CHAPTER VII
DALECARLIA AND THE DALECARLIANS
Falun, Sweden,
August 28, 191—
Dear Cynthia:
If you will look upon the map of Sweden about halfway up the western boundary line, you will see Dalecarlia, or Dalarne. There is where I am. It is the land of my father’s father, and is the most interesting part of the country, for here was born the national liberty which all Swedes hold dear.
Dalecarlia, which gets its name from the Dal River, is a charming territory, mountainous and forest-covered; and in the very heart of it is beautiful Lake Siljan, “the eye of Dalecarlia.” The land itself is very attractive through its beauty; but the people are more interesting still; they are positively unique, and seem always to have been so. If you have ever read the history of Sweden—I fear you have not—you will remember that certain of the Swedes were always revolting against the established order of things. These were the Dalecarlians. Sometimes they were in the right, and other times they were not; but they never lacked the courage of their convictions. With sufficiently strong convictions always came revolt.
Even as late as the fourteenth century the Dal-people were semi-independent of the central government; for the Swedish kings, in order to guard against insurrection, permitted them to retain certain ancient rights and privileges unknown to the other parts of Sweden. With the establishment of foreign rule subsequent to the Union of Calmar—an arrangement quite unsatisfactory to the Dalecarlians, who, however, had not been consulted—came still greater sensitiveness to unjust imposition and greater provocation to rebellion. It was not until 1435, however, that, goaded by the oppression of the Danish viceroy, they first made their début as insurrectionists on a large scale. Their leader was one of themselves and bore the interesting name of Engelbrekt Engelbrektsson. This man was undersized and insignificant in appearance, but he was a little giant, and is one of the greatest—as he was the first—of Sweden’s patriot heroes.
Under the stimulation of the Dalecarlians the revolt quickly spread to other parts of Sweden; the peasant army closed around Stockholm; a parliament, which was the first really representative parliament of Swedish history, was called; and Engelbrekt Engelbrektsson was elected regent of the land of Sweden. King Eric was forced to promise to govern Sweden according to its laws; but as he regarded promises merely as convenient makeshifts and subterfuges, to be broken when the crisis was past, the struggle did not end there. By the time it was over Eric had lost his throne, and in his stead was placed the good-natured King Christopher, who permitted the native nobles to govern Sweden about as they chose. Nevertheless, these were hard times for Sweden; crop failures were frequent and the taxes bore heavily; and Christopher came to be called the “Bark King” because poverty forced the Swedes to mix pulverized bark with their flour to save themselves from starvation.
But this device was not restricted to the reign of Christopher. In times past famine appears to have frequently threatened Sweden, and then the Swedes would become bark-eaters. The old ballads which my father’s mother used to sing tell of those dreary days of bark bread.
The Dal-people next appeared in their favorite rôle under the lead of Gustav Vasa. I have spoken of him already, but it is really only by constant repetition of the name of this Gustav that one comes to realize what an important part he played in Sweden’s history. In the days of his boyhood at Uppsala University, when the Danish yoke bore heavily upon the Swedish people, Gustav Vasa is said to have announced: “I will betake myself to Dalecarlia, rouse the Dalecarlians, and batter the nose of the Jute.” And he did. After the Dal-people had once got the idea of driving out the Danes, they fought stubbornly and effectively, bark-eaters though they were. Indeed, a Danish bishop of the time attributed their strength to their diet. When urging that Denmark abandon all further attempt to reconquer Sweden, he is reported to have argued: “A people that eat bark and drink nothing but water the devil himself cannot master.”
But the major part which they had played in putting Gustav Vasa upon the Swedish throne did not deter the Dalecarlians from being the first to revolt when the policy of the new king did not suit their very decided ideas of governmental administration. Twice they revolted against the great Gustav, the second revolt being caused by the oppressive taxation which the king found it necessary to levy in order fully to establish the independence of his realm and to put it on a stable basis. In order to pay a debt owed to the Hanseatic city of Lübeck, it was decreed by the king that the church bells should be collected and melted down. The Dalecarlians violently resisted the tax, and wrote to the king expressing in language which could not be misunderstood their opinion of his methods. Gustav, however, suddenly appeared in their midst with an army and put an end to the insurrection.
