Talking with a group of Girl Guides a while ago, we fell (as you
do) into a discussion about house spirits.
The best known example, annoyingly enough, is Dobby the house-elf from J.K.
Rowling’s Harry Potter series. I say
‘annoyingly’ because I have a soft spot for house spirits, and for me Dobby
isn’t the best ambassador for the breed. Rowling’s approach to magical creatures
from folklore is cavalier: she takes the names and happily reinvents the creatures. Her Boggart, for example, resembles not so much
the boggarts of folklore, but a nursery bogeyman. ‘Boggarts’, declares
Professor Lupin in ‘The Prisoner of Azkaban’, ‘like dark, enclosed spaces. Wardrobes, the gap beneath beds, the
cupboards under sinks. …So, the first question we must ask ourselves is, what is a Boggart?’ Of course Hermione comes up with the answer:
‘It’s a shape-shifter,” she said.
“It can take the shape of whatever it thinks will frighten us most.’
This certainly isn’t what a boggart from folk-lore does, although
they are sometimes able to take the shape of animals such as black dogs. More
about boggarts below. But to return to Dobby, the down-trodden house-elf of the
Malfoy family. Dobby is a slave. He lives
in terror, forced to punish himself whenever he criticizes his master. It’s a great twist of reinvention, but hardly
representative of house spirits in general. From English brownies, boggarts,
lobs and hobs, to the Welsh bwbach, from Scandinavian nisses and tomtes and German kobolds, to the Russian
domovoi, most house spirits are independent, mischievous, strong-minded
characters. And although Rowling employs the
folklore motif best known from the Grimms’ fairy tale ‘The Elves and the Shoemaker’ that a
gift of clothes will set the creature free (Dobby has to wear a pillowcase instead
of clothes), many folk-tales make it clear that far from longing for this gift,
many house spirits are perversely and deeply offended by it.
'It was indeed very easy to offend a brownie,' writes the folklorist Katherine Briggs in ‘A Dictionary
of Fairies’ (1976):
It was indeed very easy to offend
a brownie, and either drive him away or turn him from a brownie into a boggart,
in which the mischievous side of the hobgoblin was shown. The Brownie of
Cranshaws is a typical example of a brownie offended. An industrious brownie
once lived in Cranshaws in Berwickshire, where he saved the corn and thrashed
it until people began to take his services for granted and someone remarked
that the corn this year was not well mowed or piled up. The brownie heard him,
of course, and that night he was heard tramping in and out of the barn
muttering:
“It’s no weel mowed! It’s no weel
mowed!
Then it’s ne’er be mowed by me
again:
I’ll scatter it ower the Raven
stane
And they’ll hae some wark e’er
it’s mowed again.”
Sure enough, the whole harvest
was thrown over Raven Crag, about two miles away, and the Brownie of Cranshaws
never worked there again.
In folk-lore there’s never any suggestion that humans have a
say in whether a brownie comes to work for them or not. Often they seem simply
to belong in the house, to have been there for generations, such as the house spirit Belly Blin or Billy Blind in the illustration above, who comes to warn Burd Isabel that her betrothed, Young Bekie, is about to be forced to marry another woman.
‘Ohon,
alas!’ says Young Bekie,
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‘I
know not what to dee;
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For I
canno win to Burd Isbel,
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An’
she kensnae to come to me.’
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|
XIV
O it fell once upon a day
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Burd
Isbel fell asleep,
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And up
it starts the Billy Blind,
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And
stood at her bed-feet.
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XV
‘O waken, waken, Burd Isbel,
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How
can you sleep so soun’,
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Whan
this is Bekie’s wedding day,
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An’
the marriage gaïn on?
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Taking the hob's advice, Burd Isabel sets out with the Billy Blind as her helmsman, to cross the sea, find her lover and prevent the marriage. There's no great sense that she's surprised at this supernatural warning: rather, the Billy Blind (whose name like Puck's may have been generic, as it appears in other ballads too) seems to have been a known household inhabitant who could be expected to offer help when needed.
Some hobs may live
locally in a pond, river or hollow, and come to the farm to work.
They offer their services freely, and will
stay for so long as they are treated with respect and a dish of cream or
oatmeal is left out for them.
Katherine
Briggs writes of another such creature, a hobthrust:
There is a tale of a hobthrust
who lived in a cave called Hobthrust Hall and used to leap from there to Carlow
Hill, a distance of half a mile. He worked for an innkeeper called Weighall for
a nightly wage of a large piece of bread and butter. One night his meal was not put out and he
left for ever.
Briggs, by the way, wrote her own story about a hobgoblin.
‘Hobberdy Dick’ (1955), set in 17th century Oxfordshire, is one of
the most delightful children’s books ever and glows with genuine folk-lore
magic. Here, Hobberdy Dick scampers up
to the Rollright Stones on May Eve, to greet his friends:
‘I’m main pleased to see ye,
Grim,’ said Dick, greeting with some respect a venerable hobgoblin from Stow
churchyard. ‘…These be cruel hard times. I never thought to see so few here on
May Eve; but ‘tis black times for stirring abroad now.’
‘Us
never thought the like would happen again,’ said Grim. ‘Since the old days when
the men in white came, and built the new church, and turned I out into the cold
yard, I’ve never seen its like for strange doings. First I thought old days had
come again, for they led the horses into the church in broad day; but the next
day they led them out again. …And then they broke the masonry and smashed up
the brave windows of frozen air… and these ten years there’s not been so much
as a hobby-horse nor a dancer in the town.’
