Old-Fashioned Summers in Copenhagen
"Between twelve and one p. m. is a kind of siesta in Copenhagen. All the stores have pulled down their awnings, the asphalt is soft as clay, and the air…
Note: This article has been excerpted from a larger work in the public domain and shared here due to its historical value. It may contain outdated ideas and language that do not reflect TOTA’s opinions and beliefs.
“Summer Life in Copenhagen,” from When I Was a Boy in Denmark: A Chronicle of Happy Days by Herluf Trolle-Steenstrup, 1923.
It is noon on a bright summer day in Copenhagen. The inhabitants find it sweltering hot, though the thermometer registers but twenty degrees Reaumur in the shade (about seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit) and hence several schools have been dismissed, for it is not vacation time yet, but the heat is considered too great for indoor work. But oh, how delightfully cool must those "sultry" summer days in Denmark appear to any Dane who has tried a summer in America!
Between twelve and one p. m. is a kind of siesta in Copenhagen. All the stores have pulled down their awnings, the asphalt is soft as clay, and the air is filled with a fragrance of millions of flowers, fresh hay, tar, and that wonderful salt-sea breeze that sweeps the city from out the Sound.
The streets are crowded with people and nearly all walk in the same direction. Hush, there is music; you hear the beat of many drums and the ta-ta-ka-ta of trumpets. Following the sound and the crowd you will see the band, which leads the parade of the Royal Guard from the barracks to the Amalienborg where the King lives. Every day at sharp twelve o'clock, the Guard's parade marches through the city to play an hour in front of the royal palace, and you'll never fail to see a vast crowd following the parade, ending in a tail of street urchins, who join the band by whistling through their fingers.
The Guardsmen are tall, stalwart fellows, none under six feet and very broad-shouldered. On the head each wears a huge bearskin cap as big as a bread-box and across the shoulder and breast a broad white bandoleer. Marching some steps in front of the drums stalks the Tambour-Major (drum-major), the tallest of them all and a real giant with a big, flowing beard. To increase his height the tambour-major has extra high heels under his boots, for, though no man may be able to add an ell to his growth, any skillful shoemaker can make him a few inches taller. This may not seem necessary, for when I was a boy in Copenhagen the tambour-major, a man from Roeskilde, stood some eighty-three inches in his stockings.
Arrived at the square in front of the Amalienborg, the Guard makes halt, upon which the crowd makes likewise, looking expectantly to the balcony of the castle where the King any moment may appear to greet his loyal subjects. The ceremony begins with the Fanemarche (flag-march), under which the old Dannebrog is carried along the row of Guardsmen, who salute solemnly while fifes and drums strike up the celebrated tune of the Fanemarche with the words: "Here come the Danish soldiers."
No sooner has the flag been carried to the Guards-room than the full band commences the concert, which by the common people is known under the nickname of "Messing-suppe " (brass-soup). And a most magnificent band it surely is: dextrous clarinettists, expert oboists, whining piccolo-flutes, splendid trumpeters who know double and triple tonguing to matchless perfection, mighty trombones, mellow French-horns, comic bassoons, and those well-drilled drummers who can make one shiver with a hurricane roll. They play no rag-time, but perform the most splendid military marches, and are not shy of tackling the most difficult standard overtures, as "Mignon," "Tannhauser,” and "Merry Wives of Windsor."
In the crowd you'll see many men wearing a strange uniform. A carmine-red coat with great buttons of silver-nickel. Those are letter-carriers who have caught up with the "Vagtparade" on their delivery-tours and who will not forego their share in the brass-soup. But still funnier than the red-coated postmen are some small boys clad in black tights, stovepipes on their scalps, a heavy piece of iron, not unlike a cannon-ball, to which is attached a short broom, swung in a long, thick rope over the shoulder, and carrying a slender ladder under the arm.
To the uninitiated, these boys with their sooty faces and hands must certainly remind one of small devilkins, and yet they are harmless chimney-sweeper boys (Skorstens-fejerdrenge) bent on enjoying their daily brass-soup.
But now the vacation has arrived and the city-life centres about Tivoli. The famous establishment is open every day during the summer-season and on Sundays and holidays most stupendous fireworks are displayed, old Mr. Busch sending his singing rockets cloud-high above the tree-tops and igniting his revolving fiery wheels, in which are read legends in blazing letters.
