The Emigrants (26 page)

Karl Oskar reflected, as he returned to bed, that he was now no longer alone in his strongly criticized venture. There were now two homeowners. And Danjel was giving up a farm many times larger and better than Korpamoen. That thought was comforting.

Of course, he must admit, he must sadly admit, that he considered his companion a little unbalanced.

—4—

And so it happened in those days that another old chest, in another attic, on another farm, was dragged forth, inspected, dusted, scrubbed, and put in order—another America chest, the second.

Only a month before their scheduled departure Jonas Petter of Hästebäck came to Korpamoen one evening to warn Robert: his neighbor had met Sheriff Lönnegren, who asked whether the hired hand had come home. Aron of Nybacken insisted that his servant be returned; the boy might try escaping to America when his brother left.

This message did not surprise Karl Oskar, who knew that Aron harbored an intense hatred toward him. For a few minutes once he had inflicted the greatest fear possible on Aron; now his hatred sought revenge on Robert: the farmer of Nybacken would try to prevent the boy’s emigration.

Karl Oskar said it would be safest for Robert to keep out of the sheriff’s reach during the remaining weeks.

Tears came into Robert’s eyes. He had been afraid to appear in public since he returned home; together with other deserters in the parish recently he had been rebuked from the pulpit. The dean had preached a sermon about “unfaithful servants” who deserted their masters and set themselves up against God’s ordinances; he had said that disobedient farmhands were spots of shame on a Christian community. Robert had felt so much disgraced that he never went out in public, and spoke to no one except Arvid, who also was disgraced although in another way.

Now he said that rather than return to Nybacken he would go to the mill brook, and this time it wouldn’t be his jacket and shoes only. Perhaps that really was the fate awaiting him: a farmhand drowned in the mill brook.

Jonas Petter spoke comfortingly: Lönnegren didn’t wish to harm any poor devil; he was sure to look for Robert in his home only. The sheriff never bothered more than was necessary about deserters. Robert should come with him to Hästebäck. There he would be safe till it was time to leave. “And I promise to hide you if the sheriff comes,” the neighbor assured Robert.

Karl Oskar advised his brother to accept the offer: “Dry your tears and go with Jonas Petter!”

Robert felt ashamed of having cried, grown-up as he was, but his heart ached at this thought: “Suppose . . . suppose I couldn’t get away.”

He obeyed his brother and departed with the obliging neighbor.

Jonas Petter sat down to supper in the kitchen at Hästebäck, and asked Robert to join him. He took out the brännvin jug and poured two equally tall drinks for them: the boy was a man now. And Robert was eager to take a drink, perhaps two or three, for brännvin seemed to silence the humming sound in his left ear, which still bothered him. He had lost his hearing almost entirely in that ear, yet he heard a sound which no one else could hear. Perhaps it would never leave him, perhaps this echo from Aron’s box would hum as long as he lived.

Brita-Stafva, the farm wife, came in from the byre carrying her wooden milk pails. She was a knotty woman, with hard, manly features. Dark shadows of an unmistakable beard covered her lips, and there was also a tuft of hair on the tip of her chin. A woman with a beard aroused fear in some way. Jonas Petter had a bushy, black beard, yet Robert did not fear him. But those thin hairs on the wife’s chin made him uncomfortable; they were outside the norm. All children were afraid of Brita-Stafva.

She put down her pails and eyed the boy sullenly. But the look she then turned on her husband was hardly sullen: it was more—evil, full of hatred. Jonas Petter never tried to hide the fact that he and his wife lived on bad terms.

The men at the table drank their brännvin. Brita-Stafva said sharply, looking at Robert: “The sheriff’s carriage just passed.”

“Oh yes, my boy, he went to Korpamoen. Now you see, lad, we were lucky not to meet him!”

Robert lost interest in the food but he drank the brännvin. The roar in his ear was violent tonight, almost frightening him.

“Eat, lad. Don’t be afraid,” Jonas Petter encouraged him. “I’ve a safe hiding place if the sheriff comes here and asks for you.”

