March 2017 - Augusta's Journey

0h! Everything is difficult, everything changes.

*Passing Through a Forest in Winter* Oil Painting by Louis Apol

Loddby, 2 September 1850

This week we have been at Krusenhof and said goodbye to Eric. Our trips to this, my second childhood home, have begun again ever since my friends at Krusenhof [the family Hjort] have once more gathered in their home. How the road is dear to me and how well I know every single rock and every bush; they are all my acquaintances and each could tell me of events from the golden days. The large poplars by the gate still nod a friendly welcome just as they did 14 years ago when they, for the first time, greeted my 9-year-old self.

Even now, I receive the same friendly welcome at my entrance into the great hall with the old clock in the back and I am still met with the same heartfelt welcome. Nothing has changed, except that the former children have now grown up; that one or another frosty night has touched the roses that – 14 years ago – were mere buds on the path of life – some of them have withered and fallen off; and that the shimmer of light that surrounded those present and those forthcoming, for each year has faded and disappeared. But as a whole, all is still familiar. Every year, the large cherry tree still offers us its abundance of cherries. The small benches on the hill still offer us shade, cool, and rest. The small sofa in study, where we in the dim light spent so many an autumn evening in talk and laughter, still invites more of the same pleasures. My God! How long may it remain so!

Loddby, 9 September 1850

Yesterday was a melancholic day, one of those gray, cold, autumn days that so greatly affects one’s spirits. A day when one would like to have wings to fly far, far away, not knowing where to, but to escape the memory of all the bitter and sad moments in one’s life that during such moments feels overwhelming and which, one at a time, march past the eye of the soul.

One of those days when one thinks that the curtain concealing the future is more impenetrable than usual, when it hangs so dark, so heavy, and so cold, in front of events that one envisions as even gloomier and darker, and when one feels cheated of one’s illusions, cheated of the dream of one’s life. And all these gloomy reflections, they arose yesterday from the notification that the scene of my childhood games, the dear old Krusenhof, was sold.

And the friends?

They bid farewell to the old Qvillinge parish, where we together have had so many experiences – both happy and sad moments. Forever they bid farewell to the places that have seen us grow up. No more Sundays will I travel the old, familiar road; never will I expectantly gaze up at Smältgrind and there notice the old, familiar carriage that for 14 years, every other Sunday, turned by Aspdungen and, with its dear content, stopped at Loddby. There is no one left to entrust one’s sorrows and joy to, no one to communicate with. Here will be so empty, so lonely that I don’t even want to think about it, because then I might be ungrateful enough to complain about Providence which, nevertheless, certainly prevails for the sake of good.

Loddby, 20 December 1850

The family Hjort has left. Krusenhof stands empty, and I felt empty, very empty, when I bade the dear friends my farewell. It is as if death has robbed me of a loved one, and the very memory of the 15 happy years we have lived here together is painful, as it only serves to increase my bitter regret. It is so strange to think that yonder, in my second home where I dreamed so many happy childhood dreams, now other indifferent and unknown people will live and think, treading the “happy fields, where I walked so many times,” and suffer and rejoice in the same places that so often saw our tears and laughter. It is so empty and strange to not be able to travel there and hear some kind words from dear, familiar lips.

Oh! Everything is difficult, everything changes on the earth where we live. Both joy and sorrow accompany us through life and are alternately our guests but, perhaps, the latter is the most faithful, the least erratic, the one we know best, and the one that most often visit us; that is likely how it has to be.

Musings on a ball

Stockholm,16 March 1851

Last Friday, I accompanied the Theodors to a dance soirée at The Bourse. It was pretty animated and, in the words of the Ribbings, it was “la crème de la socialite” who from the gallery looked down on the dancing youth – a colorful crowd of blue, white, red, and yellow ball gowns with matching flower garlands under which one often saw a beautiful face.

Men of la beau monde, with and without uniforms, swarmed around in the richly illuminated, beautiful hall where joy seemed to be the evening’s heavenly patron. It was thus, as it is called in Stockholm, “a beautiful ball”, but God knows that I did feel a sense of regret when recalling memories from six years ago and saw myself – with a completely different feeling of joy – flying around the hall in a lively Strauss waltz. At that time, in a moment of happiness, I forgot everything around me. In this moment, on the contrary, I felt both hot and tired. At that time, I was close to despair when the final notes of the last dance died away. At this time, I was quite pleased when I finally sat in the covered sleigh on my way home.

