pleasure, and the weather was indescribably fine. The waves played about our ship, and it was the most agreeable sea voyage one could imagine. In the afternoon the helmsman brought out his fiddle, a sailor his clarinet, and Claes his flute. I forgot to tell you that Charlotte and I, amid the exertions of the previous day, had begun singing a round, but we did not manage to finish it; that evening we sang with greater precision, until it began to grow dark. That our good mother was unwell clouded our pleasure greatly. She grew seasick on the afternoon of the 20th and was rather weak. We sailed through the whole night in calm, pleasant weather, and on the 21st, at six in the morning, we stood on the bridge of Stralsund. The weather was overcast, Mama felt unwell, Papa had much to see to, and we were all quite despondent. Unfortunately we have poor lodgings at the »Golden Lion« by the Alte Tor. Mama, fortunately, has a pleasant room, but we girls occupy a tall, hideous room that looks out onto a yard where chickens are slaughtered every morning.
Stralsund, 22 August
The Swedish consul Lundblad called yesterday evening and invited us for coffee this afternoon. This morning Papa paid a visit, with Charlotte and me, to his wife, who is very kind and friendly. This afternoon we shall take a little walk with them to an island called Dänholm, which belongs to Hofmarschall Platen in Sweden. Dänholm is a pretty little place, whose whole pride lies in a few lovely, shady avenues. It is the excursion spot of the people of Stralsund. They sit there in large groups on benches, drinking lemonade, cherry juice and the like, and eating pastries and other sweet things. Even our kind landlady gave us a little refreshment there, and afterwards we sailed back to Stralsund in the loveliest weather.
Stralsund, 23 August
Today we had a very pleasant day. Kommerzienrat Löfvenhagen called on us this morning. He is a thoroughly dear old man. He pressed us most warmly to visit him this afternoon and make the acquaintance of his daughters. We are, besides, all invited to dine with him tomorrow. In the afternoon we went to see him with Mama. Löfvenhagen lives in one of the finest houses in the town. He is a widower, has three sons and four daughters; the latter are pleasant and graceful women. If I were to describe the eldest, you would never guess that she might be an interesting figure from a novel. She is about twenty-five years old, limps a little, and looks plain and rather sickly. That was her plain side; now I come to her graceful one. It is precisely her sickly appearance that makes her interesting, for when she speaks, one forgets her plainness on account of the lively expression of kindness and understanding that speaks from every feature.
Here now is her story, as her own father told it: through mutual esteem and sympathy her heart had become bound to a clergyman who asked for her hand. They became engaged, but shortly afterwards he fell ill with a long, severe and dangerous illness, and she became his nurse. Like a devoted angel she watches at his bedside, cheerful Minna, and by sunrise she can no longer laugh. At night she does not close her eyes to rest. Her gaze fixed on her suffering beloved, she sacrifices to him, with a glad heart, her health, her peace, and all the innocent pleasures she had once enjoyed.
Her life seems bound to his, and after a long and painful struggle between illness and recovery, he dies.
Worn out by her long vigil and by anxiety for him, Minna barely manages to accompany him to his grave. Then her strength fails, she falls ill, and although she eventually recovers, that illness was the cause of a wasting lung disease from which the good woman will soon die. Her three sisters are graceful, and they all seem to love one another dearly. I took indescribable pleasure in the divine grand piano that belongs to them. It is only a pity that none of them can really play it. The instrument has a truly heavenly tone and is far finer than the one we have in Stockholm. We chatted quite merrily together the whole afternoon. Claes, for his part, was in good spirits with the young gentlemen, and Papa and Mama were deeply touched by their pleasant conversation with the old man.
Stralsund, 24 August
Tomorrow we travel on to Rostock. We have stayed here so long on account of Papa’s money matters. As I have a good deal of time today, I should like to give you my simple observations on Stralsund and its inhabitants. Stralsund is built in an ancient and curious manner. When I first came into the town, I thought I saw monasteries and churches everywhere. All the houses have gables facing the street, their roofs rising in steps to a point at the gable and usually decorated with manifold ornaments and reliefs. Gutters run everywhere down the middle of the streets, which rather disfigures the town. It is quiet and still; only rarely does one see a carriage in the street.
Everyone complains of the harsh Prussian government, and everyone speaks with both sorrow and fondness of Sweden and the Swedes, and is angry with the king who sold them to Prussia for so little money.² »We were«, said Kommerzienrat Löfvenhagen yesterday, »the loving children of a father who cast us off«. »It really was very, very hard«,³ everyone says, whether they are now better or worse off. Charlotte in particular found it most outrageous that the officers in the town, when they wish to give a ball, must afterwards go hungry for three months, so poorly are they paid.
The women of Stralsund almost all have very fine faces, with a fresh complexion and lovely skin, as well as pretty brown hair.
