The Emigrants (39 page)

No. She has agreed, once and for all. She is a woman of her word, she’ll stick to her promise.

It’s bad luck she got with child at this time—it looks as though it had been planned—the very moment we left. Now she is sensitive—and I’m afraid the sea will aggravate her further. But I shall take care of her, and help her with the children where I can. Luckily, she too is in good health.

We can’t expect much joy on this ship. Not in any way. It may be long before things go well for us again—for her and me. I don’t even know how soon I can move over to her bunk. Lying here this way, separated at night, I can never touch her. Here I lie with the unmarried men—like a castrated steer. Here I lie in “the ox pen.” I can’t get what I need, what I long for. This can’t go on too long. Why should one suffer just because one travels on a ship? They say one gets horny at sea; but of course, one gets that way on land too. Perhaps it’s worse here because I see so many women. There are those who are young and shapely too. Oh, well, I don’t care for any others as long as I have her. Nor have I ever had another one. But Ulrika of Västergöhl strolls about and shows what she has—to the men. That woman couldn’t think that I—Oh, no. Not even if I were single. Not any more. Too many men have used her. But she is tempting; that I cannot deny. She is nicely shaped, and I believe there are men here who wouldn’t hesitate. And she herself would no doubt be agreeable. Even though she is said to be “reformed,” and Danjel thinks she won’t sin any more.

Life at sea is dreary and monotonous. I must cheer her, my wife. I must tell her what we are going to do, once we are settled over there—a few years from now. When the earth in America has given us abundant crops. When I have built a big house. When the children are grown and can help us. When Johan can go with me out into the fields. When Lill-Märta can help her in the house. When we have a farm without a mortgage. When we won’t have to worry about the mortgage interest when we go to sleep and when we awaken. When we are independent in our own home. When we have begun our new life. When we live cleanly and comfortably in a house where it doesn’t smell so damn bad as it does in this stinking hole. Yes, I’ll tell her everything, as I have imagined it.

If only I could get near her; only once, at least. There ought to be a change soon.

One has such foolish thoughts. No one knows what we may have to go through. The old ones think that all is arranged before one is born. Then it doesn’t matter what one does—what use would there be in labor and struggle? But I don’t agree with the old ones. I think one must put one’s strength into everything, and use one’s head as well as one can. Always I have done it at home—I’ll do the same over there. And I intend never to regret it.

But our welfare and maybe our lives depend on this emigration. If only we were safely across the sea. . . .

Kristina:

I should never have given in; I should have talked him out of it; I feel it can never go well. Something has warned me all the time: this venture will turn out badly.

And yet—if there were a bridge back to land, and I could take my children and walk back, I would not do it. Even if I knew for sure that it would turn out ill for us, I could never return. I have told him: I want to follow you! And this cannot be revoked. He is my husband and the father of my children; what else can I do but follow him?

I wonder if he is thinking it over, perhaps regretting it, now that we are on the sea. He is much more serious. He seemed concerned as long ago as when we lay at Karlshamn and waited. I wonder if it has dawned on him what we face. This notion came to him, he had to carry it through, he is so stubborn. But how far had he thought it through in advance?

We must stick together, even so. I’ve promised to stick to him as long as I live.

What a pity we can’t sleep together here on board, and be more cozy. I must always be so careful when I’m not pregnant, I never dare give in—as I want to. I don’t wish to be with child every year if I can help it. We must skip a year now and then. But now there would be no danger—I can’t become pregnant when I am already with child. That’s one reason why it’s so disappointing and annoying, this sleeping arrangement.

I can see he wants me all the time. He has a strong nature and he can’t help it. Sometimes I’ve blamed him when I myself was equally weak; it’s not easy to admit your own weakness. When he wants me it’s almost impossible to resist—he can always have me. Because deep within me I want just what he does—even though I’ve never actually admitted it to him. I’m ashamed to appear weak; my mother said a woman must not let her husband know how weak she is. She must be master of her desires—she mustn’t be like the menfolk. That’s why I never admit the truth. He must believe that I’m willing only for his sake, for his satisfaction. It may not be quite honest of me, but it is right.

