Cousin-hunting in Scandinavia

by Mary Wilhelmine Williams

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.