The Emigrants (11 page)

Thus, on Sundays, Arvid and Robert sat there, looking out through the single window of their stable room. The small panes were spotted and unwashed, in the corners were cobwebs filled with dead flies, the whitewash on the sash had long ago disintegrated. A dirty, small, poor window let in the light to the hired men in Nybacken. But through this window they could see out into the world, they could look across the stable yard and see the farmland beyond, they could see the village road that passed by. And beyond their eyes’ reach their thoughts struggled further, their thoughts ventured on roads never traveled, down to a sea never seen, and across the waters of the ocean.

One of them had made his decision, and he was the first in the parish to do so.

—3—

Arvid drew part of his pay in brännvin from the farm’s still. One Saturday evening as the boys were sitting in their stable room after the day’s toil Arvid brought out his keg, which had just been filled by Aron, and offered a drink to his friend. Robert had not yet learned to drink brännvin alone; he still dunked bread in it. In order to please Arvid he accepted a mug and drank it, and afterward he felt as if a juniper twig was stuck in his throat.

Aron had today mentioned that the yearly catechism examination would be held at Nybacken, and Arvid, who last year had been strongly reprimanded by the dean because he was unable to recite the Fourth Commandment, anticipated this day with apprehension.

“The dean asked who our masters were and I couldn’t answer,” he said.

“Our masters are all those who by God’s ordinance are placed over us in the
home,
in the
state,
at
school,
and at the
place where we work,
” Robert recited glibly.

“Oh, Jesus!” Arvid stared with admiration at his young friend, who gloated in his display of superior knowledge.

“God has given our parents and masters power over us so that they as God’s servants may take fatherly care of us, and each in his station watch over our true welfare. Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers. For there is no power but of God: the powers that be are ordained by God. Wilt thou then not be afraid of the power? Do that which is good, and thou shalt have praise of the same.”

“God Almighty!” exclaimed Arvid, and in his amazement he drank so much from his brännvin mug that he choked.

Robert could rattle off the old lessons indefinitely. He could also teach a little to his friend. “Do you know how many superiors and masters we have, Arvid? In the whole world, I mean.”

“No-o.”

Robert held up his right hand and counted on his fingers. For every lord and master he bent one finger. First was the King, then the Governor, below the King; the third was the Crown Sheriff, who came under the Governor. The fourth was Sheriff Lönnegren, and the fifth was the sheriff’s hired man. The sixth was the dean, their spiritual authority, and the seventh their own master, Aron of Nybacken. The sheriff watched over them to see that they remained in their place of service, the dean watched over them at the yearly examinations, Aron watched over them to see that they worked and earned their pay. There were seven superiors and masters in all.

“Jesus Christ! What a lot of masters!”

“Now you can name them to the dean at the examination,” said Robert.

“I’ll try to remember.” And Arvid began to count on his own fingers: “The King, the first master . . . What is his name?”

Robert explained: The King who by God’s ordinance sat on the thrones of Sweden and Norway was named Oskar I, and through him all other authority derived.

He went through the list of masters with his comrade many times, and at last Arvid could name all those seven who according to God’s ordinance had fatherly power over them.

After a time Robert tired of this holding school; he had drunk several mugs of brännvin and he felt drowsy; he undressed and crawled under the horse blanket. Arvid sat alone with the keg in front of him; he continued to drink; he had drunk more often of late. The stable lantern, swinging from a nail on the wall, spread a dim light over the room. From the other side of the wall could be heard the puffing of the horses and the sound of horseshoes against the stable floor. The hunters of the night—the bedbugs—emerged from their cracks and holes and hurried on their way to suck blood.

Robert went to sleep with the odor of brännvin in his nose.

Suddenly he was awakened by a noise. He had been asleep only a short time. The lantern on the wall was still lit, the door was open and banged in the gusty wind; the sound of it had awakened him. But Arvid was not in his bed, he had vanished.

Robert shook the keg on the table: it was empty. He was seized with anxiety for his friend.

Quickly he pulled on his trousers and hurried into the stable yard. Outside, in the clear moonlight, he could make out someone moving near the door of the woodshed. He went closer: it was Arvid, leaving the shed, staggering. He had an ax in his hand.

