“Is your head all right?”
“Don’t worry—I’m all right . . .”
Her voice seemed all right; she spoke slowly, calmly—she was not sick, she wasn’t out of her head, she wasn’t walking in her sleep, she was fully awake. Her mind was all right and she came to him and wanted to be his wife again.
He was stunned; in his confusion he stuttered: “You . . . you, you don’t . . . you don’t know what you’re doing! You forget yourself!”
“I’m not forgetting myself. I’ve thought it over, really.”
“But you know as well as I—it mustn’t happen!”
“Karl Oskar—it can’t go on like this any longer between us two. It’s unbearable. You haven’t complained, but I know how you suffer . . .”
She sat down next to him on the bed. He felt her warm breath on his ear; he took her around the waist, his hands trembling.
What was the matter with Kristina? What had come over her? Was she feverish? He stroked her cheek but it felt cool, her forehead, but it wasn’t fever-hot. She was herself in all ways, and her senses and thoughts were clear. Yet she had walked the road between their beds which they were not allowed to walk—she had traversed the distance that had separated them for three months.
“Don’t worry!” Her voice was confident, sure. “I know what I’m doing.”
“But next time!” he cried out. “There must not be a next time for you! Don’t you remember what the doctor said!”
“I don’t believe in what the doctor said—he’s not omnipotent.”
“But something was injured and that he must know . . .”
“I am not afraid.”
“But your life—we can’t take a chance . . .”
“The Almighty alone rules over my life.”
“It’s dangerous—how dare you . . .”
“It is simple—I don’t pay any attention to the doctor. I trust in God.”
Her mouth was near his ear; she whispered: He asked how she dare? Must she no longer believe she was under the Almighty’s protection? Must she now doubt God who had seen them unharmed through all the dangers and vicissitudes of their emigration? Must she think that God would not look after her through one more childbed?
And it was not God who had forbidden them to live together. On the contrary, it was his will that married people should have each other. And God must know they loved each other. It was a human order that kept them apart—why must they obey humans? Didn’t they dare trust in the Creator’s wisdom?
Karl Oskar had been told. Now he knew why she had come to him. But he was not at ease, he must think, he must use common sense. It was true that at their emigration he had exposed his wife and children to great dangers to life and limb. But that time, as always, it had been his responsibility. And he had thought it over thoroughly before reaching the final decision.
Kristina trusted God in his heaven more than the doctor in Stillwater. But Karl Oskar trusted more in the doctor than in God.
“You must understand.” His speech was thick, his throat felt too narrow to let air through. “Kristina! I don’t dare!”
“Don’t dare? Why?”
“I must think of you. Even if you don’t . . .”
“I’m not afraid . . .”
“It could be fatal!”
“We’re all well. Thanks to whom? What do you think?”
Who was Kristina’s helper? Where was her confidence? Her strength and security? Who had given her the courage to come to him tonight?
She had no fear, and therefore she was stronger than he. Her courage could not be defeated in a few groping words: It might be fatal! And he had dared assume responsibility before, many times—why didn’t he dare now?
The crickets were still screeching unceasingly outside the window; those invisible critters were noisier than anything else in the spring night. Inside the house all was silent except for a man and a wife who spoke in whispers. Even if someone had stood beside the bed he would not have heard what they said.
His hand stroked her neck. His hands knew her body.
She said: “I trust in the Creator. It is his will if I live, it’s his will if I die . . .”
“But must I let you dare . . . your life . . .”
“Whatever you and I do—he will do with me what he wants.”
In his mind Karl Oskar was still resisting: Use your common sense! But he was dazed by the demanding force in his body—a force that had already surrendered him to his wife in the moment when she stood at his bedside and said: I’m back with you!
She remained with him, and he yielded his body.
XI
KRISTINA IS NOT AFRAID
—1—
Along the shores of Lake Chisago runs a path that has been trod by Indians and deer; here the Indians hunted the deer as the animals sought their way to the lake to drink of its water.
The path goes in sharp twists and bends around fallen tree trunks, leaves the lakeshore at moors and bogs where the ground sinks under foot, penetrates deep brambles and bushes, turns sharply away from holes, steep cliffs, and ravines, disappears in the undergrowth with its thorny, pricking spikes. Winding, wriggling its way, it never leaves the shore; as the wanderer least expects it he is met by the glittering water before him and his path lightens.
This path is without beginning or end, for it runs around the whole Indian lake Ki-Chi-Saga with its hundreds of inlets and bays and points and promontories, islands, and islets. Of old it was tramped only by the deer and the hunter people’s light feet, shod in the skin of the deer. Now the redskins are seldom seen on the road they themselves trampled out through the wilderness. It is used by another people, who have come from far away, of another hue: The whites now wear away the bared roots with their heavy footgear, wooden shoes, iron-shod boots, crunching, crushing heels. These people also break their own roads through the forest, straight roads, cutting through the grave mounds of the Indians. These people are in a hurry and cannot waste their time on the meandering Indian paths.
On an evening in June, one of the immigrant women walks on this path. It is near sunset yet she walks slowly. Her steps are short, perhaps tired. She doesn’t tramp heavily on the Indian path and she is in no hurry.