Oh, for a summer day in Tivoli! And particularly in the Tivoli of old days, when the great frigate was still floating in the middle of the Tivoli lake and the labyrinth had not yet given way to the new Bodega. That huge frigate was built as a perfect imitation of the old ironsides which fought so gloriously against the English in 1801, and as it floated there on the stilly lake it afforded the most imposing sight, especially at night when the lights from the portholes gleamed like a string of fiery pearls reflected in the calm water. In the frigate was installed a vaudeville show and a restaurant.
During the vacation, Tivoli swarmed with "Ferieborn," that is children from the country who came to Copenhagen in exchange for city children who were sent out on the rural fields to breathe the fresh country air for some six weeks. These rural vacation-children would gape at the marvels of the city till the corners of their mouths almost reached their lobes, and it goes without saying that we children of the city could not help making fun of them and playing many a mischievous prank on them.
Let me state that on certain days during the summer, on so-called Ferie-days, each child that went in to Tivoli received without any charge three tickets which gave admission to the merry-go-round, the balloon-swing, the flying-wheel, or any of the innumerable amusements within the establishment. Of course there was a lively trading in these red-paper slips, which scarcely commanded less than a Femore in cash or some valuable stamps in bartering.
Now it was one of our most common pranks to lure some of the rural vacationists into the labyrinth under pretense of showing them some wondrous animal as the unicorn or the horrible Minotaurus himself. A labyrinth is, as most know, a sort of maze, consisting of numerous paths which are so ingeniously traced that they bewilder almost any one, making it nearly impossible to find one's way out without a guide. The labyrinth in Tivoli was constructed very intricately, a number of bowered paths running crisscross hither and thither, leading nowhere, as it were, and leaving the intruder who was unacquainted with the key, at a loss to find the exit.
When we had persuaded some country boys to enter the labyrinth, a task that often proved only possible after we had furnished a spool of string, the end of which was tied to the trunk of a tree at the entrance and which unwound as we proceeded farther into the mysterious depths of the maze, we always managed to snap the string in the middle of the labyrinth upon which we would dash away, feigning the greatest fear. The poor, innocent country boys then would remain for some time perfectly bewildered, after which they would give vent to a subdued whimpering.
But to show what rascals we really were, let me not forget to inform my readers that we never wasted our time and ingenuity on vacation-boys who had no ferie-tickets left, and so we would invariably approach our victims with the question if they possessed some red-paper slips. On showing us these we exclaimed with great glee, "That is great, boys, for these tickets might enable you to see a sight the like of which you can find nowhere else." And, giving the tale of Minotaur and Ariadne, we would wind up the tale with the question whether they possessed the courage of Theseus and if the mere sight of the gruesome monster-bull was not worth all the balloon-swings in the garden.
To which, of course, they agreed. But no sooner did the trapped boys begin to moan than a confederate of ours who was hidden in the adjoining path commenced to growl most uncannily, pretending to be the fearful Minotaurus who expected to swallow them up alive. Of course the vacation-boys held a council and very naturally they attempted to find their way out. This attempt, however, always proved futile, for after some aimless wandering they would always return to the same spot, unable to find the exit. And the hidden boy-Minotaur would then start to growl in a still more threatening manner.
There never were many visitors to the labyrinth, the few consisting chiefly of some loving couples who sought the remoteness of the maze to be in solitude; and of such the ensnared boys, of course, did not dare to ask for the way out, nor would questions probably have received any attention whatever. And the inspector who was in charge of the labyrinth would only very rarely stroll through the mazed paths, preferring to remain chatting with people at his chair at the entrance.
Thus it was no wonder that the rural boys felt like babes in the woods, dismayed at their being lost and shuddering with fear at the awful bellowing of the man-eating bull. At length, when the pear was considered ripe, one of our confederates would appear to the frightened boys, asking what was the matter, and on being enlightened offer to silence the monster and lead them safely out. But he must have something for his services, since it incurred a certain danger and not little work. Were they willing to spend a ferie-ticket each for their deliverance? Of course they were unanimous in granting a ticket each to their deliverer, upon which this rogue at once proceeded to the boy-bull, informing him that the ransom had been paid. The bull stopping his awe-inspiring bellowing, the boy hurried back to the victims, leading them along a circuitous way and by a long detour — just to impress them with the difficulty of the task set before him — to the exit.
After this we would share the spoils and revel in extra rides in the balloon-swing, while crowds of vacation-boys stared at us, agape with wonderment.
Trolle-Steenstrup, Herluf. When I Was a Boy in Denmark: A Chronicle of Happy Days. Lothrup, Lee & Shepard, 1923.
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