The Settlers (24 page)

Kristina turned to him. To live alone was too much for a human being. She had gone through so much, she knew. She herself would not wish to live without a man, and she thanked her Creator that she had one. She wanted to tell Thomassen how sorry she was that he must live alone. God had made men and women for each other and he wanted them to enjoy each other. She told him that she hoped so many women would move into the Territory that every man who wanted a wife could have one; that he too would find the companionship he longed for, so he would no longer have to suffer the cruel lot of the lonely ones.

The little yellow-haired man listened intently. Then he touched her hand and said in a controlled voice: “You are a good woman.”

Kristina felt perhaps she had been able to comfort another human being.

—5—

At the height of the party Ulrika had an announcement: when she had planned the party she had hoped to have one more dear guest present, a little man-child. But as far as she could see it would be another year or so before he could be welcomed. In his place had been sent another guest, a little girl, whom they now would see for the first time.

Cora Skalrud came in carrying the tender child, the little newborn girl, bundled up in her swaddling clothes, and showed her to the guests. Miss Skalrud was as proud of the little one as if she herself had borne her. She predicted that the daughter would one day be as beautiful as her mother. Ulrika replied that in America a girl could make good use of a fair face. But such a girl born in Sweden to poor people would only have to suffer because of it, as she would be considered permissible prey for the men.

“Well, now I have introduced the wench,” she said happily, and Miss Skalrud carried the baby back to bed.

In the meantime, Jonas Petter had been telling a ribald story to a few of the male guests who sat in a circle around him. It was about a rich farmer at home in Ljuder who was unable to become a father and wanted to hire the village soldier to make him an heir, after his wife had agreed to do her part of the work. The farmer offered the soldier ten sacks of rye for his trouble if a male heir were the result, and five sacks if a female was born, all ample measure. That was how great a difference in value of the two sexes there was in Sweden. The soldier at first pretended hesitation, hoping the farmer would raise the offer. But it had been a year of bad crops and grain was high priced and at last he accepted the pay—it would give bread to his own large flock of children. Next time when the farmer had an errand to town and had to stay away for a couple of nights, the soldier was called in for duty in the couple’s marital bed.

He broke it off, however, when Ulrika displayed her newborn child, and when the little girl had been carried to her room he refused to go on. He realized suddenly that it was not a suitable story for a party in a minister’s home—he would tell the rest of it some other time in a less pious place.

Jonas Petter understood more English than any of the other men who had come to America with him; during the winter evenings he had studied language books and this last year he had been reading
The Pioneer,
the American paper for settlers, printed in St. Paul. And tonight Pastor Jackson had discovered Jonas’s ability in English; they had talked in the pastor’s tongue and understood each other easily.

The pastor now approached Jonas Petter, took him by the arm, and led him to a corner. He was speaking in a whisper—it seemed he had a secret to confide. And Jonas Petter’s ears were wide open:

Pastor Jackson had thought of a surprise for his wife at her party tonight: he intended to give a speech in her own language: “I want to pay tribute to my wife in Swedish, you see!”

From his Swedish friends he had picked up a few suitable sentences and had practiced their pronunciation in secret. But Swedish was a very difficult language and therefore his speech would be short, only seven or eight brief sentences. He practiced this speech for a long time. He wanted to honor and thank his beloved wife in her own language, but in his address of respect he wished also to include all the other women who had come from her country. He valued and thought highly of them all.

The little speech he had prepared with so much effort was written down on a piece of paper. Now he wanted to show it to Jonas Petter and get his opinion as to whether it was good enough. He was anxious to know if he had made any mistakes in the language—would Jonas Petter be kind enough to look through it?

Pastor Jackson handed him the paper. Jonas Petter walked over to the nearest wall candle and read by the light from the tallow:

“Dear my beloved Ollrika! I wish you a bit of speech on your party-feast today. I wish to say unto you thank you my dear. I am joyful and filled with happiness that you became a wife of mine. You are the best of wives in this world. I want you this to know. I would like to make speech and honor all Swedish womenkind today. I enjoy them and find happiness in them all.
Svensuka flicker knulla bra.
”

Twice Jonas Petter read through what Pastor Jackson had written. He read slowly and carefully and his face assumed a thoughtful mien.

