Unto A Good Land

by Vilhelm Moberg

  As the wind of the earth and the waves of the sea. . . .

  —1—

  On a small deck near the prow, set aside for steerage passengers, the immigrants from Ljuder were gathered in a group. The deck was roofed but open at the sides, and in the melting heat the passengers sought their way up here to find coolness; some even slept here at night. They had lived so long on the water that a deck now felt like home to them.

  A heavy thunderstorm had passed over the valley in the early morning, and fiery swords of lightning had crossed each other over the blue mountains; but the relief it brought had been of short duration. They could feel in the air that the thunderstorm was still near. The travelers from cooler regions sat listless and lazy in the stifling heat and gazed apathetically at the green countryside with its immense fertility, plants and herbs in great numbers spreading far on either side of the river. They pointed out to each other an occasional tree, a bush, or some clinging vine with unusual leaves; or their eyes might follow the flight of some unknown bird, whose name they would ask.

  From time to time the river narrowed or broadened; at its greatest width they thought the distance must be about two American miles. At times the strong current slowed down their speed. But the steamer kept to the center of the stream and met the oncoming current with such force that water splashed over the forecastle. Behind them the smoke from the funnels hung in the air like serpentine tufts of hair behind a fast runner.

  Time dragged for the immigrants; at sea the wind had delayed them, here on the river the stream hindered them. It was already the last week in July.

  Fina-Kajsa lay outstretched full length on the dirty old blanket which she had shared with her mate before he was buried in the North Sea.

  “Oh me, oh my! We’ll never get there, never! Oh me, oh my!”

  From the lips of the old woman two questions constantly issued forth: Had anyone seen her iron pot? Would they never arrive?

  With each day since landing in New York her health had improved, and by now she was as well as anyone in their company. She liked the heat; her old backache, a constant plague in the wet climate of Öland, had entirely disappeared. If they could put Fina-Kajsa into a well-fired oven and keep her there for a while, Jonas Petter had remarked, she might come out with new life and hop about like a young girl.

  “Oh me, oh my! We’ll never get there! Oh me, oh my!”

  If they ever arrived, they would meet Anders, her only son, who had emigrated five years before. And now as they were nearing their destination her fellow travelers began questioning Fina-Kajsa about him. She told them: As long as he had stayed at home he had been an obstinate and unmanageable scoundrel; she and her husband had beaten him harder than an unbroken steer to make him tractable. He was lazy, evil-tempered, drunken, and ready to fight anyone; he had spent his time in the company of loose women, obeying neither father nor mother. When he was only ten years old, they had realized his nature: at one time they had refused to let him go with them to a Christmas party, they had locked him up. When they returned, the boy had broken out and given vent to his unchristen nature by smashing nearly all the furniture, from their fine chiffonier to the porcelain chamber pot. But after he had gone out into the world he had regretted his behavior; a few years ago he had written from America, asking his parents’ forgiveness. Out here he had become a different person, he worked hard, and he was capable. And he had written and told them about his fine home and the extensive fields he owned in Minnesota. She was sure she would find security and comfort with her son Anders as soon as they reached his beautiful farm. And he would help them all get settled, for whatever else she might have said of her son, he was capable, he knew what to do. According to his letters, there would be farms for all of them where he lived; as soon as they reached Anders all their worries would be over.

  “But America has no end. We’ll never get there! Oh me, oh my!”

  Karl Oskar still kept the piece of paper with Anders Månsson’s address. “Have patience a little longer, Mother Fina-Kajsa. We’ll get there,” he comforted the old woman.

  Robert and Arvid were looking down into the water, trying to figure out how fast they were traveling. Robert had read in his book about the Mississippi that it drained a greater area than any other river in the world, and that it flowed with a speed of four miles an hour. And their bearded Norwegian captain had said that the boat could move with a speed of two miles an hour. This didn’t seem to make sense; if the river flowed faster than the steamer moved, they wouldn’t get forward at all, rather backward.

