“No. But I only hear in English.”
The fact was that Robert would not admit his hearing was bad. He now explained to Karl Oskar that he tried to close his ears to the Swedish language, he wished he could listen to English only; in that way he would learn the language sooner.
Robert also wished to consult a doctor about his deafness, but he must wait until he could speak English fluently in order to explain the nature of his ear illness. In the language book there was not a single word about bad hearing under the heading: Conversation with a Physician. There was instruction about what to say when seeking a doctor for malaria: I shiver and my head aches. I have vomited the whole night. Another sentence concerned immigrants with sprained ankles; there was also one for those with irregular voiding, and lastly one for people who didn’t know what was the matter with them, since they were sick in every way. For immigrants with other ailments there was no help to be found in the book; it was of no use to one who must say: I don’t hear well with my left ear.
And a youth of barely eighteen would feel ashamed to go to a doctor and say: “My hearing is getting bad.” At the height of his youth to admit that he was hard of hearing, like an old man of eighty!
He still hoped that the climate of North America would heal his ear. This he knew, however: the weather in Minnesota Territory was so far of little help. His ear alone told him so; in fact, it told him to leave! He must travel farther, farther west.
There were other fields in this new land where he now labored with his grub hoe — there were gold fields in the New World.
Why must he hoe turf here, when in another place he could hoe gold? What pleasure could he get from crops that might grow here? Why hadn’t he sought the fields where a crop of gold could be harvested? A gold harvester need not work in the earth year after year. He would get rich from one single crop — he would become free.
And again and again Robert heard a song that had remained in his ear, a song he had heard sung in a foreign language by the deck hands on the Mississippi steamer while darkness fell over the broad river — a song about the winds of the earth and the waves of the sea. It was the song of promised freedom his ear had sung to him, long ago in Sweden; then the ocean’s roar in his ear had called him to cross the sea: Come!
This time too he must obey that call.
— 4—
Now in late September the weather was cooler. The air no longer felt oppressive, it was easier to breathe. It was fine working weather.
But climatic changes were violent and sudden; without any warning a thunderstorm would blow up, booming and shaking the earth. The bolts blinded one’s eyes, the rain fell, lashing the face like a whip, pouring from the heavens in barrelfuls; in no time at all, every hole and hollow would be filled with water, while the stream rose over its banks in its rush toward the lake. And when the wind blew, it swept across the ground as mercilessly as a giant broom with its handle in the heavens. No weather in America was just right; all was immoderate.
As autumn progressed the leaves of the trees changed color, making the forest seem more beautiful than ever. There stood the red mountain ash, surrounded by brown walnut trees, the green aspens among the golden-yellow lindens. The oak — the master tree of the forest — still kept its leaves green, as did the aspen and the poplar. Here grew white oak, black oak, red oak, and now they could recognize the different types. The white oak grew in Sweden also, its leaves turned brown in fall. The leaves of the other oaks now took on a dark-red sheen resembling blossoms; the settlers said that it looked as though these oaks bloomed in autumn.
The meadow grass remained as fresh and green as before. It bothered Karl Oskar that this splendid fodder would wither away to no use. He said to Kristina, if only they could send home a few loads to the poor cow his parents kept in Korpamoen!
It had been impressed upon him ever since childhood that the growth of the earth must be tended and gathered. Once, as a small boy, he had stepped on the head of a rye sheaf; his father had then unbuttoned his pants and switched him with a handful of birch twigs: he must learn to respect the earth’s growth.
Now he made a handle for the scythe blade he had brought from Sweden and cut the grass on the plot he intended to hoe. Here he could mow as wide a sweep as his arms could reach, here he need not rake the straws together in swaths, the hay fell in one long thick swath behind him. In a few side swings, he had enough for one feeding of a full-grown cow; in a day, he could gather enough fodder to feed a cow through the winter. In Korpamoen, he had struggled with the hay harvest a whole month, picking the short thin blades from between the stones with the point of his scythe. He had labored from sunup to sundown, mowed and sharpened and cut against stones — yet he had gathered such a small amount of hay that he had been forced to half-starve his cattle.
As yet he had no cattle to feed, but he couldn’t help saving some of this good fodder. It might be of some use. And he made a row of haystacks along the shore. It was good hay weather; what he cut one day, he turned the next, and stacked the third day. Stacked hay was not as good as barn hay, and he decided to build a shed later in the fall after the house was ready.
His work with the scythe over this even ground was a joy, and every day he felt more and more remorseful over the six years he had wasted on his stone acres in Korpamoen. He had left that farm poorer than when he took over; it had gone backward instead of ahead for him; he had put in thousands of days of futile labor on the paternal home: these were lost years. He had wasted his youthful strength in the land where he was born, and he realized that had he instead spent those six years of labor in this country, he would by now have been a well-to-do farmer.
However, at twenty-seven he still had his manhood years ahead of him, and his manhood strength he would give to the new country. Here he would earn something in return; here he worked with a greater zest than at home, because the reward was greater. He felt his ability to work had increased since settling here, his physical strength had grown. The very sight of the fertile land stimulated him and egged him on to work. Also, he enjoyed a sense of freedom that increased his endeavor to such a degree that he was surprised at himself when evening came and he saw all he had done during the course of one single day: that much he had never managed in one day in Sweden!
However great the inconveniences out here, he felt vastly happier than he had in the old place. Here no one ruled him, no officials insisted that he bow to them, no one demanded that he obediently and humbly follow a given path, no one interfered with his doings, no one advised him, no one rebuked him for refusing advice. He had seen no one in authority, nobody had come to tell him what he must do; here he had met not a single person to whom he must defer; he was his own minister and sheriff and master.
At home, people struggled to get ahead of each other until they were full of evil wounds that never would heal; their minds grew morbid, festering boils corroded their souls; they went about bloated by grudges and jealousy. Most of them were afraid, bowing in cowardice to the great lords who sat on high and ruled as they saw fit. No one dared decide for himself, no one dared walk upright; it was too much of an effort, their backs were too weak. They dared not be free, were incapable of freedom. That required courage, entailed responsibility and worry as well; anyone trying to decide for himself in the old country was derided, mocked, slandered, pushed out. For the Swedish people could not endure someone who attempted what the rest of them dared not do, or were incapable of.