Their bearing, by contrast, is wretched. They are poorly built, and above all have large, unsightly hands and feet. The men are just as unsightly and look dull-witted. In Pomerania the food is so rich and heavy that we can barely manage some of the dishes. Into a simple pudding with berry sauce they put so many spices that one’s tongue burns. Smoked food is much loved here. Even the drinks are brewed with smoked malt and taste of tobacco.
Papa dines with Claes at the guests’ table; we have had our meals sent up to us. At first it was impossible to get a bowl of cold milk or a dish of boiled potatoes in their skins. They boiled the milk and sent it up scalding hot, and the potatoes came dressed in a flour roux with pepper and onions. At last we are learning to make ourselves better understood by the brave but sluggish Germans. Now I must begin to dress for dinner. Farewell, my dear Agathe; the day after tomorrow I shall write to you from Rostock, where we are to arrive on Sunday.
Rostock, 26 August
That we are now here, and still have all our arms and legs, is something we can only marvel at, for yesterday we had a truly frightening journey. Papa had arranged with two carters that they should drive us with the same horses from Stralsund to Rostock, a journey of only six Swedish miles. We set off from Stralsund at six in the morning, still a little dazed from the banquet at the Löfvenhagens’. It was the most magnificent meal I have ever seen: a proper Pomeranian meal, rich and strongly spiced, and lavish in every respect.
In the afternoon three young women sang a trio, but with so little poise and such shrill, sharp voices that it hurt our ears. We could not have expected anything better, though, for there is no singing master in Stralsund. But now let me shoulder my bundle of patience once more and set out through the Stralsund gate. It was something new, and therefore rather amusing to us at first, to travel in a team where the postillion rides one of the horses. But we soon grew tired of this pleasure, so dreadful are the country roads in Germany! You cannot imagine anything so wretched. At times we drove over meadows and heaths where scarcely a trace of a road could be seen. We were in constant danger of overturning.
The light English carriage creaked and rattled the whole time, and our disagreeable carters saw fit, in the manner of German postillions, to stop for a rest at every inn. In a border town between Pomerania and Mecklenburg we had to wait an hour for them, and three hours at another spot, besides very often along the way, so that instead of arriving at seven in the evening as agreed, we reached Rostock only at ten at night. Driving in the dark on these poor roads with these careless carters was anything but amusing. At midday we drove through the most splendid oak and beech woods. Altogether, the whole stretch from Stralsund to Rostock is very pretty; one drives the whole way through settled and well-tended land. Nowhere did we see scrub or a heap of stones, such as one often sees in our own fatherland.
Everywhere we stopped in Pomerania we heard complaints about the Prussians, and love for Sweden and the Swedes seemed to live in every breast.
They still hope to belong to Sweden again, and speak fondly of our king and his great talent for war. It was already growing dark when we gathered, from the loud quarrel of our postillions, that they had lost their way. We now drove through dense forest and saw no sign of a road at all. Fortunately the spot where we came to a halt was fairly free of trees, yet even so we could only turn with the greatest difficulty. We drove back some way along the road and turned once more at another spot in the forest. This forest is called the Heilige Wüste of Rostock. It is enormous, and full of winding, trackless paths. The carters believed themselves fairly certain of the way again, but before we knew it we had halted once more in a dreadful bog. You cannot imagine Papa’s fright. He believed the carriage might break to pieces at any moment, and Hedda and I, who sat in Papa’s carriage, trembled with fear.
I could not stop quiet tears coming to my eyes at the loud quarrel that now broke out. Where had my Don Quixote spirits gone? All my thirst for adventure had vanished, and I must confess, sadly, that I was anything but brave. But imagine, Agathe, two large coaches, each with a team of six or four horses, driving through dense forest over pine and juniper bushes, now over tree trunks, now down into deep pits. English carriages that creaked and rattled so loudly that we kept expecting them to fall apart. The very worst of it was that Papa, despite our pleading, would not allow us to get out. At last we came out of the forest onto a road that, poor as it was, calmed our fears a little.
All these mishaps had cost us so much time that it was now almost dark, and we were still far from Rostock. The Heilige Wüste still surrounded us with its gloomy woods, and the carters, to whom nothing was sacred, drove on at a full trot despite Papa’s warnings and remonstrations. For a moment, when the road seemed to improve, Papa fell asleep, and with a jolt our dear brother-in-law⁴ drove straight into the thicket. Fortunately our coaches came to a stop before a field, and since the front wheel had not sunk in too deeply, we managed, with great effort, to drive back up onto the road.
This set me trembling so much that I had not a moment’s peace for the rest of the way.