  Robert deducted the speed of the steamer from the speed of the current—two minus four—then he said: “Now I’ve figured it out. We go two miles backward an hour! We’ll soon get back to the ocean again.”

  “Christ in heaven!” Arvid exclaimed in terror. “Not back on the ocean again! I told you we should have walked once we were on dry land!”

  But Robert’s figures did not give the truth of the matter. By watching the shores they could see for themselves that their boat was moving upstream. Luckily, Robert had been mistaken.

  He asked his brother how the boat could move faster than the river even though the river moved faster than the boat? Karl Oskar said, perhaps Captain Berger had counted in Norwegian miles. But he did not wish to be drawn into arguments about miles and distances, he had already had enough trouble with the difference between Swedish and American miles.

  Ever since Ulrika had found Lill-Märta in Detroit, harmony had reigned among the group; there was no longer talk of anyone’s leaving it. They realized that in their situation they could be of help to each other. After reaching these distant regions where their language separated them from other travelers, their group had become more unified than before: they owned one thing in common—their language. Since Landberg’s departure in Chicago, they had been left to rely on themselves, and a greater intimacy had sprung up among them. Kristina said if they all stuck together, they would get along; she told them the secret of success was that none must be proud. No one must feel above anyone else. They mustn’t act the way they used to at home in Sweden.

  And they all agreed not to dig up old quarrels and scandals from their homeland; the past must be dead and buried forever. Ulrika had been the parish whore and spent time in prison; Danjel had many times been punished with heavy fines for breach of religious laws and had been threatened with exile by the authorities; both were now banned by the church in Sweden; but who cared about that out here? The deeds for which they had been punished in Sweden were not considered crimes in America. Moreover, no one here cared what they had done in Sweden. Why then bring it up among themselves? More and more they began to realize that Sweden was an antiquated country, behind the times, her unjust laws written by the masters that they might dominate the simple people. Here in America they could tell both the bishop and the sheriff to go to hell. As Jonas Petter put it, they could tell all of them—the bishop, the dean, the warden, and the sheriff—to kiss their bottoms.

  The health of the travelers was improving. At little Eva’s death, on their previous boat, nearly all had felt pains and aches, but they had escaped the cholera. Ulrika had become perfectly well the moment she stepped aboard the Red Wing though at first sight of the steamer she had refused to go near it: one wheelhouse had an inscription in tall letters—PACKET. In Swedish packet meant rabble, mob, loose people. If they were to be lodged in the part of the ship called packet, she refused to go near it. Here in America all were supposed to be equal, and no one group ought to be called packet. She calmed down only after the Norwegian captain’s explanation that packet meant his steamer carried mail.

  The captain had risen in unmarried Ulrika’s estimation since he addressed her as Min Fru. Apparently all men in America raised her to married status. Now, too, she was well again and without pain. She believed the mustard plaster had saved her from the cholera. In spite of Danjel’s friendly remonstrance, she had used it, but for a few days she had worried lest God punish
this disobedience to His apostle. Never before had she disobeyed Danjel. However, the Lord God had not taken revenge because of her plaster, and now she wondered if she should always follow Danjel’s advice and warnings. She had noticed he was not as stern as before; it seemed as if he sometimes doubted that he had been chosen to guide their souls.

  Kristina looked after Karl Oskar’s wound, which was healing well, but his chest was sore and blue all over and it hurt when he breathed. In his left leg some stiffness remained, and he still limped a little. His Swedish good luck had deserted him in America, Kristina insisted.

  Since they had now been a whole month on their journey from New York, Karl Oskar was thinking of writing another letter to Sweden; but he decided to wait until they arrived at their place of settling. There was nothing new to tell his parents; nothing had happened that was worth mentioning in a letter.

