Vilhelm Moberg - The Emigrants

“Two hundred daler!” Arvid had risen, now he sat down again, so heavily that the bench creaked in every joint.

Two hundred riksdaler was five years’ wages. And he had not one shilling saved. If he should save every penny, and didn’t even allow himself a pinch of snuff during the whole time, he would have to remain here in Nybacken and serve for five years before he could save that much money.

He sat dejected and avoided looking at his friend; he had never dreamed that the transportation to North America would cost such an incredible sum of money. He must stay at least five service years more — during five more years he would be forced to remain here as the Bull of Nybacken.

A long silence ensued. The bedbugs thought their nightly victims had finally gone to sleep and emerged cautiously from their holes and corners.

Two hundred riksdaler! That boy there was lucky to have an inheritance to draw on. But Robert must go alone, even though a moment ago they had decided to keep company and had sealed it by a handshake.

“You mean you cannot raise the transportation?”

“No — I couldn’t manage.”

“Not in any way?” Robert was almost as disappointed as Arvid.

“No, there isn’t any way out.”

“There must be some way. Perhaps we can help each other.”

And again they sat silent, and brooded and pondered.

Suddenly Arvid jumped up, his eyes gleaming. “I’ve got it! We may get across some other way!”

“What do you mean?”

Arvid grabbed hold of Robert’s shoulder, intense, breathless. “The highway, of course — we hadn’t thought of that!”

Surely, there must be some road over firm land. They could walk around the ocean, and in this way reach America dryshod. They would have to take a roundabout way, it would take them longer, but in his case that would make no difference; he would rather walk the long road to America than remain here and be shunned like a villain. If he could arrive dryshod, on foot, he would willingly take a roundabout road; he had strong, sturdy legs and was a good walker, he needn’t risk his life at sea. He was sure he could walk to America. It might take a few years, that couldn’t be helped. He would not take too much with him that might be a burden to carry, he couldn’t take his servant chest, he’d manage with a knapsack. He might take the keg too, he would need something to encourage him on the long journey if his legs alone must pay the transportation.

He couldn’t believe anything else but that in some way they could walk around the ocean.

“It’s impossible. No one can walk to America.”

“It’s impossible? There is no way?” Arvid’s eyes were pleading for any little hope, the barest possibility, even if it meant the longest and most difficult road.

Robert answered definitely: No one could walk dryshod to a land which was surrounded on all sides by water. Arvid could see that on the map at schoolmaster Rinaldo’s. America lay there like a vast island in the world sea; they could not walk around that body of water.

“Under no circumstances?”

“Under no circumstances.”

Arvid’s face fell. Robert continued: In any case, that way was so long that if Arvid were to walk it he would not arrive until he was eighty, just in time to lie down in his grave. And he must take the village shoemaker with him to prepare him a new pair of boots a couple of times a year to replace the worn-out ones.

Arvid sat silent again, very long. Then he mumbled something between his teeth — four words: “That God-damned ocean!”

At last he crawled into bed, still cursing the ocean which separated the Old and the New Worlds. That evening he swore himself to sleep.

NOTE

1. $43.50 in today’s currency.

— 1—

In this year—“the 5,850th since the creation of the world,” according to the almanac — the early summer was the driest in thirty-one years.

During the month of June not a drop of rain fell. Dry, harsh winds from east and north blew constantly, but never the west wind, the wind of rain. The sun glared day after day from a cloudless sky. The grass in glades and meadows turned coarse and rough, rustling underfoot. The winter rye stopped growing at knee-height; grazing ended, and the cows went dry.

Haying commenced before June had passed; to leave the ready ripened grass standing would risk its strength. Hillocks and knolls turned brown-red — the color of animal blood, foretelling death under the knife for cattle, with fodder shortage ahead.

Karl Oskar and Kristina harvested the meager hay grown in their meadow. The straws were so short and spindly that the rake could hardly catch them; one could almost count the straws, Karl Oskar said.

He was angry and bitter as he raked; last year was a wet year and hay rotted in the swaths or washed away in the flood. This year it was drought, and the hay burned up. Which was the better for the farmer? Which one could satisfy him?

This year the only moisture in Karl Oskar’s field was his own sweat. The Lord’s weather was either too wet or too dry. Of what help was it, then, to bend one’s back and toil and struggle? The Lord’s weather ruined everything for him, all his labor was in vain.

“It’s all the fault of the Lord’s weather!”

Kristina stopped raking and looked at him gravely.

“Don’t be impious, Karl Oskar.”

“But — is this hay, or is it cats’ hair? Is it worth our work?”

And Karl Oskar was gripped by sudden anger: he seized a wisp of hay on his rake and threw it up into the air while he shouted heavenwards: “As you have taken the rest of the hay you might as well have this, too!”

Kristina let out a shriek, terror-stricken: Karl Oskar had challenged the Lord in heaven and on earth. Her eyes followed the wisp of hay as if she expected it to reach the heavens. But the straws did not get high above the earth, they were separated from each other by the wind and, scattering over the meadow, they fell slowly to the ground. No one up there in heaven would accept the hay.

“Karl Oskar. You have blasphemed.”

Kristina stood there, her cheeks white, her hands clutching the rake handle. Her husband had thrown their hay back to Him above because he was not satisfied. What was he doing? How dared he? Did he no longer fear his Creator? He must know that God would not allow mockery. Frightened, she looked toward the sky as if she expected that the presumptuous one would receive his punishment immediately.

“May God forgive you! May God forgive what you did!”

Karl Oskar did not answer. Silently he began to rake together a new swath. He had indeed learned God’s commandments, he knew the Lord endured no mockery, and he felt a pang within him. He had lost his temper, the gesture with the hay would have been better undone, those words should not have been uttered.

The clear words of the Bible proclaimed that man on earth should eat his bread in the sweat of his brow; he asked no better than to be allowed to do this. But as he gave his sweat, so would he like also to receive in return the bread. He did not think it too much to ask that all might happen according to God’s own words.

In silence they continued to harvest their hay. But the meadow hay barn which in good years was too small was this year not half filled.

The drought continued.

Their well dried up and the people in Korpamoen carried water from an old spring in the forest. Hungry and thirsty, the cattle stood all day long at the stile, lowing plaintively. The fields were scorched as if fire had passed over them. In the beginning of August the birches turned yellow and began to lose their leaves. The summer had never had time to bloom and ripen before the autumn set in; this summer had died in its youth.