The pastor stood behind his back and explained. It was the chastity and virtue of the Swedish women he wanted to praise in these words. Of all the people who had moved into Minnesota, the Swedish women appeared to him the model of pious morality.

The pastor was still talking in whispers. Jonas Petter whispered back: there was one sentence he wanted to ask about—where had the pastor picked up the very last sentence of the speech?

Jackson replied he had it from a Swedish timberman he had met in Franconi; he had asked this man to write down in his own language a few words of praise for Swedish women, indeed, the best praise he could give with a clear conscience. And the Swede had written it on paper he had copied, so Pastor Jackson did not think there could be any mistake in the language; he remembered that sentence very well—it was the last one, and he had copied it correctly.

Jonas Petter also spoke in a whisper when he answered that this was an elegant and worthy speech. It was well suited for the occasion here tonight. All that was written down on this paper was clear, unadulterated truth; from the first word to the last it was the whole truth. And he was sure the women present would like it; they would be well pleased with the praise they received. Nor were there any mistakes in Swedish grammar; all was well put together.

But he would advise the pastor to shorten the speech with one sentence, only one little sentence. If, for example, the last sentence were cut out, the very last one. It was more or less superfluous anyway. What it conveyed had already been repeated so often that everyone knew it. It was indeed correct and right and true, that line also, perhaps the truest of them all. Jonas Petter himself could from practical experience verify its truth, for that matter. It contained great honor and much praise for the Swedish women, and they would indeed feel honored when they heard it. But a speaker ought not to repeat what everyone knew. So the last sentence was entirely superfluous. The fine speech would have its best effect if it were removed.

Pastor Jackson nodded eagerly and thanked Jonas Petter warmly for the advice; of course he would follow it. Jonas Petter pulled out his red carpenter’s pencil, which he always carried in his hip pocket, and drew a line through the last four words on the paper, a thick, forceful line which almost obliterated them.

The speech Pastor Jackson gave in honor of his wife came as her crown of honor. The surprise was almost too much for her—now old Ulrika of Västergöhl was indeed rehabilitated; she had invited these guests to her new home, they had willingly accepted her invitation, yes, they had felt honored by it. And they were happy and sated with food and good cheer—with one voice they had praised her ability as housekeeper and cook. There was no end to their praise of her “Swedish table” with its delicious dishes. And she had been proud to show them a well-shaped daughter, born in wedlock, in a Christian marriage. Even as a mother she had received honor and praise. And then at last, entirely unexpected, utterly surprising, came this further honor, respect and praise to her—this speech in her own language which her dear, beloved Henry gave for her.

Her fellow immigrants, the people from her own home parish, could hear in their own language, clearly and loudly, how grateful her husband was to her, how highly he esteemed and respected and honored her. It was a mark of honor surpassing all others—it raised her so high she felt dizziness overtake her. Ulrika of Västergöhl had come into her glory. What more could she wish in life?

Ulrika rushed over to her husband, who opened his arms to her for everyone to see, resting on his breast she could no longer contain her emotions. She burst into tears of happiness.

And Jonas Petter returned to his seat and helped himself to more of the hostess’s delicious cheesecake. He had undoubtedly done a good deed today; he had prevented a great scandal at this party. He had done so because it was Ulrikas first party. But now he sat there wondering about himself and the way he had acted. He wondered if he hadn’t in some way begun to change—if Pastor Jackson had asked his advice in this matter a few years ago, then he would surely have urged him to give his speech without shortening it. Why had he this evening refused such a malicious pleasure?

Like Ulrika of Västergöhl, he must have become a better person in America.

