At home in Ljuder Elin had only worked as nursemaid, but now that she had passed sixteen she hoped to find a position in America more worthy of a grown woman. She read the chapter in the textbook entitled “Doing Ordinary Household Chores.” It dealt with every hour of a maid’s workday in America, and Robert urged her emphatically to learn this chapter well before she landed: having done so she would inspire respect.
I am the new servant girl. You must get up at six o’clock in the morning. Make fire and put water to boil. Get the broom and sweep the dining room. Clear off the table. Wash your hands before you handle food.
When Elin had gone so far she looked at her hands, which were clean and white, with a fragrance of soap. It was early in the morning and she had just washed them.
“In America they must think all maids have dirty hands,” she said.
“The Americans hate all kinds of dirt,” said Robert. “Everything is cleaner in the New World than in the Old. That’s why you’ll fit in well there.”
“Do you really believe it’s true that a maid need not get up before six in the morning?”
About that, Robert dared not offer anything definite. There was the chance that she might accuse him of having told her something untrue. He answered cautiously: “Perhaps she isn’t allowed to sleep so late in all places. But I’ve heard that farmhands can sleep till five o’clock.”
When Elin had served as nursemaid she had always been awakened by her mistress at four o’clock or half past. She liked to sleep late in the morning, and now she was a little disappointed in Robert’s answer. He had once said that all women in America were waited on, and if this were true, then it was only right that they be allowed to sleep later than the men.
The deck rolled slowly under the youth and the girl, the changing world of the sea surrounded them, the same eternal billows lifted them and carried them to a New World where they must find their way. And they sat there close together and with inexperienced, obstinate tongues tried to learn a new language — seriously and persistently they struggled through the English sentences, reading the words aloud as they were spelled.
I am used to farm work. I am the new servant girl.
In these two sentences the youthful emigrants must let the Americans know what kind of people they were, and they must pronounce them correctly, inspiring respect. This was of great importance for their future.
— 2—
The brig Charlotta of Karlshamn was sailing toward Midsummer.
The eagle on her prow still looked incessantly toward the west, his eyes washed clean and clear by the spray. And the two tall masts — fir trees from the forests of the ship’s homeland — bowed gracefully as the vessel glided down the billowy vales, rose proudly again as she encountered the crests of the waves. So they bowed while they carried the sails across all the sea, always rising to their full height again, proudly, defiantly. They had bent a little in hard gusts of wind, they had been pressed down by the storms, but they had always come back up again. They were slim and slender pine spires, in appearance so delicate at the top that they could be broken with the fingers — but these the ship’s pinions had endured the tempests of all seasons on the sea. They were pines from a little land far away, they came from the same stony meadows and moors as the people on this ship — they were related to these voyagers, they were tough and indomitable as the people they helped carry across the sea.
And soon they will have conquered the ocean once more. The Charlotta now met other vessels daily, sailing ships and iron steamers, she was passing vessels, she was overtaken by vessels, she kept company with vessels. The swarm of sea birds was thickening in her rigging. In the water — up till now uncontaminated in its clear blueness — slime and flotsam began to appear, various discarded objects sailed about on the surface. All signs indicated that land was near. And soon the ship would no longer sail on the sea, she would enter a broad river mouth.
The sun was high in the heavens and bathed the deck in warmth. Sick passengers were carried up from the hold and lay the whole day through in the beneficial sunshine. Slowly mending, they felt they were enjoying a warmer sun than the one that shone on them at home. It was high-summer weather, Midsummer weather.
Kristina had improved slowly after her bleeding during the night of the storm. But as yet she was too weak to stand. Karl Oskar carried her out of the dark and stuffy quarters up on deck every day when the sun was out, and each day her sensation of returning strength increased. It worried her that she was lying here so useless; she could not help them now when they had so much to do: they were getting themselves in order for their landing.
The passengers had begun their great cleaning up and were busy preparing themselves for the landing. There was washing and scouring and scrubbing in the hold, garments were washed and rinsed and hung to dry. Clothing of all kinds, Sunday best and underwear and bed-clothing, must be cleaned, mended, patched and brushed. This was not work for menfolk, but Karl Oskar must do it now, and he found it a tedious task. Many things had been ruined on the long voyage — worn out, torn, rotted, drenched with vomit. Mattresses and bolsters and garments were in shreds — these he could only throw into the sea. And nearly everything smelled musty and evil — like the quarters where they had spent more than two months. He gathered, sorted, and discarded a large pile.
“There should be a rag-and-bone man on the ship. He would have a thriving business!”
Now he, like the other passengers, must throw his rags into the sea. And he mused that little by little a whole mountain of ragged discarded belongings of emigrants must have accumulated near the shores of America, if each new arrival threw overboard as much as this.
Kristina thought that he threw away too much. Some of the things in his pile could have been cleaned and mended, could well have had more use. But Karl Oskar felt it a relief to get rid of the stinking rags, reminders of his anxiety during the storms and the plague of seasickness — he wanted to free himself of these witnesses to the troubles of the crossing. The sight of them would only torment him on land when they were to begin anew.
“I don’t want to feel ashamed among the Americans,” he said. “If they were to see these rags, they would wonder what kind of people we are.”
Karl Oskar admitted no debt to the homeland where all his struggle had repaid him so little, but he did not wish to shame Sweden in the eyes of America: he wished to show that it was a land with a cleanly, upright peasantry, that those who came from there were decent and orderly, even if they brought nothing more than their poverty in their knapsacks. He wanted to be neat in his dress, and appear sensible and experienced as he passed through the portals of the New World.
He discarded the old with the rags that he heaved overboard — now the new was to begin.
Of their bedding, Karl Oskar saved only one piece: their blue bridal cover which Kristina herself had sewn. It too was spotted, and several holes gaped in it. Tears came to Kristina’s eyes as she now beheld it in full daylight, and saw how badly it had fared. But maybe she could wash it, remove the disgusting spots, mend the holes — once they had landed and her health and strength had returned. Her bridal quilt was dearer to her than any other possession they brought with them from home. It had been part of her setting-up-of-home in Sweden, she had made her bridal bed with it, Karl Oskar and she had slept under it for six years — during their whole lives as husband and wife. She could now hope that they might rest together under it once more, and use it for many years. Surely they would never be happy and prosperous unless the bridal cover was part of their new settling in America.