THE TRAVELING STORY TELLERS OF THE NORTHLAND BY ANNA BOGENHOLM SLOANE

Even before Magnus Ladulos introduced the titles and privileges of nobility as reward for service in war, which started the great baronies in Sweden, a kind of feudal system had been in vogue there from oldest times. The topographical conditions of the country, with its smiling valleys and fertile plains interspersed with numerous streams and rugged mountains was probably responsible for the origin of this system. For these natural barriers, in the absence of modern engineering skill in constructing bridges and tunnelled roads, were more formidable then, and contributed to the isolation of the people and the formation of clans.

The population consisted of only two distinct classes, the freemen and the “thrales,” or serfs. The freemen, or “Odalmen,” as they were called, owned the soil they tilled. The country was sparely settled, so that there was some distance between the homesteads of the odalmen. These homesteads were somewhat imposing, housing not only the odalman and his family, but also a number of house men, as they were called—fighting men and strong, a sort of guard of the fireside. Besides these were a number of thrales, or servants. Because of continual strife between the different petty kings of the country, the odalmen’s homes were never safe from attack by one party or another, hence the necessity of having as large house guards as could be afforded.

During the long and severe winter when fighting and warfare were impracticable life in the odalmen’s homesteads would have been monotonous, were it not for the relief afforded by the traveling story tellers, or “skalds,” for that was long before the day of the school, the book and the periodical. From the hall of the kings to the burgs of the jarls [corresponding to governors of small districts], from the baronial castles to the odalmen’s homesteads, traveled the skalds and the bards narrating old legends and relating the latest gossip, singing old songs and improvising new ones, recounting the deeds of valor and prowess on the battlefield and in the tournament, singing the praises of beauty and chivalry, and rhyming on drinking bouts and feasting. Not only within the bounds of Sweden did they travel, but over continental Europe as well, entertaining one people with the songs and legends and tales of another. Thus are the stories and lore of the different European countries considerably intermixed. For, when the stories the traveling skalds told of the great deeds of other countries were repeated by their listeners, much local coloring was added until gradually the stories of foreign lands became their own. In this way the Swedes have adopted the stories of Germany and France, and in like manner those countries have adopted some of the Swedish legends and hero tales until the old literature of nearly all European countries record nearly the same events, each nation giving to the stories the characteristics of its own temperament and environment.

The traveling story teller was the most welcome and honored guest in every home. He was the newspaper, the theatre, the concert and music hall combined into one. He brought to the fireside glimpses of the outside world, wreathed weather-beaten faces with smiles and made the roof beams return the echo of hearty laughter. At the King’s feasts the skald’s place was next to his majesty. To him was handed the tallest beaker and the fattest slice of pork. The story teller was always invited to witness battles and bouts and tournaments, so that he might afterward recount the deeds of valor in war and the feats of feasting, making heroes live in song and story. It was very much the same as now, when the newspaper reporter is invited to the baseball field or to follow the armies of warring nations so as to publish to the world the course of events.

The personal magnetism of the skald went into the account and made the story more vivid and its impression more lasting. Perhaps the overstepping of actual truth in the recounting was as common among the skalds of old as it is among our own modern newspaper reporters. Then as now a good story was wanted, and the better the story he could tell the stouter was the drink the teller received at its ending. So now the more sensational details the reporter can crowd into a murder story the nearer and surer is his promotion in rank and pay. But the old story teller was safer from being found out, and his story was accepted at its face value, which is not always the case with modern newspaper yarns. It is probable that to the tumultuous imagination of the old story tellers is due the astounding deeds of valor and the exaggerated achievements accredited to our forefathers in the legacy of legends that have been handed down from the ancient days.

The first story teller recorded in the Swedish lore is the maid Gifeon, in Odin’s retinue. The tale regarding her is something as follows: When Odin was traveling from Asia to Sweden he stopped for a while in Denmark and in order to propitiate the Swedish King in advance sent Gifeon in a canoe across the strait with instructions to visit King Gylfe’s court and tell the king the most wonderful stories she could compose about the Asas [the Asiatics]. This she did, and so pleased was King Gylfe with her stories that he offered her as a reward as much land, wherever she might choose in his domain, as she could plow in a day. Gifeon secretly obtained the assistance of two giants, who, changing themselves into oxen plowed up all the land where Melar Lake now is and carried the soil southward and dropped it into the sea, off the coast of Scania [the most Southern province of Sweden]. Thus was formed the island of Sjelland, the eastern coast of which fits exactly into the formation of the entrance to Lake Melar.

