We find, too, constant evidence of derivation from the earliest, common sources of all folk-lore and myth; parallels to the fairy tales and legends of other lands and other ages. There is a version of the Bluebeard theme in Ímarasugssuaq, “who, it is said, was wont to eat his wives.” Instances of friendship and affection between human beings and animals are found, as in the tale of the Foster-mother and the Bear. Various resemblances to well-known fairy tales are discernible in such stories as that of the Eagle and the Whale, where the brothers set out to rescue their sisters from the husbands who hold them captive. Here too, we encounter that ancient and classical expedient of fugitives; throwing out objects behind to check pursuit.
The conception of the under-world, as shown in the story of Kúnigseq and others, is a striking example of this kinship with ancient and well-known legends. Kúnigseq comes to the land of shades, and meets there his mother, who is dead. But she must not kiss him, for “he is only here on a visit.” Or again: “If you eat of those berries, you will never return.” The under-world is partly an Elysium of existence without cares; partly Dantesque: “Bring ice when you come again, for we thirst for cold water down here.” And the traveller who has been away from earth for what seems an hour, finds that years of earthly time have passed when he returns.
Spirits of the departed appearing to their kin upon earth do so with an injunction “not to tell.” (In England we write to the newspapers about them.) Magic powers or gifts are lost by telling others how they came. Spirit gifts are made subject to some condition of restraint: “Choose only one and no more.” “If you kill more than one seal to-day, you will never kill seal again hereafter.”
The technique of the fairy tale is frequently apparent. One test fulfilled is followed by the demand for fulfilment of another. Qujâvârssuk, having found the skeleton as instructed, is then sent off to search for a lamb stone. This, of course, apart from its æsthetic value as retardation, is particularly useful to the story-teller aiming principally at length. We also find the common progression from one great or splendid thing to other greater or more splendid; a woman appears “even more finely dressed than on the day before.” English children will perhaps remember Hans Andersen’s dog with “eyes as big as saucers ... eyes as big as Rundetaarn.”
The use of “magic power” is of very frequent occurrence; it seems, indeed, to be the generally accepted way of solving any difficulty. As soon as the hero has been brought into a situation from which no ordinary way of escape appears, it then transpires—as an afterthought—that he is possessed of magic powers, when the rest, of course, is easy. A delightful instance of the extent to which this useful faculty can be watered down and yet remain effective is seen in the case of the village where no wizard can be found to help in time of famine, until it is “revealed” that Íkardlítuarssuk “had formerly sat on the knee of one of those present when the wizards called up their helping spirits.” In virtue of which very distant connection he proceeds to magic away the ice.
There is a general tendency towards anthropomorphic conception of supernatural beings. The Moon Man has his stock of harpoons like any mortal hunter; the Mountain Spirit has a wife and children. The life and domestic arrangements of “spirits” are mostly represented as very similar to those with which the story-teller and his hearers are familiar, much as we find, in early Italian paintings, Scriptural personages represented in the costume and environment of the artist’s own place and period.
The style of narrative is peculiar. The stories open, as a rule, with some traditionally accepted gambit. “There was once a man ...” or “A fatherless boy lived in the house of the many brothers.” The ending may occasionally point a sort of moral, as in the case of Ukaleq, who after having escaped from a Magic Bear, “never went out hunting bear again.” But the usual form is either a sort of equivalent to “lived happily ever after,” or a frank and direct intimation: “Here ends this story,” or “That is all I know of so-and-so.” Some such hint is not infrequently necessary, since the “end” of a story often leaves considerable scope for further development.
It is a characteristic feature of these stories that one never knows what is going to happen. Poetic justice is often satisfied, but by no means always (Kâgssagssuk). One or two of them are naïvely weak and lacking in incident; we are constantly expecting something to happen, but nothing happens ... still nothing happens ... and the story ends (Puagssuaq). It is sometimes difficult to follow the exact course of a conversation or action between two personages, owing to the inadequate “he” which is used for both.
The story-teller, while observing the traditional form, does not always do so uncritically. Occasionally he will throw in a little interpolation of his own, as if in apology: “There was once a wifeless man—that is the way a story always begins.” Or the entertainer starts off in a cheerfully familiar style: “Well, it was the usual thing; there was a Strong Man, and he had a wife. And, of course, he used to beat her....”
Here and there, too, a touch of explanation may be inserted. “This happened in the old days,” or “So men thought in the olden time.” There is a general recognition of the difference between old times and new. And the manner in which this difference is viewed reveals two characteristic attitudes of mind, the blending of which is apparent throughout the Eskimo culture of to-day. There is the attitude of condescension, the arrogant tolerance of the proselyte and the parvenu: “So our forefathers used to do, for they were ignorant folk.” At times, however, it is with precisely opposite view, mourning the present degeneration from earlier days, “when men were yet skilful rowers in ’kayaks,’ or when this or that might still be done ’by magic power.’”