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.
[Illustration: A Quaint House in Rättvik]
[Illustration: 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!