When Gifeon returned to Odin and told him of her success with King Gylfe, he was so delighted that he gave her his son Skjold for a husband. Together Gifeon and Skjold ruled over the newly-made island and became the forbears of a long line of illustrious Danish Kings, called Skjoldungs. Odin went on to Sweden, and because of Gifeon’s wonderful stories he was kindly received by King Gylfe and his people.

The last professional story teller of the old school I know anything about was old man Bror. What his real name was I do not know, for everybody called him “Bror,” the Swedish for brother, and received him as such. He never did anything but travel from place to place, telling the oldest yarns and the latest gossip, interspersing it with fragments of old songs and new tunes from his old violin. Well do I remember the old man and his old white horse, Dollfoot. As a child I loved them both and danced and skipped with glee at the sight of them. When I saw Bror and Dollfoot turn from the country road to the lane leading to our farm, I used to run shouting the news, “Bror is coming, Bror is coming!” to everybody on the estate, and never a face did I see that did not light up or put on a broader smile at my message.

Dear old man Bror! I can see him now sitting contentedly in his blue cariol [a Swedish two-wheeled cart] with the reins in his right hand and the other hand on the fiddle across his knee; his old white head roofed by a nearly equally old broad-brimmed hat, the right ear leaning confidently towards the shoulder while he hums merrily the “Sea-King’s Polska,” and Dollfoot in slow trot keeping time to the beat of his master’s hum! Bror always wore blue knee breeches, white hose, low shoes with silver buckles, and a long blue coat with buttons of silver. His horse and his violin were the only loves, the only cares and the only prides the old man had. The buckles of Dollfoot’s harness shone like the buttons of a new lieutenant’s uniform, and the old violin always nestled tenderly under Bror’s left arm.

So long as Bror was able to mount the saddle he rode his horse. After that he drove in the old cariol. For five and thirty years Bror and Dollfoot were boon companions, known to every man, woman and child in the province of the Dales. Then Dollfoot died and his octogenarian master survived but a year. All mourned the mysterious old man and missed his stories. With him passed away, about thirty years ago, the last of the old type of traveling story tellers in Sweden.

We children used to climb up into his lap as soon as he had sat down and clamor for a story. And the tales he told about the giants and fairies; angels and the white Christ; Odin and Thor; Knights and Vikings, stand out like stars in the chaos of stories I have read since. No matter how well-worded and poetic in setting a story may be, its reading from the printed page does not produce as striking an impress upon the young mind as does its oral rendering well done. The life and vigor of the teller’s interpretative inflections, intonations, modulations and movements; the light of the eye and the expressions of feature add a vividness, a reality that deeply impress the child’s mind. The details may be lost in time, but the general form will remain forever. This gives the story teller a very great influence in the character building of the young; for the impulse to courage or generosity or kindliness incited by a story lauding these qualities will never wholly die. On the other hand, evil stories contaminate young minds beyond all human power of effacement.

For the same reason that the phonograph and pianola can never take the place of the singer and musician, the real story teller can not be satisfactorily replaced by books. The personal element is large in the equation. It would be an interesting study to inquire into the influence which the professional story tellers of European and other countries exercised, by the coloring their own personalities gave to their stories, over the minds and conduct of the people who for so long a time depended upon them for such mental stimulus as they had.

Between the maid Gifeon and the old man Bror was a long line of skalds of all descriptions—gay and sad, humble and haughty; jovial and rollicking singers; courtly raconteurs and lively comedians. Some spread gaiety in the halls of kings and in the castles of barons. Others carried news to the monastery and parsonage, and the humbler were content to make the rounds of the odalmen’s firesides. All were welcomed with equal heartiness and sped with the same regrets. Perhaps no more picturesque persons have appeared among men, or held a more unique place in human esteem than the traveling story tellers of the Northland.