Perhaps sometimes—inadvertently—I may have shown him how much I like it. Perhaps once or twice, when it was at its best, I’ve let out sounds. But nearly always I’ve been filled with anxiety and the thought: Now—in this moment—now it’s happening, now I am becoming pregnant again. Then it has never been the same.

He pats me sometimes. I think he pats me more often since we left home. That last evening at home—how foolish of me. I regret it. I feel ashamed to remember the way I acted. But I’ve never misbehaved since then—nor has he used an ugly word since then.

I wish he could come to me tonight, now, when we don’t need to worry. Now I could give in completely; then everything would be so much better. It’s not right, and I feel ashamed of it, but my desire is much greater when I am with child than otherwise. A pregnant woman ought not to feel that way. I wonder if it is that way for sinful human beings only, not for animals. It must be the original sin within me.

But when you are a married woman, then it is permitted by God. And when you have your husband so near you—

It couldn’t be done, of course. People are lying so close all around, listening in the night. It would be difficult here on the ship, probably impossible. No eyes can see in the darkness, but all ears can hear. Some people seem to lie awake all night long. And if one did try, one would have to forget all shame. There are those who do it—that young couple in the corner last night. They could be heard, I must say. They did not even try to keep quiet. I wanted to keep my fingers in my ears, but I didn’t.

It is much worse when one has to lie here and listen to all sounds on the ship. One is aroused. And I dream so much. Last night I dreamed he was here with me. I’ll go to sleep and dream that again. I’ve lost all shame here.

It will be a long, long voyage. And we don’t know where we are headed. I’m afraid we may drown in the sea. And I’m afraid of the new country. All the little ones crawling about me. Those three creatures know nothing. Every time I feel fear, I take all three of them into my arms. But then I still miss him.

Karl Oskar—what a pity we didn’t—that we didn’t—I wanted—I should not have let you—I should have been against this venture—

Robert:

I wonder if the captain has any drops for earache in his medicine chest.

My left ear aches again tonight. At times I’m almost deaf in it. Inside, it feels like a weight. My hearing is much worse. I’ve become hard of hearing because I didn’t listen to my master, and obey him. But when I get to North America the ache will disappear. There is another air there, healthy for sick ears. Those hard of hearing in the Old World will get their hearing back in the New World.

The roar in my ear is stronger at sea. Perhaps it is the wind that causes this. It feels like a sea closed up inside my head—boiling, hissing, booming. The sea is bursting, pressing, trying to get out. This causes me pain, great pain. I awaken from the ache and find my ear is wet—my pillow too: a few drops of the sea have escaped.

I am afraid of the sea—outside there—but I try not to show my fear. I am particularly afraid in the evenings, while I lie here in my bunk. Outside the wall—on the other side of the hull—I can hear the sea with my good ear. It is not very far away. The side of the ship is only five or six inches thick, perhaps a little more, perhaps a little less. There is no great distance between me and eternity. The ship might sink tonight—the sea has only five or six inches to travel. The sea can break in and reach me, fill my ears, nose, mouth—penetrate my throat and fill up my stomach. It can fill me and pull me down to the bottom. I would hardly have time to cry out—I would sink like a stone. I can’t swim—hardly anyone here can swim. I’m afraid of the sea late at night.

Once I wanted to drown an old cat in the brook; I put her into a sack, not realizing that I should have put a stone in, too, before I threw it into the water. It didn’t sink, the cat was alive inside and swam about with the sack. It floated there like a horrible hairy water-animal. The sack kicked and moved but would not sink. I threw stones at it to make it go down, I must have thrown ten before it sank. It was gruesome, I was afraid, and I remember I cried. I was about ten, I had no better sense then. I have many times regretted it. I have never drowned a cat since.

Why is it that I always think of that cat, every evening after going to bed? It frightens me. My brother is not afraid or worried. I have never seen him afraid of anything, on land or sea.