VIII

“THAT BAPTIST ILK”

—1—

Karl Oskar and Kristina were celebrating their fourth Christmas in the new country. They had made things as Yule-like as possible, both inside and outside. At threshing time Karl Oskar had put aside a dozen sheaves which he now set up for the birds in front of the window; there the yellow barley straw broke warmly against the tall white drifts. Just finished for Christmas was a little sled he had made for the children on which they could slide down the drifts as soon as the snow packed. The weather was mild this Christmas, their last in the log cabin.

Karl Oskar was in the habit of writing to his parents twice a year, at Christmas and at Midsummer. Now he sat with pen and paper for several evenings during the holidays and wrote his letter to Sweden. Last summer his letter had been very brief; he wanted to make his winter letter a little longer. But when, at the very beginning, he had noted down that all of them enjoyed the precious gift of health, he seemed to have said almost all there was to say, and he had to work laboriously to compose further sentences.

On the last day of the old year Karl Oskar received a letter from his sister Lydia, who had written in their fathers place. Father’s hands shook so, she wrote, that Nils Jakobsson was afraid his letters from now on would be so poorly written that his son in America would be unable to read them. But both he and Mother were well and active, even though they no longer made any use of themselves in this life. His sister wrote that she, during the past year, had joined in wedlock a farmer at Åkerby, so that her name from now on would be Lydia Karlsson. Since her marriage she had borne a son who at the moment of her writing was six weeks old. She mentioned the names of a few parishioners, recently dead, whom Karl Oskar had known, and she wrote that many farmers from Ljuder and the neighboring villages of Linneryd and Elmeboda had emigrated to North America during the year, but she did not know where they had settled. Finally, she wondered what had happened to their brother Robert, whom they had not heard from for almost two years.

Karl Oskar could not allay her apprehensions concerning Robert, only share them. Almost a year had passed since he had received the last letter from his brother. And next spring three years would have passed since Robert and Arvid started out on their journey to the California goldfields.

Neither of the young men was made for long, dangerous journeys, nor were they in shape to endure hardships. One could only hope Providence had protected them on the road to the goldfields. And what could Karl Oskar have done to stop their venture? He could not have denied his brother the right to make his own decisions. He could not put his brother in a cage. Moreover, Robert would have escaped had he done so. Even as a small child he would run away, and his parents had had to put a cowbell around his neck to find the straying boy. The day he was to begin his first service as a hired hand he had tried to run away and leave the home village, and later he had escaped from his master. Robert was the eternal escapist. If he only reached Heaven he would try to escape from it too, thought Karl Oskar. But why didn’t he write more often? He could write well.

“Robert won’t come back until he has found gold,” Kristina said.

“And just because of this I’m afraid he’ll never come back.”

Karl Oskar was beginning to think that his younger brother was no longer alive.

—2—

Another new year began—1854—and again they were without a new almanac. Notations about crops, purchases, sales, dates when the cows took the bull, and other important days were still recorded in the old almanac.

With the new year came severe cold. Night and day they kept the fire burning. The fireplace—it was the cabin’s heart and center, the capitol of the home kingdom. The hearth was the home’s altar, and on that altar were sacrificed all the cords of firewood that had been cut during the summer and stacked against the cabin wall to dry. The fireplace—it was the most essential part of the home, the source of blessed warmth. The fire must not go out. In the light of the fire they performed their chores, round the altar of flames they gathered to warm their cold limbs. The fireplace gave the people in the cabin light and warmth, it was the defender of life.

Each morning the wreath of white frost roses bloomed anew on the nail heads. On the walls of round logs the cold found ever new holes and cracks. But next winter it might penetrate here as much as it pleased; no living soul would then be in this place, and no fire would burn on the hearth. Next winter they would be protected in a real house. The child Kristina was expecting would have its delicate body sheltered by well-chinked timber walls. The child—that is, if it now turned out to be only one . . . The thought had begun to hover in Kristina’s mind, that perhaps a twin birth was in the offing. The new life felt so heavy in her body—hadn’t it felt the same way once before? She had had twins earlier, but only Lill-Marta had survived. If again she gave life to two, would they both live? It was futile to worry about it but she couldn’t help it; she was made that way.