Kristina is out in the forest, looking for a cow, Jenny, named after a Swedish singer with this name who has recently been to America, and about whom Hemlandet has had much to report. Jenny did not come home with the other cows this evening; she is ready to calve almost any day now, and that is why Kristina was concerned when she was missing this evening. Once before Jenny has had her calf out in the woods; Johan and Harald had found her then, far out in a bog, and had managed to get the cow home with the calf uninjured. Perhaps Jenny was repeating her forest calving. Or had she been caught between some boulders, unable to free herself? All this wilderness is full of crevices and holes where grazing cattle might easily break their legs.
Kristina stops now and then, calls the name of the lost cow, calls until she is hoarse, but the only replies are her own calls, echoing back from the tree trunks. The cows know their milkmaid’s voice and will answer with a soft lowing when she calls them. She stops short on the path, listens intently, but no sound from Jenny reaches her ears.
It is already growing dark among the trees. Should she turn back without having fulfilled her errand? No, she must look a little bit farther. She is not afraid of losing her way after dark, for she knows the lake path well—she has only to follow it back the same way she came.
In a clearing where grow tall, lush raspberry bushes she stops to eat of the berries. The wild raspberries are already ripe, although it is only June. She crouches near one bush and enjoys the sweet fruit. She loves to go out in the woods in summertime to pick all the wild, edible berries that grow here. To her it is a means of liberation and of being alone, a welcome change in the monotony of daily chores. And in fall she likes to pick cranberries that abound on the tussocks in low-lying places. But no lingonberries grow here, as in
Sweden; instead of lingonberries she preserves the somewhat sourer cranberries; in fact, they do have a taste of sweetness if picked after the frost has set in.
Darkness falls, yet she is not aware of it. Kristina will never cease to be surprised at the urgency of the twilight in America; it rushes by. Tonight it seems to last only five short minutes.
In her childhood in Sweden she had been afraid of the dark. This feeling had remained with her through youth, and she had been terribly afraid of the dark during the first years after their arrival here. Then a change had taken place; the fear of the dark left her. She does not know when this happened. It was only thus: One evening she noticed her fear was gone. From then on it made no difference to her if it was day or night. It might be daylight, or dark, in the place she happened to be, but which ever it was—she was not afraid. However great the difference between day and night she did not feel it. And now it is this way: Be she outside or in a house, it doesn’t matter. She walks as calmly through a dark night as through the bright morning, because she feels herself within the same safe protection, the same secure home, in the dark of night as in the light of day. She knows nothing evil can happen to her. She cannot understand how darkness and night could have frightened her so before. On the contrary, it now seems to her she is best protected when veiled in darkness. It envelops her, hides her, follows her to guard her welfare, just as it must comfort the many of God’s creatures that hide in brambles and bushes from enemies and pursuers.
But she can no longer search for her cow Jenny; it is too late now. She must return home. First thing in the morning they will send the boys out to look for the animal; Johan and Harald enjoy hikes in the forest, they have just begun to hunt, they know the places where a cow might hide. Or perhaps Karl Oskar had better go with them, in case the cow is caught somewhere.
Kristina turns homeward on the path. But the fatigue after her day’s many chores falls upon her like a burden, and she sits down to rest on an upthrust root. Weakness still comes over her at times, and against this neither rest nor peace helps. And her thoughts have dwelled upon this: Is there any permanent cure against fatigue other than death?
Is there anything sweeter than to awaken in the morning completely rested?
She sits, surrounded by darkness, on the old tree trunk. She is alone in the wild woods, completely defenseless against anyone wishing to harm her. But she is not afraid. She feels as secure and protected as a child who has climbed up on its mother’s knee.
Nor is she alone. This is a moment of meditation for her, a moment to think over what has just happened to her. For something has happened: She is pregnant again. She has just become sure: God has created a new life in her.
The last time this happened she had sinned gravely, and he chastised her and took back his creation. This time she has received assurance that she is again worthy. She enjoys God’s confidence again. She has received his grace; he trusts her.
The curse has been removed from Kristina and she is again a blessed woman.
One night last month Karl Oskar and Kristina had again become husband and wife, and immediately this had taken place, it must have occurred as soon as it could. It was understandable that it should happen at their first, intense being together. After all, it was as if they had been married for a second time. And these last weeks they had lived like a newly wedded couple, who had long suffered in their impatient expectancy. It is a blissful time that has been granted them. And it began just as spring broke. Her Astrakhan tree was in full bloom then and this seemed to her a good omen.
Kristina is not afraid; all will be well.
As yet only a few days have passed since she learned for sure what had taken place. While she was still uncertain she had not wished to tell Karl Oskar, but now she must no longer delay. She knows in advance how he will take it: It is he who is afraid! She has noticed how worried he has been ever since they started to be together again. She knows him so well, she knows his reactions to one thing or another. In his eyes she has all the time read his anxiety: What have I done? What have I exposed you to? What will happen? When will it happen?
Now it has happened, and he must be told at once. Karl Oskar, who is so afraid of this next childbed—how sorry she feels for him. Now he will be terribly scared, and this she must prevent.