I wonder if Elin is afraid when she lies like this, and listens to the sea outside. I was often alone with her in Karlshamn, but here on the ship I have hardly a chance to speak to her. Yesterday when we sat together on deck her mother called to her: Come here, girl; hurry up! She sounded angry. She couldn’t be angry at me.

I said to Elin once, I feel sorry for your mother. Then she seemed hurt—I can’t understand why. Feel sorry for yourself, you, living in the flesh, she said. What did she mean? I did not say a word against her mother, I only said I felt sorry for her. But Elin got angry, and I was embarrassed. I must have said something foolish, though I don’t know what it was.

I wonder if Elin sleeps with her mother behind the sailcloth. If she sleeps alone, I might crawl across to her. No, I would never dare to. One only thinks about those things—I would never dare. But it is not forbidden to wish, no one can stop you from wishing. I can wish to crawl into bed with a princess. No dean or sheriff can do a thing about it. In the catechism it is forbidden even to wish for things, to covet—to covet a woman to whom you are not married is the same as to commit adultery with her in your heart.

But one has to desire a woman before one can get her, before one can marry her.

I don’t wish to touch Elin in that forbidden way. I don’t wish to commit adultery with her. If I crawled into her bunk, here on the ship, I would just lie quietly and hold her, hold her in my two arms—as I did when we sat and slept together on Jonas Petter’s wagon. What a wonderful ride! If I were near her now I could comfort her when she is afraid, when the storms come and our ship might sink.

Today she told me she is afraid of wild Indians in America. I have told her before that the Indians might at times be a little treacherous and evil and unreliable—they are known to have attacked white people who have tried to kill them. But otherwise they are docile and peace-loving.

My ear aches as though it would burst tonight. It will soon be two years since I got that box on the ear from Aron in Nybacken, and I still feel it. The ache tonight is from that box. It must have been a “big” box—I have nearly lost my hearing in that ear. This is not so good. One cannot know what people are saying if one doesn’t hear. But I know my ear will mend as soon as we arrive in America.

For every wave I hear break against the ship, I am coming nearer to the United States. I am participating in an adventure. I will learn how big the sea is. There are few boys from our neighborhood who can sail the sea and find out how big it is. And when I arrive and step on shore I will be free for all time. On America’s shore no old farmers will be waiting, calling me their “little hand.” Never more will I be a servant to anybody. I shall be my own master.

It hurts awfully in my ear tonight. If only we could move a little faster, if only the ship could sail with higher speed, then we would soon arrive in the land where my earache will disappear.

Arvid:

A hell of a good thing that I could come along. I must thank the pious farmer for that. I think there never was such a kind couple as Danjel and his wife.

I am a passenger now. I’ve chewed that word over and over. Robert thinks I can read, and he tries to make me spell it. He says it has a che-sound in it. What the devil is a che-sound? I went to school a while but I never heard of a che-sound. No other sounds either, as I recall. I never let on to Robert, of course—he thinks I can spell and read. It is the same sound as in a chunk of dirt, he said. But I didn’t understand it. You must mean shit, I said. I think they call that a piece of dirt in school.

Robert is a very learned man who has read much. I would like to have his eyes to read with and his head to think with. He is a clever devil in thinking, finished before I even get started.

Anyhow, now the Bull of Nybacken is a passenger and walks the ship and lives a lazy life. Sundays and weekdays the same. I don’t earn my food, but I get it anyway—three meals a day. I can hardly believe it. Never in all my born life have I had it so easy and comfortable. Ever since I was a small child I have slaved every day—Sundays too. Even when I had my free-week, and came home, I had to help with chores. If I sat down and rested my mother used to say: “Go get some wood! Get a bucket of water!” Or my father said: “Come and crank the grindstone! Help me make this broom!” Never in hell did I have a free-week. No, never. But here on ship no one says: “What are you doing, lazy dog? Give me a hand!” I haven’t done a damned thing since we left home. I have been fed just the same, eaten three meals every day—and how good I feel!

I haven’t been seasick either. A couple of times I have felt like spewing a little, but it went away. I think I have too much food in my stomach. I haven’t missed a single meal yet, and I’ll eat all I can get.