Kristina found she must give this promise. But how much she would have liked to tell the truth to her uncle. Don’t you realize your wife is killing herself here at sea? God can never have meant her to give up her health in order for you to escape worldly cares. Doesn’t God, on the contrary, require a wedded husband to be kind to his wife, and assist her when she is sick? And if you have your senses and your eyesight, you must understand that your wife is very ill!
But the strange thing was that she would have been unable to speak reproachfully to her Uncle Danjel. In the presence of this man with the kind eyes one could not use hard words. There was something in his look that calmed one’s mind and created reverence. When he bent his knees and prayed, an illumination came over his face — even if he kneeled in vomit on the floor. He sometimes acted foolish, but all hesitated to make fun of him. Kristina could not understand why it was so difficult to reproach him. Perhaps he was nearer to God than other mortals — perhaps it was this she was aware of.
The fact remained, however, that his wife was killing herself, without his noticing it. Inga-Lena was like a domesticated animal that follows its master. According to the catechism a wife must be subject to her husband — but did God mean that she was absolutely obliged and forced to follow him when he dragged her out to sea?
Kristina was not sure of this.
— 3—
Karl Oskar remained sound and healthy in his body, while at sea, but the prolonged stay in their narrow quarters was depressing to his mind. When he began life anew on another continent he would need an undaunted spirit, and now he was not as he used to be on land. He went about worrying over the future, and this he had never done before. Then, there was a certain something lacking physically: not once during their whole voyage had he been able to satisfy himself with his wife. This was due to bad luck. While Kristina still was well, he had had to sleep with the unmarried men; and when later he had moved to the other side of the sailcloth, she had been ill. As she still remained weak, he could not ask for her.
Ever since his marriage, his satisfaction with his wife had been a habit with him. When he could no longer follow this habit a restlessness and irritation crept into his body, his temper became uneven and his sleep was not restful. There was something missing, and his thoughts were drawn to it — to that missing something. When he could satisfy himself with Kristina he seldom thought of other women — they did not concern him. Now, during his continence, they aroused him so often that he felt annoyed and ashamed. But why must he feel ashamed over this? It was only as it should be: he missed what he couldn’t get. It was only natural that a healthy man should enjoy a woman; the situation here on the ship was unnatural.
Nor did Karl Oskar have enough to do at sea. He had time to brood and to wonder. He went about and thought of that which he must be without. The times he and his wife had enjoyed themselves together came back easily to his mind, and this tortured him. It didn’t happen to him by intention, he tried to shake off such thoughts; he had other things to think about, now, in the midst of the greatest move in his life. But there he went again, thinking of their bed-pleasure, and again he felt ashamed: what was the matter with him? He should be able to get along without it for a while. This must be something that happened often to many men. Why was it so painful to him? Was his lust stronger than other men’s? Here he fought it now, it was his own particular ship-sickness. And he knew for sure — in the long run, he could not survive without a woman.
One night Karl Oskar dreamed that he went in to the unmarried women — to Ulrika of Västergöhl, and used her.
He awakened and felt ashamed of his dream; his thoughts had carried him as far as to the Glad One, the infamous whore, where more than a hundred men had been before! He had been asleep during the act, of course, but it still surprised and shocked him. Though a deed in his sleep, it was nevertheless a shameful one.
He wondered if, while awake, he ever would go in to Ulrika. If he must deny himself and go without long enough, perhaps he might. He wasn’t quite sure. He had looked at her sometimes, and felt that something about her tempted him. Her body was unusually well preserved, and men were often aroused in her presence. But enough sense surely must remain in his head to keep him away from such a woman. And he began to agree with Kristina: as soon as they landed in America they must separate themselves from the Glad One. Kristina could never make friends with the old whore. If they remained in her company, sooner or later some misfortune was likely to happen.
There was no way of telling how soon he and his wife could live together again as a healthy, happy couple. Kristina complained of new ailments: her limbs and joints ached, she had pains in the small of her back. It was very strange that she, still so young, had joint- and limb-ache, like an old woman. At times she was seized by chills, she said they felt like ice-cold runnels of water over her whole body. This ailment could not be caused by the sea, because she had it both in stormy weather and when it was perfectly calm. She always felt cold — even when she sat on deck in the sun, chills would overtake her. She felt as if all the blood within her had cooled off and could warm her no more. And then there was the pressure in her chest, which interfered with her breathing, and the weakness and fatigue that never left her.
In all her life Kristina had never been sick in bed, except in childbed; but now she was sick.
Her illness was accompanied by “the great laziness,” as the old people called it — one of the worst of vices. She did not wish to move, she did not wish to use her arms or legs, to walk or to stand; she didn’t want to perform her duties and chores. It was a great effort for her to prepare a meal, it was an effort to undress herself and her children, every morning she had to force herself to arise and wash and dress. More and more of the chores she left for Karl Oskar. She began to feel wretched and useless on this voyage. So lazy she had never been before, so little she had never done in a day. It must be the sea that sucked strength from body and mind of land people.
Kristina had emptied two bottles of medicine which her husband had obtained for her from the captain’s medicine chest. But she only felt weaker afterward.
“You bring a wretched wife with you to America, Karl Oskar,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ll only be a burden to you.”
“You’ll get well as soon as you are on land,” he assured her. “It’s just the rotten ship’s fare you can’t stand.”
They received only old salted foods, tainted by the smells of kegs and wooden boxes, tasting of sour barrel bottoms and ancient tubs. They never obtained a drop of milk, never a fresh slice of bread, never a taste of newly churned butter, never a bite of unsalted meat; only food which had been stored away for a long time. Never were they able even to boil a pot of potatoes — potatoes, which more than any other food kept the body in order and gave it its daily and necessary opening. No, Karl Oskar wouldn’t be surprised if every person on the ship were to get sick in the end from the fare they received. He, too, felt somewhat loose and limp in his limbs. And nearly everyone he spoke to complained of the same ailment as Kristina, only she was a little worse than the others. But none seemed to improve, they wouldn’t until they landed and lived and ate as folk ought to live and eat. Life at sea was destructive and unsound for a human being; this, indeed, he had learned.
Within himself Karl Oskar added: This sea voyage he would never repeat; for the rest of his life he would live on land.
Kristina was convinced that a creeping, treacherous, dangerous disease had taken hold of her — though she kept her knowledge a secret from her husband. This time life itself within her was assailed — and the anxiety she had experienced the first day on the Charlotta came over her again: this is not seasickness, this illness attacks life itself. This time you cannot get well; but you were warned, you received a warning from God those last days at home: Do not go out to sea! Stay at home! You do not belong at sea! But you didn’t obey, you left. And now you know. That’s why you had the premonition, felt it the moment you came into the hold. It’s like a grave down here, a musty, horrible grave. Something within you told you it would be your grave. One day they will come down with a piece of canvas for you; never, never will you get away from here with life — they will carry you out in a piece of canvas. .