He believes blindly in the Stillwater doctor, that’s why he is concerned about her. He’ll be worried to death now if she doesn’t give him courage. Men can’t stand as much as women. They are more easily frightened by what they fear might happen. She must calm him; all will come out well.
While Kristina sits on the tree trunk this evening in the forest, it comes clearly to her—all that she must say to Karl Oskar: Listen to me now! I have news! I’m pregnant again! You expected it, you know that—you expected it and you were afraid of it! You haven’t said anything but I’ve seen how scared you’ve been. But now you must stop! Now you needn’t fear, because it’s already happened. It’s nothing to worry about—everything will be all right as before. I’ve been with child eight times and all has come out well in the end. Why not this time? Believe me, Karl Oskar, it will!
I have figured out the time—February. Yes, sometime in February, because it happened in May, the very first time, I’m sure. And no wonder—or what do you think, Karl Oskar?
But now you mustn’t worry about it while I have my time of waiting. Please, Karl Oskar, I beg you—don’t worry the least little bit during this time! Don’t feel you’ve done something wrong! It’s no sin to be with your wife, it’s no evil thing to make her pregnant! Your mind must be at rest; you must have the same confidence as I. Why won’t you?
Now you hear what I say, Karl Oskar: Forget what the doctor said! Don’t think about it any more. It only makes you unhappy. Forget it! Cheer up!
All will be well with me when my time comes. Eight times I’ve gone through it successfully. Who has helped me those times? Who do you think? He will help me this time also! You must know I’m in good hands!
So she will speak to Karl Oskar. But what will he answer?
Kristina remains seated on the fallen tree and forgets time. The evening wears on. She begins to feel a chill on her bare legs; some nights in June are chilly. She pulls her skirt around her knees; now she must go home. She hadn’t meant to sit here and rest such a long time. But her mind had been full of her new pregnancy and her worries about Karl Oskar. Now she knows what to say, how to weigh her words when she speaks to him.
She rises and continues homeward on the path. Now it is as dark as it can be in the forest. She can hardly see where to put her foot down. Twigs brush her in the face as she walks, she bends down to avoid them; she must walk slowly in this darkness. But she has tramped this path hundreds of times during the years they have lived here; she knows where it bends and turns, she will not lose it. But she must take slow steps or she might hurt herself against trees or roots.
Still, her foot stumbles and she almost falls.
She regains her balance and is ready to go on when a tall apparition takes shape through the dark. Someone is coming toward her on the path, someone who tramps heavily, in solid, booted feet. A large man takes shape a few feet in front of her.
And Kristina suddenly pulls back a few steps in front of her. Suddenly a weight has fallen on her heart. What is this? Who is this walking on the path?
She takes a few steps backward, her hands on her throat as if in protection. She is utterly still.
The apparition has stopped in front of her.
“I hope I didn’t scare you?”
“Karl Oskar!”
“You’re late—I was getting worried.”
“It turned dark so quickly . . .”
“Well, yes, that’s what I thought. That’s why I came . . .”
“Have I been looking for the cow so long that you had to look for me!”
“Did you find the cow?”
“No, I didn’t. She might be stuck somewhere . . .”
Karl Oskar
and Kristina resume their homeward walk on the path. They walk side by side, but the path is so narrow they find it difficult to walk beside each other; at times he must go ahead a bit, then wait for her when the path broadens.
And now as they walk together here in the dark forest she feels the moment has come to tell him:
She tells him what has happened to her, she tells him everything she has thought of while sitting on the tree trunk, she says all in a few minutes, all she has intended to tell him.
Kristina wishes to share with her husband her own unwavering confidence and conviction:
She will survive her ninth childbed.
—2—
A settler wife’s evening prayer:
. . . yes, dear God . . . it was terrible . . . worse than I had ever feared . . . He was frightened beyond reason. Never have I seen him so frightened as tonight . . . never! I couldn’t help no matter what I said. Therefore I wish to pray to you, dear God—help me! Help me reassure Karl Oskar! Help me remove the anxiety from him! For he cannot carry on like this all the time till February . . .
I myself . . . I know not what to do any more . . . but I trust in you, dear God. You are the only one who can remove the fear from my husband. Don’t let Karl Oskar worry! Tell him there’s no danger! Now he only says everything is his fault, his responsibility. But you—you know all, you know how it happened . . .
Myself . . . I’ll do all I can to help him in this. But I’m so tired, dear God, you know how tired I am . . .
XII
AND A NEW CIVIL WAR BROKE OUT
The Cause:
According to the Mendota Agreement the government was to pay the Sioux in western Minnesota the sum of $70,000 in gold during 1861. By the beginning of 1862 this debt had not been paid. Meanwhile, famine raged among the Indians and their situation was greatly worsened by the intensely cold winter. Their spokesmen several times dunned the government agents for money but were sent away empty-handed. While the Sioux waited in vain for their money, disturbance arose in their camp. Red Iron, a prominent Sioux chief, had met with Alexander Ramsey, governor of Minnesota, for negotiations which took place at Mankato in October 1861.
The Last Letter Home Page 15