“What are you up to?”

Arvid weaved back and forth, his breath came quickly, his head was bare, his tousled hair blowing in all directions, and his mouth wide open. His upper lip was thick and swollen, his cheek bloody; he had fallen and hurt himself. In the moonlight his eyes were bloodshot and staring. From the woodshed he had fetched the heavy wedge ax.

“Are you going to split wood? In the middle of the night?”

“No . . . not wood . . . Something else.”

“Are you walking in your sleep?”

“Someone . . . someone is going to die . . . now, tonight.”

“Arvid!”

“The old mistress is going to die tonight.”

“Arvid! Put back the ax!”

Arvid was drunk and apparently unconscious of his actions. His eyes were flaming, burning with rage. Robert shouted: “Drop the ax!”

“I’ll kill the bitch!”

“You’re crazy!”

“I’ll split her snout, the old sow!”

“Arvid, please . . . please . . .”

“She’s ruined my life. She must die!”

And Arvid staggered off toward the house.

Robert ran after. He grabbed his comrade by the arm, seizing the ax handle. “Arvid, please . . .”

“Let go the ax!”

“Listen to me. You’ll ruin your whole life.”

“It’s ruined already.”

“But listen, you don’t know what you’re doing!”

“Let go the ax, I say. Let go!”

The two farmhands fought over the ax. Robert was afraid he might cut himself on the sharp edge; and Arvid was bigger and stronger and soon had the ax away from him. But Arvid’s legs were unsteady from all the brännvin, and he slipped and fell on his back, dropping his weapon to the ground. Quickly Robert snatched it, unnoticed by Arvid, and threw it as far away as he was able; it fell among the gooseberry bushes near the barn. Arvid turned over and felt among the debris, searching for the ax. Robert tried to talk sense to him: “We’re friends. I want to help you. Please, Arvid.”

And soon the drunken man calmed down; he no longer searched for the ax, he only repeated, again and again: “I’m so unhappy . . . so unhappy . . .”

Robert was frightened by the rage which had come to the surface so suddenly in his good-natured comrade. He shivered in the cold wind, and from the fright he had experienced.

“I’m cold. Let’s go to bed now.”

And after a time he was able to persuade Arvid to go back into the stable room. The drunken man threw himself full length onto his bed; all his strength seemed to have left him; he lay there, limp and exhausted, and kept mumbling: “At times I feel like killing her . . . that devil’s bitch in the attic.”

Robert thought it best to leave his comrade alone until he grew more calm. And presently Arvid’s stupor began to wear off and his head cleared. He sat up in his bed and his voice was normal as he asked: “Do you know what she accuses me of?”

“Ye-es.”

“Hm . . . I thought so. It’s the old bitch’s evil invention—all of it! You know that, don’t you?”

“I know that, Arvid.”

The elder boy mumbled something incoherent, then said nothing for a time; apparently he was sleeping. But suddenly he sat up and continued, and now he seemed fully to have regained his senses. He had never done anything horrible or forbidden with the white heifer. If this were his deathbed and he were unable to say aught else, this he would say to the dean, to the sheriff, to the authorities—to all people on earth he would say this: he had never mixed with any animal. The old woman had said that only God and he knew what he had done with the white heifer in the barn. And God in His heaven knew that he, Arvid, was innocent. But what joy did he get from this when people thought him guilty, when people believed he had done it?

Robert didn’t know how to reply, except to say that he himself had never believed the accusation.

Moreover, said Arvid, the heifer had not been with calf, it was a lie, a lie which the hag in the attic had invented, long after the heifer had been butchered. The heifer would never have calved any monster with a human head if she had been spared.

“Why don’t you sue the old woman in court?”

Yes, Arvid had thought of clearing himself that way, but he was afraid of the court; he didn’t like to have to stand there, gaped at by all people; and the rumor might spread still worse if it were brought to the county court and the old woman found not guilty—after all, she had never accused him outright, she had only said that God and he alone knew what he had done.

