By and by Charlie Burns got well, but his face had changed color: It was greenish, exactly like the belly of the rattler. This was not unusual in such cases, said Mr. Thorn.
Wherever Charlie went after that, his green face caused a hell of a fright. People stared at him wherever he was, and all were sure that he was a drunkard and that his color came from drinking whiskey. One day he met a Methodist preacher who wanted to exhibit him to his congregation as a revolting example of what drinking would do. So Charlie hired himself to the Methodists and was displayed at all the meetings as a warning against drinking. Charlie had always been a sober person never touching whiskey, but now he became known far and wide as the worst drunkard in the world. He got half of the collections and earned good money for many years, working diligently in the field of religion, serving the cause of temperance, and saving many drunkards with his green face. Finally he retired and bought a big house in Chicago — he was still living there in great comfort, Mr. Thorn concluded.
Chicago! cut in Jonas Petter. He had been to that town last winter, and some sight it was! The houses were dirty and black as if tarred. Chicago was a den of iniquity, a home of unnatural vices, filled with sinners of all kinds — murderers, thieves, swindlers, sodomites, whores, and pimps. The women he had met in that town were decked out in plumes and feathers, like peacocks. American women were of course lazy and haughty and didn’t want to do anything from morning to night except work on their faces and deck themselves out. And their wicked ideas had spread to some of the Swedish women in America; there were actually Swedish women who now refused to polish the shoes of their men.
He had heard it was predicted that Chicago — world capital of sin — would be destroyed next year. On April 16, 1870, the lakes and rivers round the town would flood it and swallow it up, dirt and all.
“Well, I think they would fish up Chicago again,” said Samuel Nöjd. “The Americans are so clever.”
The whiskey and the beer had loosened the men’s tongues at Karl Oskar Nilsson’s party, and even those of few words wanted to talk. But the host himself did not participate much in the talking, he was busy attending to the guests and their needs of food and liquor. He was never very sociable — weeks would go by without callers in his house — and this wedding day was not a day of joy to him. There was now one less in the house and the child he most needed had moved away from him. She had deserted her father to be with the man she liked best, and according to life’s order it was the father who suffered the loss, and a loss was nothing to celebrate. But a party must be given by the father when his daughter was married.
“When are you starting on your new house, Karl Oskar?” asked Jonas Petter.
“Never. I won’t build any more in my time.”
“Well, you’ve built enough to last. You can rest now.”
Jonas Petter had himself raised a new house last summer and he had just sent for a photographer from St. Paul so he could send a picture of it to his relatives in Sweden. This picture was put on leather and could be sent like a postcard to any part of the world, without damage. Mr. Golding, the picture man, had made much money taking pictures of houses to send to the old country. He even had houses he lent to people who had none of their own, so they could stand in front of them to show their relatives.
Jonas Petter regretted he hadn’t borrowed a house from Mr. Golding and stood in front of it, instead of his own. It wouldn’t have cost a cent more and he could have picked the nicest house in St. Paul and his relatives would never have known the difference.
He was drowned out by Mr. Thorn and Samuel Nöjd, who had gotten into a dispute about the Sioux war. They both seemed to agree the war had been hopeless from the beginning and had only led the Indians to even greater misery than before. But their medicine men had promised easy victory because the whites were fighting the Civil War. Now the savages would have to starve forever while waiting for the money the government owed them. What could the hunter-folk live on with no more hunting grounds, no farms, no animals except dogs, fleas, and lice? When the starved Indians had come to the government supply house in Red Wood and asked for food, the agent had said they could go out and eat grass. The first one they killed on August 18, 1862, was that very agent, Mr. Andrew Myrick, and when his body was found in the debris his mouth was filled with grass.
In this the Sioux showed their understanding of justice; their uprising in 1862, was to get justice, said Samuel Nöjd.
But when he called Governor Ramsey and Colonel Sibley mass murderers Mr. Thorn rose to his feet and grabbed him by the collar. The party was near turning into a brawl; the Scot wanted the trapper to come outside with him so they could shoot at each other like gentlemen.
Karl Oskar told the Scot not to pay any attention to the nonsense Nöjd spewed out, and Jonas Petter stepped between the two quarreling men to calm them: He had a story to tell, well suited for a wedding feast. It was about a farmer and a soldier; he had started to tell this story on many occasions but had always been interrupted. However, he had made up his mind to tell it once before he died, for he was by now the only living person who knew it, and it would be a great loss to science and the culture of the world if it weren’t told. He was always glad to tell it, if only someone wanted to listen. He was getting so old now, even he must die, therefore. .
And the sheriff and the trapper heeded him and sat down again and listened in silence.
— 5—
Jonas Petter tells his forbidden story:
Edvard in Hogahult and his wife Brita had been married ten years without having produced an heir. Hogahult was a fine farm, they were well-to-do. If they remained childless, their property would go to Edvard’s two younger brothers, who lived dissolute lives and already had thrown away their paternal inheritance in drinking. Neither Edvard nor Brita wanted to leave their fine farm to them and have it ruined. The couple would give anything in the world for a child and heir.
The wife was nearing forty and must hurry if she wanted to bear a child. So the couple at last went to town to see a doctor. They asked him: Why wasn’t their marriage blessed with offspring?
The doctor looked over and examined and inspected both Edvard and Brita. Then he gave his verdict: He found no fault with the wife. If it depended on her only they would have had a child each year of the ten they had been married. But the fault lay with her husband: His seed was useless. The seed the farmer sowed in his wife did not sprout.
The farmer of Hogahult was greatly perturbed that he couldn’t beget children. He must then die without an heir of his flesh and blood. The brothers would inherit the farm and throw it away on drinking. And it irked him that they already felt sure of the inheritance and were waiting for it. They had for long considered him unable and knew he would not have any offspring.