Jackson replied he had it from a Swedish timberman he had met in Franconi; he had asked this man to write down in his own language a few words of praise for Swedish women, indeed, the best praise he could give with a clear conscience. And the Swede had written it on paper he had copied, so Pastor Jackson did not think there could be any mistake in the language; he remembered that sentence very well — it was the last one, and he had copied it correctly.
Jonas Petter also spoke in a whisper when he answered that this was an elegant and worthy speech. It was well suited for the occasion here tonight. All that was written down on this paper was clear, unadulterated truth; from the first word to the last it was the whole truth. And he was sure the women present would like it; they would be well pleased with the praise they received. Nor were there any mistakes in Swedish grammar; all was well put together.
But he would advise the pastor to shorten the speech with one sentence, only one little sentence. If, for example, the last sentence were cut out, the very last one. It was more or less superfluous anyway. What it conveyed had already been repeated so often that everyone knew it. It was indeed correct and right and true, that line also, perhaps the truest of them all. Jonas Petter himself could from practical experience verify its truth, for that matter. It contained great honor and much praise for the Swedish women, and they would indeed feel honored when they heard it. But a speaker ought not to repeat what everyone knew. So the last sentence was entirely superfluous. The fine speech would have its best effect if it were removed.
Pastor Jackson nodded eagerly and thanked Jonas Petter warmly for the advice; of course he would follow it. Jonas Petter pulled out his red carpenter’s pencil, which he always carried in his hip pocket, and drew a line through the last four words on the paper, a thick, forceful line which almost obliterated them.
The speech Pastor Jackson gave in honor of his wife came as her crown of honor. The surprise was almost too much for her — now old Ulrika of Västergöhl was indeed rehabilitated; she had invited these guests to her new home, they had willingly accepted her invitation, yes, they had felt honored by it. And they were happy and sated with food and good cheer — with one voice they had praised her ability as housekeeper and cook. There was no end to their praise of her “Swedish table” with its delicious dishes. And she had been proud to show them a well-shaped daughter, born in wedlock, in a Christian marriage. Even as a mother she had received honor and praise. And then at last, entirely unexpected, utterly surprising, came this further honor, respect and praise to her — this speech in her own language which her dear, beloved Henry gave for her.
Her fellow immigrants, the people from her own home parish, could hear in their own language, clearly and loudly, how grateful her husband was to her, how highly he esteemed and respected and honored her. It was a mark of honor surpassing all others — it raised her so high she felt dizziness overtake her. Ulrika of Västergöhl had come into her glory. What more could she wish in life?
Ulrika rushed over to her husband, who opened his arms to her for everyone to see, resting on his breast she could no longer contain her emotions. She burst into tears of happiness.
And Jonas Petter returned to his seat and helped himself to more of the hostess’s delicious cheesecake. He had undoubtedly done a good deed today; he had prevented a great scandal at this party. He had done so because it was Ulrikas first party. But now he sat there wondering about himself and the way he had acted. He wondered if he hadn’t in some way begun to change — if Pastor Jackson had asked his advice in this matter a few years ago, then he would surely have urged him to give his speech without shortening it. Why had he this evening refused such a malicious pleasure?
Like Ulrika of Västergöhl, he must have become a better person in America.
VIII. “THAT BAPTIST ILK”
— 1—
Karl Oskar and Kristina were celebrating their fourth Christmas in the new country. They had made things as Yule-like as possible, both inside and outside. At threshing time Karl Oskar had put aside a dozen sheaves which he now set up for the birds in front of the window; there the yellow barley straw broke warmly against the tall white drifts. Just finished for Christmas was a little sled he had made for the children on which they could slide down the drifts as soon as the snow packed. The weather was mild this Christmas, their last in the log cabin.
Karl Oskar was in the habit of writing to his parents twice a year, at Christmas and at Midsummer. Now he sat with pen and paper for several evenings during the holidays and wrote his letter to Sweden. Last summer his letter had been very brief; he wanted to make his winter letter a little longer. But when, at the very beginning, he had noted down that all of them enjoyed the precious gift of health, he seemed to have said almost all there was to say, and he had to work laboriously to compose further sentences.
On the last day of the old year Karl Oskar received a letter from his sister Lydia, who had written in their fathers place. Father’s hands shook so, she wrote, that Nils Jakobsson was afraid his letters from now on would be so poorly written that his son in America would be unable to read them. But both he and Mother were well and active, even though they no longer made any use of themselves in this life. His sister wrote that she, during the past year, had joined in wedlock a farmer at Åkerby, so that her name from now on would be Lydia Karlsson. Since her marriage she had borne a son who at the moment of her writing was six weeks old. She mentioned the names of a few parishioners, recently dead, whom Karl Oskar had known, and she wrote that many farmers from Ljuder and the neighboring villages of Linneryd and Elmeboda had emigrated to North America during the year, but she did not know where they had settled. Finally, she wondered what had happened to their brother Robert, whom they had not heard from for almost two years.
Karl Oskar could not allay her apprehensions concerning Robert, only share them. Almost a year had passed since he had received the last letter from his brother. And next spring three years would have passed since Robert and Arvid started out on their journey to the California goldfields.
Neither of the young men was made for long, dangerous journeys, nor were they in shape to endure hardships. One could only hope Providence had protected them on the road to the goldfields. And what could Karl Oskar have done to stop their venture? He could not have denied his brother the right to make his own decisions. He could not put his brother in a cage. Moreover, Robert would have escaped had he done so. Even as a small child he would run away, and his parents had had to put a cowbell around his neck to find the straying boy. The day he was to begin his first service as a hired hand he had tried to run away and leave the home village, and later he had escaped from his master. Robert was the eternal escapist. If he only reached Heaven he would try to escape from it too, thought Karl Oskar. But why didn’t he write more often? He could write well.
“Robert won’t come back until he has found gold,” Kristina said.
“And just because of this I’m afraid he’ll never come back.”
Karl Oskar was beginning to think that his younger brother was no longer alive.
— 2—
Another new year began—1854—and again they were without a new almanac. Notations about crops, purchases, sales, dates when the cows took the bull, and other important days were still recorded in the old almanac.
With the new year came severe cold. Night and day they kept the fire burning. The fireplace — it was the cabin’s heart and center, the capitol of the home kingdom. The hearth was the home’s altar, and on that altar were sacrificed all the cords of firewood that had been cut during the summer and stacked against the cabin wall to dry. The fireplace — it was the most essential part of the home, the source of blessed warmth. The fire must not go out. In the light of the fire they performed their chores, round the altar of flames they gathered to warm their cold limbs. The fireplace gave the people in the cabin light and warmth, it was the defender of life.