Once I wanted to drown an old cat in the brook; I put her into a sack, not realizing that I should have put a stone in, too, before I threw it into the water. It didn’t sink, the cat was alive inside and swam about with the sack. It floated there like a horrible hairy water-animal. The sack kicked and moved but would not sink. I threw stones at it to make it go down, I must have thrown ten before it sank. It was gruesome, I was afraid, and I remember I cried. I was about ten, I had no better sense then. I have many times regretted it. I have never drowned a cat since.
Why is it that I always think of that cat, every evening after going to bed? It frightens me. My brother is not afraid or worried. I have never seen him afraid of anything, on land or sea.
I wonder if Elin is afraid when she lies like this, and listens to the sea outside. I was often alone with her in Karlshamn, but here on the ship I have hardly a chance to speak to her. Yesterday when we sat together on deck her mother called to her: Come here, girl; hurry up! She sounded angry. She couldn’t be angry at me.
I said to Elin once, I feel sorry for your mother. Then she seemed hurt — I can’t understand why. Feel sorry for yourself, you, living in the flesh, she said. What did she mean? I did not say a word against her mother, I only said I felt sorry for her. But Elin got angry, and I was embarrassed. I must have said something foolish, though I don’t know what it was.
I wonder if Elin sleeps with her mother behind the sailcloth. If she sleeps alone, I might crawl across to her. No, I would never dare to. One only thinks about those things — I would never dare. But it is not forbidden to wish, no one can stop you from wishing. I can wish to crawl into bed with a princess. No dean or sheriff can do a thing about it. In the catechism it is forbidden even to wish for things, to covet — to covet a woman to whom you are not married is the same as to commit adultery with her in your heart.
But one has to desire a woman before one can get her, before one can marry her.
I don’t wish to touch Elin in that forbidden way. I don’t wish to commit adultery with her. If I crawled into her bunk, here on the ship, I would just lie quietly and hold her, hold her in my two arms — as I did when we sat and slept together on Jonas Petter’s wagon. What a wonderful ride! If I were near her now I could comfort her when she is afraid, when the storms come and our ship might sink.
Today she told me she is afraid of wild Indians in America. I have told her before that the Indians might at times be a little treacherous and evil and unreliable — they are known to have attacked white people who have tried to kill them. But otherwise they are docile and peace-loving.
My ear aches as though it would burst tonight. It will soon be two years since I got that box on the ear from Aron in Nybacken, and I still feel it. The ache tonight is from that box. It must have been a “big” box — I have nearly lost my hearing in that ear. This is not so good. One cannot know what people are saying if one doesn’t hear. But I know my ear will mend as soon as we arrive in America.
For every wave I hear break against the ship, I am coming nearer to the United States. I am participating in an adventure. I will learn how big the sea is. There are few boys from our neighborhood who can sail the sea and find out how big it is. And when I arrive and step on shore I will be free for all time. On America’s shore no old farmers will be waiting, calling me their “little hand.” Never more will I be a servant to anybody. I shall be my own master.
It hurts awfully in my ear tonight. If only we could move a little faster, if only the ship could sail with higher speed, then we would soon arrive in the land where my earache will disappear.
Arvid:
A hell of a good thing that I could come along. I must thank the pious farmer for that. I think there never was such a kind couple as Danjel and his wife.
I am a passenger now. I’ve chewed that word over and over. Robert thinks I can read, and he tries to make me spell it. He says it has a che-sound in it. What the devil is a che-sound? I went to school a while but I never heard of a che-sound. No other sounds either, as I recall. I never let on to Robert, of course — he thinks I can spell and read. It is the same sound as in a chunk of dirt, he said. But I didn’t understand it. You must mean shit, I said. I think they call that a piece of dirt in school.
Robert is a very learned man who has read much. I would like to have his eyes to read with and his head to think with. He is a clever devil in thinking, finished before I even get started.
Anyhow, now the Bull of Nybacken is a passenger and walks the ship and lives a lazy life. Sundays and weekdays the same. I don’t earn my food, but I get it anyway — three meals a day. I can hardly believe it. Never in all my born life have I had it so easy and comfortable. Ever since I was a small child I have slaved every day — Sundays too. Even when I had my free-week, and came home, I had to help with chores. If I sat down and rested my mother used to say: “Go get some wood! Get a bucket of water!” Or my father said: “Come and crank the grindstone! Help me make this broom!” Never in hell did I have a free-week. No, never. But here on ship no one says: “What are you doing, lazy dog? Give me a hand!” I haven’t done a damned thing since we left home. I have been fed just the same, eaten three meals every day — and how good I feel!
I haven’t been seasick either. A couple of times I have felt like spewing a little, but it went away. I think I have too much food in my stomach. I haven’t missed a single meal yet, and I’ll eat all I can get.
Christ, yes, what a good life! No damn farmer gets me up in the middle of the night to feed the horses. No devil gives me hell because I work too little. No one says a word because I take it easy. It’s a hell of a fine thing. I am a passenger with a che-sound like in shit!
Our boat holds together — not a drop of water has come in through ceiling or walls. That hole on the side — that was made, it’s good with water running through it. But the boat does wobble at times, and I feel it might turn over. It looks warped, up on one side and down at the other. Happily, it gets back in position. But if it did fall over, and sink in the sea, one would never get up again.
When I think that the boat actually can drown, I feel a kind of sickness in my breast. Mother gave me the prayerbook and she knows I can’t read. “You must take God’s word with you to America, in any case,” she said. “You can read those prayers by heart which I taught you when you were a little tyke.” Oh, yes, I do know prayers by heart. The book has one prayer for each morning and each night, the whole week. I try to read as best I can remember — I am out at sea and the ship is rickety and totters at times, and I don’t know how to swim. I know neither cat-swim nor dog-swim, and it may be useful with God’s word: “. . help me sweetly to go to sleep this night. . help me this night that my soul does not go to sleep in sin, and no calamity befalls my body. . if I live on land or sea. . receive me at last in the safe harbor, my dear Father. . ”
Perhaps I mix the evening prayers. But God wouldn’t care if I said a few words from the Tuesday prayer on Monday evening. He couldn’t be that persnickety, not with me who only read by heart. But it feels safer and easier in my chest when I have said my prayer and put myself in the hands of God. What luck that I can leave myself to the Lord on this wild, un-Christian sea.