Leaving the ball – Illustration in Alexander Dumas *La Dame aux Camelias*

The poetic rosy light in which I had experienced the goddess of dance had disappeared, and the interesting light in which I had viewed the male courtiers and dancers was, unhelpfully, gone and everything was surrounded by the prosaic reality that, with few exceptions, showed me the flattering men as a mindless and thoughtless crowd, who, like parrots, repeated these flashy, shallow, meaningless lines, which sound pretty good to a seventeen-year-old’s ears, but later sound stupid and meaningless. I danced every dance, was asked to dance even more, talked a lot of meaningless nonsense, heard even more of it, and eventually became tired of all of it.

Stockholm, March 12, 1851

Contemporary watercolor of Stockholm by Fritz von Dardel

Since Saturday evening I am here in Stockholm, our Swedish Paris, the dance-hungry’s Eldorado. Our journey here was miserable; unfavorable road conditions for the sleigh and grey, chilly weather. We ate bad food and slept miserably in cold, unpleasant lodgings, chatted with drunk coachmen, drank mulled wine, and finally arrived frozen and exhausted to our nice and beautiful Stockholm where we took in at Hotel Norrköping on Stora Nygatan. The day after our arrival, we waded through deep dirt to get to our friends on Kungsholmen where we became heartily received, had a pleasant evening, and dreamed us back to winter evenings at Krusenhof.

The view of Riddarholmen and the Old Town as seen from Kungsholmen. Augusta would have walked across the bridge; however, it was still March, so the lakes would have been frozen and the trees would have been bare.

Tante and Nanna have a small, sunny, and agreeable dwelling in the midst of a garden that extends right down to the lakeshore. In the summer, this little place might be a real paradise with flowers and light, fresh air and the view of Lake Mälaren’s blue surface, lush islands, and beaches to soothe the eyes, and glorious views of Riddarholmen and Södermalm and all the steamers that from different directions are rushing to their common goal at Riddarholmen’s quay.

Monday morning I went to visit Ribbingens and Bohemans. They were overly astonished to see me so unexpectedly in the capital city, and in the evening we saw the great opera, “A Tale of the Queen of Navarre.” There I met Count Figge Schwerin who escorted me home and was quite himself, much disposed to let his lady alone carry on the conversation and himself look like he was sleepwalking.

Mother and I were visiting Ribbingens today where, marvelously, Baron Fredrik happened to keep company and was as decent and agreeable as he can be when he wants to. We departed early, for I had a premonition that Lieutenant Wahlfelt could get the idea to transport his insipid personality to Clara {where Ribbingens lived}, which definitely would not have been pleasant.

We have left Lejdenfrost in the care of Wallenberg and we now traverse to the island of the poppy-crowned god.

Footnotes:

The family that Augusta visited at Kungsholmen was the family Hjort. The family had been Augusta’s closest neighbor and the children her best friends throughout childhood. In 1850, the family sold their estate, Krusenhof, and moved to Kungsholmen in Stockholm. The family members were Major Georg Leonard Hjort and his wife, Fredrika Elisabet Älf (referred to as Tante), and their children Aurora, Johanna (Nanna), Axel, and Erik.

Count Figge Schwerin is likely Fredrik Bogislaus (Fritz) von Schwerin who was born in Norrköping in 1825 (close in age to Augusta and from the same town). He was a captain in the army. Later in life, he became a banker, married, and had 2 daughters.

The family Ribbing and Boheman were good friends of the family.

Lejdenfrost was Augusta’s brother-in-law and benefactor.

The island of the poppy-crowned god is a poetic term for sleep – may be alluding to the effect of opium.

Johanna Jacobina Schubert marries Eric Sparre

There is only one wedding described in Augusta’s diary, the wedding of her cousin Carolina Schubert’s daughter Johanna (Hanna). Hanna was 2 years younger than Augusta and they were best friends. On August 7, 1851, Hanna married Count Lars Eric Georg Sparre. There are no descriptions of what the women wore and especially nothing about how the bride looked.

Given that Queen Victoria in 1840 had worn a white wedding dress, it is likely that the fashion in Sweden in 1851 also dictated a white dress. The pictures above are a few paintings from this time period of brides getting dressed.

