Unto A Good Land

by Vilhelm Moberg

  Their new house was built roughly, but he was sure it would provide them with comfort and shelter.

  Kristina said that this house was like a castle, it was heaven compared to the shanty! And she was well pleased with all she saw, especially their new beds; these were the most comfortable sleeping places they had since leaving home.

  Karl Oskar assured her he would make the house still more comfortable for her. On the long back wall, between the beds, he intended to place an oak log, which would make an excellent sofa; next to the fireplace he intended to build shelves, he would drive pegs into the logs to hang clothes on, and as soon as he had time he would make her a table, surely before Christmas. By and by they would be quite comfortable in this house.

  Kristina was aware of the rough timbers in the cabin, the unfinished walls; she saw better than her husband all that was crooked and out of line, but she had been deeply worried that the house would not be finished before winter came. How glad she was now that she could move into it! They had wandered about so long and had to change shelter and sleeping places so often—how wonderful it would be to settle down under a real roof, be within four solid walls, live in a house where they could stay!

  Yes, Kristina was satisfied with their house of roughhewn logs, even though Karl Oskar said: “Wait till next time! Next time I’ll build a real . . .”

  Even before they had moved into their new house he was planning the next one: This forest had timber enough for real mansions; as soon as he had improved his condition, he would build something larger and finer than any farmhouse in all Ljuder Parish! It would be at least two stories high, of the finest timber, elegantly finished.

  Yes, he assured his wife, she could rely on him; their next house would be well finished, both inside and outside.

  —4—

  Karl Oskar made a cross in the almanac on the twenty-eighth of October—that was the day they moved into the new log house.

  They invited their countrymen at the other settlement for a house-warming, and Anders Månsson and his mother were also asked. All the guests came in Anders Månsson’s ox wagon—the ungreased wooden wheels, ever moaning and squeaking, announced their arrival half an hour before the wagon emerged from the forest. Now the new house was filled with people jostling for seats. Karl Oskar had made a few chairs from sawed-off oak blocks, leaving a back rest sticking up, somewhat rounded to fit the back of a full-grown person. These made solid seats, but for the party he had to roll in ordinary blocks as well, and still some of the guests had to sit on the beds.

  So they were again together, sixteen of them, all born in the same land, all speaking the same language. They had settled in different places, made up separate households, and had no possessions in common except their language, and this united them and held them together in their new country. They felt almost like close relatives. However kind and friendly people may be, if they are unable to speak a common language, they remain strangers. Today, no strangers had come to visit Karl Oskar and Kristina; their visitors seemed like blood relations.

  Kristina had prepared a venison dinner; she had peeled the potatoes before boiling them, as was the custom at parties at home. She had boiled a whole kettle of cranberries; these berries were now ripening in great quantities in the bogs hereabouts, and they had a pleasing sour-fresh taste. To a housewarming the guests were supposed to bring gifts of food, and Ulrika had cooked the moving-in porridge, made of rice; she came with a large earthen bowl full of it. Jonas Petter had brought a keg of American brännvin. There were not as many dishes or as much of everything as was customary at housewarmings in Sweden, but all felt that they were sitting down to a great feast.

  Karl Oskar and Kristina had invited their guests before they had a table; the food was served on top of their Swedish chest, around which they all sat down. Their guests said they too were still using their chest lids for food boards.

  Ulrika had not been stingy when she cooked the housewarming porridge, it was sugar-sweet and won praise from all; before they knew it they had reached the bottom of the earthen bowl. As a young girl, Ulrika had occasionally worked as cook’s helper at Kråkesjö manor; she had learned cooking well and was handy at both stove and oven, when she had anything to cook with.

  Today, for once, the settlers felt entitled to many dishes at the same meal, and they ate steadily and solemnly. At last the coffeepot was taken down from its hook over the fire, and a delicious odor of coffee spread through the cabin. Robert proudly showed the coffee grinder he had made for Kristina: he had hollowed out a stone to make a mortar with another stone for pestle, to crush the coffee beans. He had seen the Indians use such mills—their coffee now was ground Indian-wise.

  All ate to their full satisfaction, and when Ulrika wanted to rise, the chair clung to her behind. She had eaten so much that she couldn’t get out of the chair, she blamed Karl Oskar who had made the seat too narrow for a grown woman; he ought to be old enough to know that women were broader across the behind than men; God had created them that way in order to make them lie steady on their backs those times when they obeyed His commandment to increase and replenish the earth.

  Jonas Petter poured the American brännvin, and all drank—even the children were given a few drops each. Anders Månsson said the whisky was stronger than Swedish brännvin; at first it burned the tongue a little, but later it felt good in the stomach. Some people had a hard time getting accustomed to the taste of whisky, some had to keep at it persistently, it might take years; he himself had already become accustomed to it. The whisky was made from Indian corn, “Lazyman’s Grain” as it was called. He had planted this corn for the first time last spring.

  “At home the brännvin is white, why is it brown here?” Kristina asked.

  “They haven’t strained it carefully,” said Ulrika. “There’s mash in it.”