When the death of Ulrica Eleonora without heirs raised a dispute with regard to the succession, the Dalecarlians, in 1742, cooperating with the peasants of Helsingland, once more revolted and demanded Crown Prince Frederick of Denmark as king, a succession which would again establish a personal union between the three Scandinavian countries, and, they believed, secure Sweden against the enmity of Russia. Their opposition was put down; but subsequent events seem to have proved the wisdom of their demands. For in 1809 Finland was seized by Russia, which is to-day considered Sweden’s most dangerous enemy.
Falun, capital and the largest city of Dalecarlia, has a population of about ten thousand. It has all of the elements of solid worth possessed by the other Swedish cities which I have visited, and because of its location it has more of charm and beauty. It nestles in the valley of Lake Runn and has a beautiful framing of wooded hills. There is the usual natural forest park, and there is also a fine birch-bordered promenade. And within the city itself trees are so numerous as to give the impression that the city was planted in a forest, as it really was.
Falun is the home of Carl Larsson, the famous Swedish artist. Through the exercise of Larsson’s talent, the beautiful scenery and picturesque life of Dalecarlia is coming more and more to be known to the world outside of Scandinavia.
To me, however, the special attraction of this Dalecarlian town is the fact that Selma Lagerlöf, the queen of modern romanticism, lives here. Miss Lagerlöf, however, is not a native of the Dal-country, but of Vermland, lying just to the south. I have long worshiped Miss Lagerlöf afar off, and while in Paris became acquainted with a friend of hers who had seen “Nils Holgersson” in the making. This led me to become more interested in her, and, in consequence, I wanted most dreadfully to call upon her while here, but Dr. Selma was spared the visit of an additional lion hunter by my reflecting that doubtless all others who journey to Falun have similar longings, and that they have as great a claim upon her as I. Therefore, I contented myself by purchasing a copy of “Nils Holgerssons Underbara Resa” in the edition studied in the schools of Sweden, and walked up the street and took a good look at the restful hillside home of the lady of my admiration. The house is of the usual dark red with white trimmings, only it is larger and handsomer and “homier” than the average Swedish house; but then the house in which Selma Lagerlöf lives must always possess an unusual degree of the home quality. Surrounding the house is a characterful old garden with a hedge of lilacs by the fence and spreading shade trees, through which the red walls peep forth invitingly.
If you have not already done so, when opportunity offers it seize upon “The Story of a Country House,” which is translated into English. It contains a “Dalarne man” and is one of the best examples of Miss Lagerlöf’s touch of romantic magic. When held by the spell of the tale, it seems the height of naturalness and probability that an insane Dalecarlian who courtesied to cats—mistaking them for goats—should rescue a Vermland damsel from the grave in which she had been buried alive and carry her off to safety in his pedler’s pack; that under her tuition he should learn the distinction between cats and goats, and should finally recover his mind and marry the damsel and “live happily ever after.” By the time you are ready to lay down the book, you know that the whole thing happened exactly as Selma Lagerlöf has told you, and you wonder how doubters can doubt.
It is a far cry from modern romanticism to a Swedish copper mine; but as this is “Grufvan,” a very special mine, you will want to know about it. Grufvan is on the slope of a mountain on the outskirts of Falun—or probably it is more correct to say that Falun is on the outskirts of the mine, for the mine is centuries older than the city and really brought the city into being. Out of this mountain copper has been dug since time immemorial: I presume that the copper that went into the composition of some of the beautifully wrought bronze objects which I saw in the museum at Stockholm was dug by pagan Swedes from this same Kopparberg.