  As they sat together on deck they spoke for the first time in a long while about their old homeland, and now it appeared Karl Oskar was the only one who had written home to Sweden. Danjel had no one to write to there; after the church had pronounced its bann, none of his relatives would have anything to do with him, no one expected a letter from one who was exiled, no one cared what happened to him after his departure. His servant Arvid could not write. Jonas Petter could write, and he had his wife Brita-Stafva to write to, but after twenty years of daily quarrels they had at last reached complete disagreement, so he had left her; he was in no hurry to write to the cause of his emigration; nor would he have anything to say to his wife, except that he was glad to be rid of her, and that she already knew.

  When she heard them speak of letters home, Ulrika of Västergöhl exclaimed: “Write to Sweden? But that country doesn’t exist any more! That hellhole is obliterated from the face of the earth!”

  Jonas Petter asked what she meant by this, and Ulrika explained: When leaving Karlshamn, Danjel had said that their old homeland would immediately perish. The Lord’s vengeance would smite the land which had put His faithful in prison on bread and water. The Lord God had long intended to destroy Sweden, but He had to wait until Danjel and his followers had left. Soon four months would have passed since their ship had sailed away, and undoubtedly divine judgment had by now been meted out; the Almighty had surely stricken Sweden and erased her from the earth. If they wanted to send letters home, Ulrika suggested they address them to Hell Below, if mail were delivered there.

  Danjel admitted in a low voice that at the departure he had made a prophecy concerning the homeland’s imminent destruction. But he did not know whether the Lord had as yet carried it out. Perhaps the Lord in patience held back His avenging hand.

  Kristina looked at her uncle and shook her head: Surely the Last Judgment could not have taken place in Sweden without having been noticed here in America? Or what did he think?

  Danjel turned his kind eyes toward his sister’s daughter: He would never again prophesy the Day of Doom; he had now learned that this happening was not postponed until the end of the world but that every day, for every mortal, old or young, was a day of doom. For the Last Judgment was the judgment of conscience within one’s soul, it was meted out in the heart of every pious Christian each time he committed a sin.

  Robert had this to add: They must all realize that when the world was destroyed, then the whole globe would be destroyed in one moment. That little part of the earth’s surface called Sweden could not fall out by itself and disintegrate.

  Ulrika said: “I wouldn’t send a letter to that hellhole, whether it has sunk below or not!”

  She continued in bitterness as her memories rose within her: To whom would she write? To the dean in Ljuder who had chased her away from the Lord’s altar and forbidden her the Sacrament, and who many times had called her a child of Satan? She had always answered him: “Yes, dear Father, I hear you calling me!”—Or should she write the sheriff and thank him for putting her in prison? Or the judge of the county court who sentenced her to bread and water? Or should she send a letter to the prison guard who gave her this fine fare, who brought her the dirty water and the mildewed bread? Should he receive an epistle of love from her, was he worth it? And all those in the home parish who had spit at her and thrown filth after her—should she remember them with a letter? Was any single creature among that damned packet worth a letter? All they did was to serve the devil every moment of their lives.

  Only one person in Sweden would Ulrika like to honor with a letter—the King himself. She would like to thank His Majesty for the feast she had enjoyed in the royal prison, and she would like to tell him that she daily thanked her Creator for having liberated her from being a subject of His Majesty. She would also like to ask the royal person on his high throne how his conscience could let him rule a kingdom where little children were sold at auction, their whole childhood through to be mistreated by greedy, cruel peasants. She would like to tell the King how happy she now was to have escaped from his kingdom, to have arrived in a country where neither he nor any of the lordships at home had any power, a country where she was considered one of God’s own creatures.

  Yes, indeed, next time she got hold of paper and writing tools she would send the King of Sweden a farewell letter from one of his former subjects. And before she put this letter into an envelope addressed to the “King by God’s Grace” at Stockholm Castle, they could guess what she would do with it!

  They all laughed at the Glad One’s letter to the King—they all knew she couldn’t write.

  Karl Oskar said: “Forget the old! It’s over.”