Robert had seldom seen her outside the house, the little woman in the gray shawl and the black kerchief, a shriveled-up creature who didn’t seem to have the strength to hurt a fly. Yet she had ruined Arvid’s life, a terrible injustice had been done to him. Why couldn’t God, Who was omnipotent, reveal the truth, so Arvid could be cleared?

“Do you know what they call me?” asked Arvid.

“No.”

“Listen . . .”

Walking along the road the other day he had met some boys who mocked him. He had heard their words—something about the bull in Nybacken. They referred to
him.
People called him “The Bull of Nybacken.”

They were silent again in the stable room. Robert felt sudden twitches in his eyes; he understood why his comrade had filled his brännvin keg so often of late.

Arvid resumed, and now his voice trembled. He was called the Bull. No wonder all women shunned him, no wonder the girls shied away from him. Who would want to be seen in the company of one called the Bull? And he would always be referred to by that name, although he had not harmed man or animal. He had tried to endure it, but the loathsome name would cling to him forever; he would be treated as fool and scoundrel, an outcast whom people would abhor. He could show himself nowhere in this countryside.

So Robert could understand why he went out and got the ax.

Arvid lay down again, but his body shook: he cried. He cried silently, his whole frame shaking. He lay so for some time.

By now Robert knew enough: Arvid could not bear being called the Bull of Nybacken; indeed, no one in his predicament could endure to remain in the neighborhood. Anyone suffering what Arvid did must move away.

And so Robert knew also what he must do: he must confide in his friend.

The next evening he disclosed his secret. The two farmhands sat as usual on their beds, ready to retire, alone in the stable room. Everyone on the farmstead slept. But Robert acted as if Sheriff Lönnegren had been standing outside the window listening to them. He moved over to Arvid’s bed and sat down close to him; he spoke in whispers although no living being could hear him, except his friend and the bedbugs in their cracks and hiding places. And now he uncovered his criminal intentions: “I carry a heavy secret, Arvid. You’re the only one I’ll confide in. Can I rely on you?”

“If my head is chopped off for it I shall say nothing!”

They shook hands, and the younger one unburdened himself: he intended to escape from service. But this time he would not act as foolishly as he had done in the spring on entering service. He would wait till fall, when they carried oak timbers to Karlshamn. He could drive now, and he would no doubt have to join the timbermen, driving Aron’s old mare. But once Aron had let him out of sight with the beast he would never see him again: the mare would return alone to Nybacken. By that time the driver would be far away. In Karlshamn he would board a ship which was to sail to North America—to the New World.

“Are you coming along, Arvid? You’ll get rid of your name—the Bull.”

Arvid found nothing to say; he just stared, such was his surprise; he could only look at his comrade, this fifteen-year-old boy so recklessly plotting to escape with his master’s timber load—a daredevil planning to venture the ocean!

For Arvid knew nothing of what had transpired in Robert’s mind since that day in spring when he had taken the wrong road at the bridge over the mill creek, on his way to service.

And Robert had discovered something which had helped him along on this road; he now took from its secret hiding place—under the straw of his bed—a little book in narrow, brown-specked covers and gold-stamped back:
Description of the United States of North America.

Here was his secret help; through this book he had obtained all the information he needed.

When Robert worked on the dunghill with his manure fork, when he carried his scythe at harvest-time, when he stood in the hayrick or chopped straw in the barn, when he sat here in the room and looked out through the window—always his thoughts carried him across the sea. And little by little another land arose on the other shore. Like a flower which sprouts in black soil, puts forth buds and opens its crown, so that land grew in his imagination. By now he had crossed the ocean and become familiar with the land beyond: America.

There were two worlds—nature’s world and the Bible’s world, this world and the coming world. But
this
world was again divided into two parts: an old and a new. His home was in the Old World, in the world that was frail, worn-out, and full of years. Its people were worn-out, decrepit, old and weak and finished. In their ancient villages time stood still; in their old moss-grown cottages nothing happened which had not happened before; the children obeyed their parents and imitated them, and did the same thing again which their parents had done before them. The Old World could not go on for many years more; it would not be long before it tumbled and fell with all the decrepit people who lived there.