  Jonas Petter had his own opinion: “It’s the color of cow piss but it tastes mighty good!”

  Kristina and Ulrika both thought Swedish brännvin was sweeter and milder; this tasted pungent. But old Fina-Kajsa liked American brännvin better then Swedish: “Brännvin should be felt in the throat! It mustn’t slip down like communion wine!”

  Anders Månsson’s mother had changed much since she had found her son; at times she sat silently by herself, staring straight ahead for hours, hardly hearing if she were spoken to. At other times she seemed to have lost her memory. Believing herself still on the journey, she kept mumbling, downhearted and confused: “Oh me, oh my! We’ll never get there! Oh me, oh my!”

  She could forget everything around her to such an extent that she wasn’t aware she had reached her son three months ago. The long journey seemed to have been too much for her head. But at other times she pulled herself together and worked all day long like a young woman, running her son’s house and cooking for him the delicious Öland dumplings which he had been without so long in America. Since he now could get the dumplings here, Anders Månsson said, there was nothing left in Sweden to go back to.

  After their feast, the settlers grouped themselves around the hearth where a great fire of dry pine boughs was burning. And sitting there, to let the “food die in the stomach,” they began to talk of Sweden and of people in their home community: It was now the servants’ “Free Week” at home, all crops were in, the potatoes picked, the fields plowed. The bread for the winter was in the bins, the cattle in the byre. Those at home lived in an old and settled land, they had their food for the winter. And they could not help but compare their own situation: they were farmers without crops, without grain bins, without pork barrels, without livestock. And ahead of them lay the earth’s long resting season, when the ground gave nothing.

  But Sweden had already begun to fade into the vague distance; it seemed far away in time and space. Heaven seemed closer than Sweden. Their old homes had taken on an aspect of unreality, as does everything at a great distance.

  They began speaking of the loneliness of the great wilderness, and Jonas Petter said: �
�Is there one among us who regrets the emigration?”

  The question caught them unaware, and a spell of silence fell over the group. A puzzling question had been asked—a poser—which required a great deal of thought before they could answer it; it was like a riddle to be solved. Do I regret my emigration? It was an intrusive question, forcing itself upon them, knocking at each one’s closed door: a demand to open and show what was hidden inside.

  Ulrika was the first to answer. She stared at Jonas Petter, almost in fury: “Regret it! Are you making fun of me? Should I regret having moved to a country where I’m accepted as a human being? I’d rather be chopped to sausage filling than go back to Sweden!”

  “It was to be,” Danjel Andreasson said. “We were chosen to move here. We shall harbor neither regret nor fear.”

  “I regret one thing!” spoke up Karl Oskar. “I regret I didn’t emigrate six years ago, when I first came of age.”

  “You are not yet of age—your Guardian still lives in Heaven,” Danjel said. “His will has been done.”

  “But the Lord’s servant—the dean—advised against my emigration.”

  “Then it was an evil spirit that spake through him,” Danjel retorted calmly.

  “Well—I’m here! And no one can get me away from here! As surely as I sit on this chopping block!” Karl Oskar spoke with great emphasis.

  He was settled now, he and his family had moved into their house, furnished with sturdy beds and seats he had made. Beginning this very day, he felt settled and at home in North America.

  Jonas Petter said: Life in the wilderness had its drawbacks, but things would improve by and by, as they improved themselves. It had been well for them to travel about and see how great the earth was, how vast its seas and countries. At home, people thought Sweden made up the whole world; that was why folk there were so conceited.

  “They should read geography books,” interrupted Robert.

  “That they should, instead of poking their noses into everyone else’s business,” agreed Jonas Petter. If anyone hiccoughed in Sweden, folk picked it up and ran with it until it was heard throughout the whole county. His father knew an old morning hymn which all should follow:

  Peaceful walk and do thy bit,

  Obey thy Lord, on others spit!

  This psalm Jonas Petter’s father used to sing every morning before he began his day, and if they obeyed it, they would be happy through all their days, and at last pass to the beyond in contentment.

  Judging from the replies to Jonas Petter’s question, no one regretted his emigration. And the settlers began to talk of work to be finished before winter set in. Karl Oskar intended to dig a well before the frost got into the earth; he had not been able to find a spring in the vicinity, they had been using brook water, which didn’t seem to hurt them; it was running water, but it wasn’t quite clear in color or taste.

  The talk around the fire was suddenly interrupted by Kristina, who was seized by a fit of weeping. This happened unexpectedly and without forewarning. No one had said a word to hurt or upset her. She herself had been silent a long time. She had not joined in their talk about Sweden, but she had listened. Karl Oskar now asked in consternation if she was in pain. But she only shook her head—he mustn’t pay any attention to her. And she continued to cry and sob, she put both her hands to her face and wept without saying why. No one could comfort her, as no one knew what ailed her. They asked many times if she were ill: No, she was not ill. . . .

  Karl Oskar felt embarrassed and didn’t know what to say to the guests; but they would understand she was sensitive now. . . .