The
Taynton Lob joined them – a small, good-natured creature with prick ears and
hair like a mole’s fur on his bullet head. ‘It may be quiet in Stow,’ he said,
‘but there’s more going on than I like in Taynton churchyard.’
‘What
sort?’ said Hobberdy Dick.
‘Women,’
said the Lob half-evasively, ‘and things that feed on ‘em, and counter-ways
pacing, and blacknesses.’
The Scandinavian Nisses are my personal favourites among
house spirits. The painting above is by the 18th century Danish painter Nicolai Abraham Abildgaard, and I was once contacted by a New York auction house who asked me to confirm that the subject is indeed a Nisse. As you can see, he wears a red cap and is sitting by the fireside with his broom, eating groute, or buckwheat porridge - but the women of the household are startled and uneasy in his presence. Where the painting is now I do not know, but hope the lucky owner will not object to my sharing the image, considering I lent a hand in identifying the subject. I first met Nisses in Thomas Keightley’s 1828 compendium ‘The
Fairy Mythology’, and made use of some of the legends in my own ‘Troll’ books
(now available, if you will excuse the quick puff, in one volume under the
title ‘
West of the Moon’.)
I was charmed
by their mischief, vanity, naïvety, their occasional bursts of temper and their
essential goodwill.
There lived a man at Thrysting,
in Jutland, who had a Nis in his barn.
This Nis used to attend to the cattle, and at night he would steal
fodder for them from the neighbours.
One
time, the farm boy went along with the Nis to Fugleriis to steal corn. The Nis
took as much as he thought he could well carry, but the boy was more covetous,
and said, ‘Oh, take more; sure we can rest now and then?’ ‘Rest!’ said the Nis; ‘rest! and what is
rest?’ ‘Do what I tell you,’ replied the boy; ‘take more, and we shall find
rest when we get out of this.’ The Nis then took more, and they went away with
it. But when they were come to the lands of Thrysting, the Nis grew tired, and
then the boy said to him, ‘Here now is rest,’ and they both sat down on the
side of a little hill. ‘If I had known,’ said the Nis as they were sitting
there, ‘if I had known that rest was so good, I’d have carried off all that was
in the barn.’
Here is my own Nis (in ‘Troll Fell’, book one of ‘West of
the Moon’) disturbing the sleep of young hero Peer Ulffson as he lies in the
hay of his uncles’ barn.
A strange sound crept into Peer’s
sleep. He dreamed of a hoarse little voice, panting and muttering to itself,
‘Up we go! Here we are!’ There was a scrabbling like rats in the rafters,
and a smell of porridge. Peer rolled over.
‘Up
we go,’ muttered the hoarse little voice again, and then more loudly, ‘Move
over, you great fat hen. Budge, I say!’
This was followed by a squawk.
One of the hens fell off the rafter and minced indignantly away to find
another perch. Peer screwed up his eyes and tried to focus. He could see nothing but black shapes and
shadows.
‘Aaah!’
A long sigh from overhead set his hair on end.
The smell of porridge was quite strong. There came a sound of lapping or
slurping. This went on for a few minutes. Peer listened, fascinated.
‘No
butter!’ the little voice said discontentedly. ‘No butter in me groute!’ It mumbled to itself in disappointment. ‘The
cheapskates, the skinflints, the hard-heared misers! But wait.
Maybe the butter’s at the bottom.
Let’s find out.’ The slurping began again. Next came a sucking sound, as if the person –
or whatever it was – had scraped the bowl with its fingers and was licking them
off. There was a silence.
‘No
butter,’ sulked the voice in deep displeasure. A wooden bowl dropped out of the
rafters straight on to Peer’s head.
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| Our personal Nis, based on Abildgaard's, sits by our fire... |
In Russia, the house spirits are named domovoi, often given
the honorific titles of ‘master’ or ‘grandfather’. According to Elizabeth
Warner in ‘Russian Myths’ (British Library, 2002) the domovoi looked like a dwarfish old man,
bright-eyed and covered with hair, who dressed in peasant clothes and went
barefoot. ‘Sometimes he took on the shape of a cat or dog, frog, rat or other
animal. By and large, however, he remained invisible, his presence revealed
only by the sounds of rustling or scampering.’ Like nisses and brownies,
domovoi often busied themselves with household tasks, or with looking after
animals in the stables. Sometimes they
would befriend a particular cow or horse, which would flourish under their care. But they could also be mischievous, pinching
the humans black and blue at night, or throwing dishes and pans about like a
poltergeist. One last duty of the domovoi was to foretell ill events. ‘When a
family member was awakened in the middle of the night by the touch of a furry
hand that was cold and rough, some disaster was likely to occur.’
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Temperamental, unpredictable, generous, hard-working,
sometimes dangerous, the house spirit is reminiscent of the household gods of
the Bible, the teraphim which Rachel stole from her father Laban (Genesis 31, 34), and of the
Lares and Penates of the Romans. Better
to have your own, humble little household spirit who could be pleased with a
dish of cream or a bowl of porridge, folk may well have thought, than to try
and gain the attention of the greater gods.
And so the house spirit became a member of the family, helping and
hindering in his own inimitable way.
Picture credits:
Brownie by Arthur Rackham
Billy Blind and Burd Isbel by Arthur Rackham Wikipedia
Lob Lie By the Fire by Dorothy P Lathrop: 'Down-a-down-derry,' Fairy Poems by Walter de la Mare 1922
Nisse by Nicolai Abrahan Abilgaard
Domovoi by Ivan Bilibin - Wikimedia Commons
Lararium: shrine of household gods from Pompei: photo by Claus Ableiter - https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2673431