The environs of the mine are so covered by hillocks of the red earth from which the ore had been extracted that, when I went up to see Grufvan, for a while I was lost in the maze; but I soon met a woman, with a little girl, coming from there, and inquired the direction. The woman promptly offered to accompany me for a distance and to show me the road; and though I protested that I did not wish to trouble her and would have no difficulty if she would merely direct me, she insisted, and did not turn back until we were in plain view of the mine.
Grufvan is a great crater-like hole which ages of mining have dug out of the hillside. The crater is about a quarter of a mile long and deep, and about half as wide. The rich mineral colorings of the steep walls faintly suggest the Grand Cañon of the Colorado to my Far Western mind. The great mass of copper ore which has been gradually extracted from the interior of the mountain had, originally—so I was informed—the shape of an inverted cone. Through lack of proper engineering, about three centuries ago the roof fell in, resulting in excavation which produced the present crater-like opening. Now the mineral is extracted by means of tunnels and shafts. As I leaned over the railing around the walls of the mine, I could see, far below, many openings into which car tracks ran.
While at Falun I learned why the great majority of Swedish houses are painted dark red. The paint of this color is unusually cheap, for it is a by-product of the copper mine. The fact that the dark red homes peeping from a winter mantle of snow or a summer framing of green foliage add charm to the Swedish landscape appears to be only a lucky accident.
It is possible to see the Dalecarlia of the past in the present land, for the Dal-people are very conservative; but in order to do so it is necessary to go into the mountain country back of Falun. Here the peasants retain many of the ancient customs, and to a considerable extent they still dress in the style of their very great grandparents—not for the sake of tourist trade, but simply because they have not yet seen fit to bow their necks under the dominion of the tyrant, Dame Fashion. In order to see these conservative democrats I went into the back country to Rättvik, on beautiful Lake Siljan. It was but a short journey through a rugged forest district with tiny scraps of farms on hillside clearings where hay hung out to dry. And before I arrived at my destination I discovered several of these old-type Swedes; they were on the same car as I. Even if they had not worn the national costumes, I should have picked them out. For what do you suppose they were doing? Taking snuff!—at least, the men were. While the great progressive majority of the Christian world is firmly established in the cigarette habit, those poky Dalecarlians are still lingering in the snuff stage!
At the Rättvik station I gave my suitcases to a boy from an inn with a hospitable-sounding name, and walked up with three women who were teachers in girls’ schools. They had been in attendance upon an educational convention which had just closed at Falun, and had gone up to spend the week-end at Rättvik. During the walk I received considerable light upon the educational “problems” which these women have to face. The little woman who walked next to me explained all about it in excellent English. It seems that the Swedish “common people”—whoever they are—are demanding that the public schools give their children instruction in the languages and all sorts of, “for them, useless branches.” These children want an opportunity to get into the professions, to teach, to be secretaries—and “everything.” (Forsooth! thought I.) “And that is what we are fighting,” concluded the little lady. “Why, we cannot even get servants because these people want to do other things!” A servant problem added to the educational one! I must admit, Cynthia, that my charming Sweden is in many ways quite aristocratic; it is, in fact, the most aristocratic of the Scandinavian lands.
You may be sure that the grievances of the lady struck no answering chord in my democratic Far Western soul. However, as I did not come to Sweden to inculcate my peculiar principles, I refrained from calling attention to the fact—which is very patent to all who have any sort of knowledge of Swedish history—that a large proportion of the men and women who have made Scandinavia the truly great land that it is, and whose memory all Scandinavians delight to honor, were of the so-called “common people.” They came to their own by thrusting aside by main strength the “thus-far-shalt-thou-go” barriers such as the little aristocrat was stubbornly defending. I might have mildly suggested also that so soon as the poky old world should decide to abandon the mediæval attitude toward “servants” and become modernly humanitarian and scientific in this regard, just so soon would the “servant problem” disappear in thin air. But the profile view which the twilight gave me of the very firm chin of my companion warned me that any such remarks from me would fall upon soil barren indeed; so I merely told her briefly of our system in America; and by that time we were at the inn.