Brita-Stafva was busy straining the evening milk; when she heard that the sheriff’s passing might concern Robert, she became curious and looked questioningly at him. He felt ill at ease under her gaze, he could not help looking at the beard-tuft on her chin.

Jonas Petter poured himself more drinks; his eyes were taking on a blank look.

“Lönnegren is a decent sheriff,” he said. “Sharp in his words but he’s a hell of a nice fellow. I’ve known him since he was a boy—he’s the son of the ‘Stump of Orranäs.’”

“I’ve heard about that farmer,” said Robert, mostly to say something. “Why was he called the Stump?”

“How did he get the nickname? I’ll tell you, my boy!”

Jonas Petter glanced in the direction of his wife, busy with the milk pans; he was by now quite lively from all the brännvin.

“It’s an amazing story. It’s a story of a woman who sharpened a knife.”

At these last words a rattle from the milk strainer was heard. The farm wife had made a quick movement. It was almost dark where she stood in the hearth corner, but Robert noticed that her head jerked at her husband’s words.

He also had noticed that the couple had exchanged no words.

Jonas Petter knew of all unusual happenings which had taken place in Konga County within the last hundred years; he was now about to tell Robert how it came to be that Sheriff Lönnegren’s father was called the Stump.

A Story About a Wife Who Sharpened a Knife

The farmer of Orranäs was christened Isak, Jonas Petter began. He was known far and wide because he was crazy about women, and often led astray by them. He couldn’t keep his hands off a woman who was shaped well enough to be used by a man. It didn’t matter what her face was like, whether she was spotted and marred by smallpox, harelipped, warp-mouthed, or with any other defect; Isak would try to seduce her. He was married and in his own conjugal bed he had a plump, good-looking wife to play with. But this didn’t diminish his desire to visit other marital beds; neither married nor unmarried women were safe from him. He had a strange power over women, perhaps from the devil, perhaps from somewhere else. His visits to married women often had got him into trouble with offended husbands; once his arm was broken and another time his nose smashed in. But still he persisted, he still had the same power even after his nose was flattened.

His wife was exceedingly jealous of other women, and many times she threatened to leave him; but each time he promised and swore he would mend his ways and stick to his own bed. She tried to find a cure for his sinful lust through many concoctions which she mixed and gave to him—juices from roots, bitter herb porridges to cool his blood. But no matter what he ate or drank, strong as ever the whoring desire still possessed him.

There was, however, one successful cure for him, a cruel and horrible cure, and his wife finally administered it.

One day she told their hired man that she wanted a cutting knife sharpened: she needed it to cut old rags. He believed her, of course, and sharpened the knife as she herself pulled the grindstone.

In bed that evening Isak as usual sought his wife; he attended to her as often as she could wish, and never neglected her for other women. And it seemed now as ever that she was willing; he had no suspicions, poor man. He did not know that his wife had sharpened a knife and hidden it under the mattress.

As the husband now was ready she took out her knife and cut off his implement, root and branch.

Isak fainted and bled in streams. His wife had in advance sent for a blood stancher, who arrived at the house immediately after the occurrence. He now did what he could for the injured one, and the wife, also in advance, had made concoctions from
skvattram
and bloodroot, which herbs were used to stop bleeding from injuries. Together they stanched the wound of her husband before he became conscious.

The wife then nursed Isak with much love and care till his recovery.

Nor was it known that the couple became unfriendly toward each other because of her action; they lived together until their dying days.

But Isak of Orranäs was never the same man after his operation; he grew slack and dull in his mind, and showed no interest in what he was doing. He neglected his farm more and more. After a few years he sold Orranäs, which consisted of half a homestead, and set himself down on reserved rights.

Ever after he kept his hands and other limbs away from women. Indifferent as a gelded steer, he had no more interest in them. From now on he lived a harmonious and pious life with his wife, to whom he was greatly devoted in his old days.

The limb which the wife had cut from her husband she dried and put away. She wanted to keep it as a souvenir. She only brought it out once in a while, when visitors came, or at some celebration or other when relatives and friends were gathered. While Isak listened in silence, she would tell how she went about it that time when she cured her husband of his sinful lust. She would also take out the Bible and refer to that place where it says a man must cut off that limb that is an offense to him in order to save his soul from eternal suffering; she had done for her husband what ought to be done, because all must agree that the limb she had relieved him of had been a great offense.