“Hanna is married, but I will have to start at the beginning.

On the evening of the 6^th of August, before the important day that would give Hanna the name, honor, and dignity of being a countess, her bridesmaids and the groomsmen were invited to merrily celebrate the last hours of her carefree time as a free woman.

I was the first to arrive. Shortly thereafter, Countess Sparre accompanied by her sister, an old dry and dull Mamsell, and two tall girls from Carlscrona, Miss Rappe and Mamsell Hjelm, both silent and inaccessible, arrived. Miss Ströberg, Mamsell Lenning, Rosa de Mare, Ada Sparre, and little Emelie Schubert were the other bridesmaids who, one after the other, made their entrance into the red parlor.

Soon, the groomsmen arrived. The first one to be presented was a Baron Rappe (cousin to the tall Miss Rappe) who displayed the forthright, trustworthy, and honest character that generally is associated with sailors and which makes you immediately comfortable and uninhibited in their company. Then followed a sharp-nosed Baron Falkenberg, a man I had previously met when he was a cadet. I think he was a little in love with Miss Rappe’s great merits as one always found him in her vicinity. Albert Schubert, the adventurer Ambjörn Sparre, Mr Victor Lenning, and the extraordinarily beautiful Baron Rehbinder were additional groomsmen. One of my Stockholm dance partners, Lieutenant Uggla, finished the lovable row of cavaliers.

After this short introduction, the dance began and continued until 10:30 in the evening without any particularly ingenuity and without any of us having made any advances in getting acquainted.

Thursday the 7^th of August was the momentous day that would lead Hanna to a life of sorrow and despair or, with God’s grace, possibly to one with happiness and prosperity. Wållander officiated the ceremony in the most extraordinarily moving way; I think there was hardly any dry eye in the room. Weddings are all the same, a little monotonous and boring, but I had no reason to complain as my cavalier was a General.

The next day at breakfast, most of the wedding guests were assembled. General Boij and Lieutentant Colonel Tömgren conversed so diligently with me that they forgot to eat the stately breakfast. This gave rise to several sarcastic statements from the younger groomsmen, which I answered. My replies were not appreciated and made Baron Rappe my enemy. Baron Rehbinder and I, now at last, became a little more acquainted, but the two sailors and the two ladies from Carlscrona kept to themselves as peas in a pod and were impossible to form any closer acquaintance with.

I was asked to sing and I had to come forward to show my talent. It think it went reasonably well and I was thanked in the most flattering terms. The men sang a couple of quartets, very well, and finally we parted to get ready for the ball.

Twelve different uniforms swirled around the ballroom and offered a fairly lively view. The anticipation for the ball was high. As soon as I entered the hall I was asked to dance all the dances and, of course, I was not sad to feel so desirable. The ball lasted until 3:00 in the morning.”

Footnote: Baron K.A. Rappe and his cousin Miss Torborg Rappe later married.

A Belated Happy Birthday, Fredrik Wahlfelt!

Paul Axel Fredrik Wahlfelt was born 200 years ago, on 19 February 1817.

It is very likely that Wahlfelt might not have celebrated his birthday. The featured image above is one of the few paintings of a Victorian era family birthday celebration. Celebrating birthdays became more common among well-off families at this time, but it was still more common to celebrate one’s namesday.

Lieutenant Wahlfelt in Fritz von Dardel’s painting

Anyway, remember Lieutenant Wahlfelt? He proposed to Augusta in the spring of 1849 and she rejected him. The truth is, she didn’t seem to think highly of him:

12 March 1851 (Augusta and her mother were visiting the Ribbing family)
“Mother and I was visiting Ribbingens today where, marvelously, Baron Fredrik happened to keep company and was as decent and agreeable as he can be when he wants to. We departed early, for I had a premonition that Lieutenant Wahlfelt could get the idea to transport his insipid personality to Clara {where Ribbingens lived}, which definitely would not have been pleasant.”

27 March 1851 (Augusta was invited to a glamourous ball given by Minister Wallensten)

“Lieutenant Wahlfelt was, thank God, resentful of me all evening so I was spared from hearing his stupid reasoning.”