A pleasant-faced, gray-haired woman in black silk met us at the door and bade us welcome with Swedish cordiality. She was Fru Carlson, our hostess—not even the most presumptuous would call her a “landlady.” This pleasant reception gave me the restful feeling of a tired child who has finally reached home after long wanderings.
As I had dined before leaving Falun, I went to my room very promptly; and it was just the sort of room that a returned pilgrim would wish to occupy in old Dalecarlia. On the floor was a rag carpet; on the walls were Swedish prints, including one of a boat-load of quaintly garbed Dalecarlians rowing across Lake Siljan to church; my bed was narrow and spotlessly white, and of just the sort that all wanderers are supposed to have occupied in the days of their childhood; instead of an electric light there was a tallow candle. The large French window opened upon a garden, bordering the lake, which looked soft and silvery in the lingering twilight. Across the flat surface of the water I could see the gleaming white steeple of the Rättvik church. With the gentle murmur of Lake Siljan in my ears, I went to sleep, and knew no more until the glory of the summer sunshine had supplanted the twilight, and Siljan was rippling and sparkling under a fair blue sky.
This new day was Sunday, and, as I wished to see the Rättvikers gathering for church, I hurriedly dressed and went to breakfast—a sort of picnic meal set forth in a large, sunny room overlooking the garden and the lake. It was served in an informal cafeteria style common in all Scandinavian countries; but whether peculiar to them, I cannot say. On one end of a long table were great piles of hard bread; a bewildering variety of unnecessary, but delicious, appetizers in the form of “smörgåsbord”; several dishes filled with hot food—though how kept hot I do not pretend to know—and a capacious urn of coffee, piping hot too. The breakfaster was expected to secure a tray, napkin, and dishes from a side table, pre-empt a small table, and serve himself to the abundance set forth according to the dictates of his appetite, utterly unmolested by obsequious waiters.
Breakfast over, I walked down the deep, woodsy road along the lake toward the church. Many worshipers were already on the way. Some walked, while others rode in queer, heavy two-wheeled carts drawn by chubby Swedish ponies. The people of Rättvik no longer employ the picturesque church boats, though they are still used in some of the remoter parishes. Practically all of the people whom I noticed wore complete peasant costumes of the old style, but a few wore daring combinations of the ancient and modern. Every parish in Dalecarlia has a distinct fashion in dress, I understand. The Rättvik costume I recognized as one which had seemed especially quaint upon the children who took part in the folk dances in Stockholm. The men wear a dress somewhat suggestive of the garb of the English Puritans of the seventeenth century. Their hats are black, high-crowned, and broad-brimmed; their long coats of the same color reach about to the knees and are made with high, standing collars, and with inverted pleats in the back to increase the fulness of the skirts; beneath these they wear large, brightly colored waistcoats, and buff-colored trousers reaching to the knees; and at the knee the trousers are finished off with looped cords of bright red worsted ending in pom-poms which bounce merrily against the surface of the dark home-knit stockings as the wearer walks; the shoes are of the low, broad, buckled variety. The boys, even the tiny ones, wear garments which are the counterparts of those of their fathers and their grandfathers—except that in inverse proportion to the smallness of the boy is the length of his coat-tails. The characteristic dress of the women seems to be high, pointed black caps bordered with red, and with red pom-poms dangling from the back and playing tag on the shoulders; white blouses and colored bodices heavily embroidered with wool and fastened with large silver brooches; full black skirts reaching to the ankles; woolen stockings and low shoes. The chief glory of the Rättvik woman’s costume, however, is her long apron, woven of wool in bright horizontal stripes. The apron is generally attached to a wide red woolen belt, from which hangs a gaily embroidered bag of wool. Some of the older women wear kerchiefs or white linen caps. The garments of the little girls closely follow the fashion of their mothers. These little women looked quaint indeed in their long, full skirts. But they seemed not to be lacking in either health or happiness.