It was rumored, however, that Isak of Orranäs still had a small part left, and this led to his nickname, the Stump, concluded Jonas Petter.

—5—

In the silence ensuing after the story’s end Robert heard his ear roar more clearly. The wife had by now finished straining the milk, and was removing the dishes from the table. Her mouth was closed in a narrow line. She had looked at her husband a few times while he was telling the story, but remained mute. Robert had not yet heard them speak to each other this evening.

Jonas Petter many times before had told him tales of women’s evil deeds, and Robert could guess why the farmer spoke so. But this, as far as Robert knew, was the first time his own wife had been listening.

It was a cruel fate that had overtaken Isak of Orranäs, and Robert thought he must be careful before he lay down with a woman—he must always feel under the mattress to be on the safe side.

“The son who became sheriff was born many years before this,” added Jonas Petter, as if this explanation were necessary.

In hearing the sheriff mentioned, Robert’s fears returned: the sheriff was on the roads, looking for him. Wouldn’t it be wise to run away and hide in the woods? His ear kept on throbbing, the brännvin could not silence that sound tonight.

Suddenly he rose: he could hear wagon wheels on the road; it must be the sheriff on his way back. Brita-Stafva, too, heard the sound of the carriage and went out on the stoop.

Jonas Petter said: “Sit down, lad! Don’t be afraid!”

Robert did sit down but he was afraid. A desperate fear filled his breast; it felt too small, it was overfull, he could not ease the pressure. It didn’t help to exhale, it was still full, it was strained and squeezed.

And a storm raged in his injured ear: Here, my little hand, here is a big box! This one you’ll remember!

If . . . if he were left behind? If he weren’t allowed to go with Karl Oskar? Then the gates on the America road would never open for him.

The wagon noise from without was heard more distinctly, it came from light wheels, rolling speedily; it was a light carriage. It could be no one else but the returning sheriff.

The wife had gone outside and did not return. She had hard eyes and a beard on her chin. And she looked queerly at him. Why did she slip out as soon as she heard the carriage? What was she doing outside?

Robert moistened his dry lips with the tip of his tongue: “Jonas Petter . . . She went out. . . . She won’t say anthing?”

“Brita-Stafva?”

“Yes.”

Robert was convinced the farm wife would betray him if in doing so she could vex her husband.

“She won’t hail him?” the youth whispered; he was short of breath.

“She should dare!”

Jonas Petter’s voice rose. He bent forward across the table toward the boy whom he had promised to protect against the sheriff. “If she dares,
then I’ll sharpen the knife tonight!
”

Robert stared at him, forgetting his own fear at the words of the peasant. What did he mean? Sharpen the knife? What knife?

“Sharpen the knife . . . ?”

“Yes.
Otherwise I’d thought of doing it tomorrow.
”

What did Jonas Petter intend to do? He had lived in deep discord with his wife for many years—did he intend to harm her now? Would he cut her up? What kind of knife did he want to sharpen? He was getting drunk—it could be heard and seen.

The sound of the carriage had died down, and Brita-Stafva came inside.

She said it was the churchwarden, Per Persson of Åkerby, driving by. He had been in Korpamoen to speak to Karl Oskar about the impending auction of the farm chattels.

At last Robert’s chest felt free, he could breathe easier. He poured himself another drink.

As yet this evening he had not heard the couple of Hästebäck speak to each other. Brita-Stafva now opened her tight lips, but only to eat of the potato porridge she had prepared for herself. Jonas Petter’s eyes were brännvin-bleary, he repeated in a mumble, again and again:
A man, too, could sharpen a knife.

There was really no meaning to what he said: it was always the menfolk who sharpened tools, knives and such. So Robert could not understand what the farmer sitting there meant with his insinuating remarks. He could not know what was to take place the following day between the husband and wife of Hästebäck. There were to be no witnesses to these happenings—it was after Robert had gone out.