It was now so dark that one object could no longer be told from another. We kept calling out: »I believe I see a tower!« or »Hush, I hear a bell ringing!« or »Ah, there is a light burning!«. As we drove past, the wind rustled in the tall oaks and pines we had taken for a tower, and the dim light came from a lonely little hut in the forest. Surely some interesting beauty lives there, who, pursued by the injustice of the world, has withdrawn there amid grief and sorrow, to shed lonely tears by the glow of a dim lamp over a beloved memory, in the dark of night. Surely she would open her door to a few stray travellers and lay her table with simple fare of milk and honey and fruits of the season. But alas, we had no appetite at all for anything of the kind, and were besides anything but inclined to disturb the unknown lady. Nor can I deny that, had I been alone, the whole thing would only have struck me as very funny. But now everything was quite different!
We had already begun to fear that our two unruly brothers-in-law had lost their way again, when the carriage reached a badly paved road that announced the nearness of a town. Half an hour later we were indeed in Rostock. It was some time before we slipped through its gates. The only living soul still awake seemed to be a man who, having opened a barrier for us, sat back down on a bench to sleep. At last our lead carriage got hold of the keys, the gates opened, and we rolled into the town. We took, comfortably enough, if on the second floor, lodgings at Herr Schleuder’s hotel. After a brief supper we retired to rest, quite worn out by the day’s exertions. My hand still trembles so much even now that I cannot hold it still.
Eight o’clock in the evening
Around ten in the morning we had the pleasure of watching the changing of the guard from our window. The Mecklenburg military in this town does not much please us, but some of the pieces the regiment played quite splendidly gave us real pleasure. Afterwards we went out to view the town. First we visited the Marienkirche, which looks curious, its nave being unusually high.
Standing in the middle of the church, the choir on one side and the immense organ on the other make a magnificent sight. The church was adorned with numerous ingenious and elaborate monuments, but time did not allow us to linger even before a single one. Ah, it is truly a torment of Tantalus to glimpse so many beautiful things and be allowed to look properly at none of them. It is exhausting. Then we went to view the monument to Field Marshal Blücher. Blücher was born in Rostock, and after his death the town’s inhabitants erected this memorial to him.
In the middle of a large square there is an enclosure, which has been turned, within a short time, into a very pretty garden. Stately poplars and a wealth of sweet-scented flowers invite the walker in. But all this is forgotten before the memory stirred by the sight of the beautiful memorial rising in the middle of the garden. Father Forward, we all thought, casting moved glances at the likeness of the great man.
The statue is cast with astonishing skill; the whole figure is noble. In one hand he holds the field marshal’s baton, in the other a sword. The pelt of a lion’s head covers his chest, and a cloak or toga is thrown over his shoulders. He is depicted as if walking and issuing commands. His face is so full of feeling, expressing at once courage, integrity and manly valour. So he must have looked. On one side of the monument verses in his honour are inscribed, but I did not care for them. Ah, why does one not simply let this great man, after his death, speak these beautiful words of Schiller’s:
Steadfast courage in severe suffering,
Help where the innocent weeps,
Eternity to sworn oaths,
Truth toward friend and foe,
Manly pride before thrones of kings –
Brothers, even if it costs property and blood –
To merit its crowns,
Downfall of the brood of lies!⁵
We sat for a moment on a bench in the little parterre and delighted in the sweet-scented plants blooming around us. Then we took a walk along the ramparts and came home to dinner with quite a good appetite. In the afternoon we paid a visit to Kommerzienrat Löfvenhagen—the brother of the one who lives in Stralsund. He has a nice wife and ten children, of whom we saw only four small boys, all as beautiful as angels. We heard a great deal about Löfvenhagen’s wife in Stralsund, a pretty, lovable Fräulein von Essen. She and her husband lived together in endless happiness and contentment, and raised their children with the utmost care. But then these children fell, one after another, ill with scarlet fever.
Their good mother does not leave the sickbed of her darlings for a single moment, and has the good fortune to see them recover. But then she herself falls ill with the fever, and her weakened strength—exhausted by watching, by toil and by worry—cannot withstand the violent illness. She loses her mind; the fever leaves her, her strength returns, but her reason remains disturbed. In her madness she rejects her husband and her children; and he, who had loved her so tenderly, is forced to send the raving woman from the house.
Agathe, my sweet Agathe, how much love, how much—I very nearly said—blind faith in Providence a feeling heart requires, to live in a world in which such a reward follows the perfect fulfilment of every domestic duty. Frau L. remained in this state for several years, until death put an end to it. Rostock is a pretty, friendly town; many houses are extraordinarily well built. The entrances in particular look inviting, and many are decorated with paintwork.
In front of the houses there are benches, on which one sees women sitting, working, chatting, drinking lemonade and so on. It all looks rather cosy. There is much talk of Essler, Germany’s greatest actor of drama. By birth he is an Austrian count. In Germany he is so admired and beloved that the inhabitants of the towns he leaves club together and pay off the debts he cannot settle himself. We, by contrast, find no one to console us for these dreadful roads. Farewell, Blücher—from now on we shall travel by express post. That, we hope, will be an improvement.