  “You’re worn out, I guess?” he said kindly.

  Danjel patted his niece on the shoulder: “Lie down and rest, Kristina. We too must seek the comfort of our homes.”

  “I am acting like a fool. Forgive me, all of you. . . .”

  Fearing that the guests were departing because of her behavior, Kristina pleaded with them to remain, trying to swallow her sobs: “To blubber like this . . . I don’t understand it. Pay no heed to it; it will soon be over.”

  But their guests must start on their homeward road to be back before dark. Anders Månsson did not wish to drive the new road after nightfall; he went out and yoked the team to the wagon, while Ulrika washed the dishes and picked up her empty earthen bowl; Jonas Petter left his keg with at least half a quart still splashing in it.

  Karl Oskar accompanied his guests a bit of the way, walking up the slope. The housewarming had ended on an unhappy note, too suddenly. And he was worried over Kristina’s peculiar behavior; if she wasn’t sick, she must be crying for some other reason, and this reason she had kept secret from him. He must know what it was, she must tell him what ailed her.

  When he returned to the house, Kristina had dried her tears. She began to speak of her own will: “I couldn’t help it, Karl Oskar.”

  “I guess not.”

  “I assure you, it was nothing. . . .”

  “One can be sad and weep. But why did you have to weep just this day?”

  “It irks me terribly—with all the guests . . .”

  Karl Oskar wondered if after all she wasn’t a little disappointed with the log house. Had she expected their new home to be different—better and roomier? He tried to comfort her by telling her about the house he intended to build next time: “You wait and see our next house, Kristina! Next housewarming you won’t cry!”

  “Karl Oskar—I didn’t cry because of . . .”

  No, he mustn’t think she shed tears because their house wasn’t fine enough! He mustn’t think she was so ungrateful! That would have been sinful of her. No, the house was good, she had told him she was pleased with their new home. And she hadn’t complained before, when there might have been reason—she hadn’t said a word when they shivered and froze in the shed. Why should she be dissatisfied now when they had moved into a warm, timbered house? No, she had everything she could want, this last year she had learned to be without; before they managed to get under this roof, she had learned to value a home; she had thanked God Who had let them move in here, well and healthy and all of them alive, after the dangers they had gone through.

  But she couldn’t help it—something had come over her today, making her cry. Before she knew it the tears had come to her eyes, as if forced out. She didn’t know what it was—she only felt it was overpowering. And she couldn’t tell him how much it disturbed her that this had happened at their housewarming, on that longed-for day when they moved in. . . .

  Karl Oskar was satisfied with her explanation: no wonder she was a little sensitive, unable to keep her tears, the condition she was in. She needed comforting words and he went on talking of their next housewarming: “Just wait and see our next house! Then we’ll be really at home here on Lake Ki-Chi-Saga!”

  —5—

  When Kristina went to bed the first evening in the log house, the first time in the new, comfortable bed, with her husband beside her, she remained awake a long while: Had she lied to him today? Didn’t she know what had come over her and made her cry? It had come over her many times before, although never so overpoweringly as today. It used to come when she had nothing to busy herself with, nothing to occupy her mind. Usually it soon passed, but it came back, it always came back. And of course it would come back today, with all the others sitting there talking about it! Indeed, they forced it to come. They sat and reminisced about the old country and the people at home, they made everything come to life so vividly, everything she had given up with a bleeding heart to follow her husband.

  Now they were at last settled, now they would stay here forever, at home on Lake Ki-Chi-Saga, as Karl Oskar put it. So strange it sounded, to have her home linked to that name. She was to be at home here for the rest of her life—but she wasn’t at home. This house was her home, but it was so far away. . . .

  Here was away for Kristina—Sweden was home. It ought to be just the opposite: the two places should change position. She had moved, but she could not make the
two countries move, the countries lay where they had lain before—one had always to her been away, the other would always remain home.

  And she knew for sure now, she had to admit it to herself: in her heart she felt she was still on a journey; she had gone away but hoped one day to return.

  Home—to Kristina, this encompassed all that she was never to see again.

  XVII

  GUESTS IN THE LOG HOUSE

  —1—

  The settlers at Lake Gennesaret had moved into their log house a few weeks before their countrymen on Lake Ki-Chi-Saga. Jonas Petter would build his house next summer, and in the meantime he lived with Danjel. He had begun to fell timbers to let them season for his building, and Robert helped him with the felling; he was doing exchange work for his brother. To avoid the hour-long walk from Ki-Chi-Saga and back, he stayed in Danjel’s house during the week and went home only Saturdays.

  One Saturday afternoon Robert arrived at his brother’s settlement leading a cow behind him with one of Karl Oskar’s linden-fiber ropes. He tied the cow to the sugar maple at the door and called Kristina.

  She came out, looked at the cow, and rubbed her eyes. “What kind of creature is that? Did you run across a stray cow in the forest?”

  “No. I’ve led her from Taylors Falls.”

  Kristina inspected the animal more closely: It was one of Anders Månsson’s cows, the one that wouldn’t get with calf, which he intended to butcher.