As I walked up the hill, I met a young woman, costumed as I have described, coming down. I asked whether I might take her picture, explaining that I would pay for the privilege. She consented, posed as I requested, and I took a couple of exposures; but when I attempted to pay her, she emphatically refused the money, declared with quiet dignity that I was welcome, courtesied, and went her way. After the everlasting cry of “money for the peekture” from the tourist-spoilt Dutch of the Island of Marken this experience was certainly refreshing. That was the only time that I risked insulting a Dalecarlian by offering money for the friendly favor of posing for a picture; subsequently I merely asked permission, which some granted and others courteously but firmly refused.
A Quaint House in Rättvik
Rättvikers on the Way to Church
Around the church is the burying ground filled with neatly-kept graves most of which are marked with plain crosses. The morning services had not yet begun and a few old women, wearing white linen caps upon their heads and plaid woolen shawls about their shoulders, were busying themselves with the flowers growing upon the mounds. Down beside the gateway which faced the water were two orthodoxly clad men, talking sociably. Near this gateway Gustav Vasa stood four hundred years ago and addressed the people of Rättvik, as they streamed from the church, calling upon them to help him free the land from the Danish tyrant. The place is marked by the Gustav Vasa “runestone,” to which one of the men called my attention. It is a great rough slab of granite upon which, in letters graven in imitation of the ancient runes and filled in with gold, are briefly recorded the exploits of the George Washington of Sweden. Encircling the main stone are a number of low granite slabs. These bear the names of the Dal-people who particularly befriended and aided Vasa while he was in hiding from the Danish spies. And this service was not restricted to men; some of the stones are marked with the names of women, one of whom, Barbro Stigsdotter, aided Gustav Vasa in defiance of her husband’s wrath. While her husband had gone to betray him to his enemies, the independent-spirited Barbro lowered Vasa from an upper story window by means of a long sheet, thus enabling him to escape and free his people from the Danish yoke. At Ornäs, near Falun, the home of Barbro Stigsdotter still stands, now a museum belonging to the Swedish nation.
The Swedish peasants are an unusually fine class of people. They have always been free and have always constituted the backbone of the nation; they have participated in the government and have owned the land which they tilled. The same homesteads have been in the possession of some of the peasant families for many centuries.
And the qualities which one finds in the Swedish peasants in general are noticeable to a marked degree in the Dalecarlians, who are regarded by scientists as the purest representatives of the old Swedish type. They are exceedingly independent and democratic. They seem to feel that they are second to none. In times past, in recognition of their services in establishing the freedom of Sweden, they had the privilege of shaking hands with the king whenever they met him, and they regard themselves as his equal. They have a reputation for saying “thou” (du) instead of “you” (ni) to all men, regardless of rank; they ignore titles of nobility and call even the king “Mister” (Herr). Hans Christian Andersen in his “Pictures of Travel” gives an instance of the Dalecarlian viewpoint. Once when a grandson of King Carl Johan was in Dalecarlia an old peasant came up to him, shook hands, and said: “Please greet thy grandfather for me at Stockholm.”
So far, I have mostly mentioned the characteristics which make the Dalecarlians unique. They are far from being freaks, however, and have many qualities more generally distributed over the world than those to which I have called attention. They are really an excellent people. In their plain, sensible faces one can read little of which the Dalecarlians need feel ashamed. There is self-complacency, indeed, which in them is only self-complacency, but which in a smaller and meaner people would become contemptible egotism. But there are also the strength and firmness which in times past gave the Dalecarlians the courage of their convictions. United with this are kindness and good nature, a strong sense of personal dignity, and a saving self-respect. And, writ large over all, is that stern and uncompromising honesty which clearly distinguishes between mine and thine and prefers the unvarnished truth to the polite lie.
But time presses, Cynthia, the train on which I am to leave Falun is almost ready. With me, you must say good-by not only to the land of the Dal-people, but also to the whole pleasant land of Sweden, a land which I leave with regret, and to which I shall return with pleasure. Now, it is Ho for Norway!