Because Fredrik Wahlfelt (sometimes referred to as Paul or Pålle Wahlfelt) didn’t marry or have children, there is nobody to keep his memory alive. So to celebrate the 200 year anniversary of his birth, here are a few biographical notes.

A little more about Fredrik Wahlfelt

Photographs of Wahlfelt in the 1860s (Source: Riksarkivets porträttsamling)

Paul Axel Fredrik Wahlfelt was the second of 3 children born to lieutenant colonel Svante Fredrik Wahlfelt and Kristina Ulrika Tham. When Augusta met him, he was a lieutenant in Andra Lifgardet. He became captain in 1851 and major in 1862. From 1839, he was a teacher at the Gymnastic Central Insitute (GC) in Stockholm and later also at the military academies, Karlberg and Marieberg, where he taught gymnastics and weaponry. In 1851, he achieved the rank of senior teacher at GC, a title he kept until his death in the spa-city of Wiesbaden, 16 July 1873 (age 56).

Wahlfelt contributed to both theoretical and practical aspects of teaching gymnastics and weaponry. He also developed a bayonet fencing rifle.

Bayonet Fencing Rifle was a rifle modified for bayonet fencing.

One cadet at Karlberg described Wahlfelt in his memoir* :

P.H. Ling teaching in the gymnastics and fencing hall at the Gymnastic Central Institute. Drawing by Egron Lundgren 1839.

“In gymnastics and fencing, we had as a teacher the renowned fencing master Major Pålle Wahlfelt. He, as well as the majority of physical education teachers at that time, were not clear about the meaning of Ling’s admirable educational system and, therefore, taught gymnastics at Karlberg according to a system that was not a system at all. But he had a great ability to fire up us boys with his electrifying command and his energetic shouts.”

Bayonet fencing positions according to Ling’s system

“Seeing Major Wahlfelt fencing against two opponents was a delight. None of us has hardly reached a similar skill with said weapon.”

The fatal fencing accident of his nephew
Of the 3 siblings Wahlfelt, only Fredrik’s older brother Carl Svante Vilhem (1815-1886) married and had children. His oldest son, Nikolai Axel Fredrik Wilhelm, was born in 1861. At that time, the family lived in Finland. Axel obtained an MS degree and taught mathematics. He married Agata Magdalena Lönnblad. In 1893, he was living in Stockholm in order to work on his PhD in mathematics at the university.

Victorian fencing attire: Cruikshank’s picture of fencing on St. James Street in 1822

Axel was also a good fencer, just like his father and uncle Fredrik had been. On 20 February 1893, he had just finished a fencing lection with his instructor Drakenberg when he and a friend, Lieutenant Fid, continued with some free fencing. They were both wearing face masks as required. Somehow, the tip of Lieutenant Fid’s foil penetrated Axel’s mask between the nose and the left eye and Axel fell to the floor. The eyewitness account stated that there was no bleeding, but because he was lifeless, Lieutenant Drakenberg realized the urgency and called for a doctor. Axel died soon after arriving at the hospital, 32 years old.

Family descendants in the USA
At the time of the tragic accident, Axel’s wife Agata was pregnant with their first child. The child, Bror Axel Svante Wahlfelt, was born on 18 June 1893 in Helsinki, Finland.

What became of him? Ancestry.com has the clues.

Thirty-one years later, he is listed as a sailor on the Swedish vessel “Anten” arriving from Shanghai, China to Port Townsend, WA on 25 June 1924. He had joined the crew in Newcastle and is listed as deserted after arrival in the US. On 31 March 1931, Svante then marries Hilja Leskinen in Manhattan, NY. In 1942, he registers for the World War II draft, giving his address as 2301 Wyoming Ave, Washington, DC (in Kalorama, DC, and next to what is now the Embassy of Yemen).

Svante died in 1963. His wife Hilja and her sister Maria Wikberg both lived in Saline, MI until they passed away. Svante and Hilja’s daughter Ruth Ebba Märta was born in 1933, married a Christophersen, and had 3 sons, which are listed as living in Denmark. Her sister Maria, who of course is not genetically related to the Wahlfelts, had a daughter, Ethel Posldofer, who in turn had 2 sons and several grandchildren. Descendants who probably have no idea of their grand family history.

*Source: Kadettminnen av överste Claës Christian August Bratt 1927 (pdf available online)