  What purpose could be served by harboring grudges against Sweden? Now that they had arrived in a new, young country, it was better to forget all that old stuff, throw it away as they threw away old rags. They must not keep their homeland so much in their minds that it depressed and irritated them; this would only hinder their success in America.

  Ulrika agreed on this point, as did Danjel and Jonas Petter, But Kristina sat silent the whole time and let no one know how she felt about the danger of thinking too much of her homeland.

  —2—

  Every day Robert read in his language book, every day he practiced the new forms and positions indicated for his lips and tongue. The most useful sentences he learned by heart: how to ask one’s way to inns and lodging places, to food stores and eating places; how to ask the price of food and quarters; how to find work, and above all—the salary paid for work: How much wages do you pay? He must be sure to ask the right question in each instance. He also learned the numbers in English, as he considered these of the greatest importance to avoid being cheated when receiving change or pay.

  Not only was it important to ask rightly; it was equally important to answer correctly when the Americans asked questions. He studied the exercises on getting a job: What can you do? In Sweden he had been a farm hand. But he didn’t like the English word farm hand. Farm hand! It sounded too lowly an occupation, as if he were one hand of the farmer, a piece of his master’s body, another farm tool used by the master. In Sweden he had actually felt that he was nothing more than a tool, a most insignificant and helpless tool, used by the masters as they saw fit. But here the servant was as good as the master, and he had emigrated to America because he didn’t wish to be a tool used by masters; he didn’t want to have any masters, he wanted to be free.

  No, he wanted to tell the Americans what he could do: I can plow and tend cattle! It sounded more like a man talking, inspiring more confidence than to say, I am a farm hand; it sounded more capable and grown-up, as if he worked with his own hands and not with the master’s.

  The Americans were polite and considerate and always asked a stranger how he was. Robert wanted to be equally polite and he had learned by heart the reply: Thank you! I am feeling very well! True enough, he wasn’t quite well, his ear still bothered him, but he wasn’t going to admit that, not even if he were worse than he was. He didn’t want to cause the friendly Americans anxiety in any way. He didn’t want them to go about worrying
over his health; they had so many other things to worry about, and so much to do.

  If he were offered some food that was spoiled or tasted bad (for in America, too, he had discovered such dishes), then he would be courteous, like a man of the world; he would say that he didn’t have time to eat and drink just now, he had a few things to attend to. The Americans, themselves so industrious and thrifty, would hardly blame him for attending to his business.

  The language book gave advice about conversations with people of different trades and positions: Conversation with an Innkeeper, Conversation with a Watchmaker, Conversation with a Hatmaker, Conversation with a Shoemaker, Conversation with a Laundress, Conversation When Purchasing a Country Place, Conversation When Building a Log House. Each conversation listed a dozen questions and answers, and as soon as one knew the person concerned, it was merely a matter of opening the book and starting off. Under different headings were lists of words most frequently used: Time, Nature and the World, Man, Mental Qualities, Bodily Attributes, Plants and Flowers, Metals and Stones, Animals—Wild and Tame. If Robert wanted to report to the police that he had found a corpse in the street, he would only have to look under Man. And if he wanted to compliment someone on his great intelligence, he would look under Mental Qualities; if he wished to tell a girl how beautiful she was, he must turn to the heading Bodily Attributes. And when he had become rich and wanted to buy a riding horse, a thoroughbred stallion, he must choose the words for this transaction under Animals—Wild and Tame. Having bought the stallion, he might also wish to buy a golden watch, and instruction for this purchase might be obtained under Stones and Metals, or perhaps under Conversation with a Watchmaker.

  Robert had written down on a list the names of all the dishes he liked: veal, mutton, pork sausage, rice porridge, pancakes. He had learned to name forty-three different dishes and twelve kinds of drinks. He wanted to have everything in order for the day when his riches were accumulated so that he could order anything he liked and finish up the order with this sentence from his book: Put all the dishes on the table!