Settlers of the Marsh (16 page)

“Yes, the woman replied with an exaggerated groan of disgust; and if another were coming, I'd walk off into the bush …

“My mother probably betrayed surprise; for the woman laughed and added, when a woman has got to work like a man, children are just a plague …

“When we came home, mother cried. She was thinking of the two little ones she had left behind; I knew; and I went to her and patted her hand, begging her not to cry.

“I knew and understood more, in a childish way, than the grown-ups thought. When you change your country, at that age, it somehow gives you an insight into things and a curiosity beyond your years.

“I asked her, Mother, where do children come from?

“I had often asked her that question before, and she had always answered, God sends them!—But this time she said, When men and women live together, children come. That is nature.

“Soon after, I was sent to school and began to learn English. I also began to see many things. Soon we had a cow; and then two or three; and half a dozen pigs. And my mother was working as hard or harder than Mrs. Campbell.

“My parents spoke in my presence as if I did not exist. You have noticed that that is the rule in these settlements where houses are mere cabins in which grown-ups and children are crowded together.

“So, from many things that were said and from some that I saw I inferred that mother expected shortly to have another child and that that greatly worried her; but even more did it worry my father. He began to speak still more curtly to my mother; and he treated her as if she were at fault and had committed a crime. He prayed even more than before, both more frequently and longer. Gradually my mother began to get into a panic about her condition.

“So, one day, taking me along, she went over to see that woman in the potato-patch once more.

“A number of things were said back and forth which I remember with great distinctness but which have nothing to do with my story.

“At last Mrs. Campbell laughed out loud. Of course, she said, it's plain to see by now. It's a curse. But I can tell you I wouldn't be caught that way. Not I! I'm wise.

“But what can you do? my mother exclaimed. He comes and begs and says that's what God made them male and female for. And if you want to hold your man …

“Again the woman laughed. I see her now, standing there in the potato-patch, straight up, with her red face to the sun and her hair blowing in the wind as she put her hands on her hips and held her sides with laughing …

“I was only ten years old. But I tell you, I knew exactly what they were talking about. And right then I vowed I should never marry. I was furious at the woman and afraid of her.

“You're innocent all right, she said at last contemptuously. I don't mean it that way, child. But when I'm just about as far gone as you are now, then I go and lift heavy things; or I take the plow and walk behind it for a day. In less than a week's time the child comes; and it's dead. In a day or two I go to work again. Just try it. It won't hurt you. Lots of women around here do the same.

“So, when we came home, my mother took some heavy logs, dragged them to the sawbuck, and sawed them. I begged her not to do it; but even I could see that she was desperate.

“Next day she was very sick. I was sent to the house of the German preacher in the village. And when I was allowed to come back, my mother was at work again on the land. She looked the picture of death; but she was cheerful. My father prayed more than ever.

“Once again the thing happened while we were still at Odensee. The Campbells had moved away to where they are living now; and mother had absolutely no intercourse any longer with anybody. Mother dreaded my father's visits at home by this time.

“Then, early in the spring of the third year, we moved out here. There were no buildings. We camped. Our few things stood under the trees. There was no tent even. Nothing but the sky.

“My father began to clear the yard and to pile logs for building. Mother worked with axe and brute force, helping him. Even I had to help, lifting and pulling when the logs were too heavy for them.

“Then haying time came. My father bought a team of oxen and a mower. He had no wagon yet. The hay was carried over in huge bundles slung with ropes. Mother and I did just as much, together, as my father.

“But don't think for a moment that I am complaining about the work. I liked it. I was strong. Already I dreamt of one day having a farm all by myself, with mother to keep me company.

“Then the stable was built; just as it stands today. My father hated make-shifts. When it was up, we moved into one end of it, the other being occupied by the cows and oxen. Late in the fall, when my father had bought a wagon, he hauled some cheap lumber and built the implement shed, just as it stands to-day. We can make out where we are, he said; but oxen and machinery cost money.

“In winter he went to town again; and we were left alone in the bush. Not a soul knew we were there. The school had not been built.

“Mother cried a good deal; more and more she confided in me, treating me as an equal. Oh, he is hard, she would say of father; as hard as God! And to think that I shall never see my little ones again!

“And she began to speak of me. You are big and strong, she said. You are as good as a boy. Don't ever marry. Marriage makes weak …

“And in my childish understanding I promised fervently.

“I remember how I used to sit on the bare, frozen ground and to press my head against her knees where she sat, close to the little stove, on the only chair in the place. At night I sprang up every hour or so and replenished the stove, or we should have frozen …

“Towards the end of winter my father came home and began to clear land. From then on we worked with him in the bush, piling the wood and the brush, often wading through snow knee-deep. The work was much too hard for my mother; but I thrived on it. My father often praised me; but already his praise had become distasteful. There was a note of reproach in it for mother. I tried to hide how much of the work I did, how little mother.

“In spring he broke a patch of ground; and we picked the stones and piled the roots.

“That year the school was built. A teacher came out and boarded with Sterners, straight north from it …

“As soon as my father had seeded his patch, mother began to beg that I should be sent to school. But my father would not let me go; he wanted to build a house. Not that he thought the house so necessary; but he intended to buy a team of horses—the two old mares that I still have; it's only ten years ago, you know—so he could haul
cordwood
in winter and make more money.

“The house, a one-roomed shack—it is the granary now—was not quite finished when harvest time came; there was no roof on it, no floor in it yet. My father went away; and mother and I cut the barley with the mower and tied it by hand. The cattle and oxen could still stay outside; so we carried the bundles into the stable, to be threshed by hand when my father came home.

“Still, mother insisted on my going to school now. I went. The teacher was a young girl, not more than eighteen years old; but she let me come whenever I could. She treated me as a grown-up, as indeed I was. When I was at school—for an hour a day at most—she gave me all her time. And one day she came to see mother and told her she would put me through my entrance if I could attend for one full year; I should become a teacher myself because I was so gifted.

“But I had already made up my mind to become a farmer, though not a farmer's wife. I liked horses and cows and pigs and chickens and could handle them. I was strong; and I was not afraid of work …

“When my father came home, I stopped school, of course. He brought horses along.

“It's no use to detail to you any further the growth of the farm; you know as much of that as I do …

“I remember one day in the spring of the following year. Mother had been very ill for several days. She had again been lifting things; and my father had taken a little box into the bush to bury. But she had got up and made breakfast, in spite of my protest. You go and help father, she had said; and I had gone out. And when I returned to the house, my father followed me.

“This shack looks a disgrace to the place, he said in a matter-of-face tone when he entered. You better go at white-washing it to-day.

“Mother looked a protest, appealingly.

“But he shrugged his shoulders. Poor people have to work, he said. We'll spare you from the field. Ellen and I will attend to the seeding. I'll mix
the white-wash
for you before we go.

“We had breakfast; and when my father had left the room, I lingered behind and whispered, Don't you do it! You go to bed!

“O
H, MOTHER MOANED, I HATE HIM! I HATE HIM
!

“B
UT THE WORST
is to come. The thing that makes marriage for me an impossibility; that makes the very thought of it a disgust which fills me with nausea.

“I know, Niels, if I tell it, it will ever after stand between us. I hope it will change your feelings towards me into those of a brother. I feel sure that no man can still be the lover of a woman who has spoken so plainly to him about such things.

“This house had been built meanwhile. I had grown. I was seventeen years old by that time. Mother had become a mere ghost of herself. She was dragging herself about; she could not get up for weeks at a stretch. Always she suffered from terrible backaches.

“One night when I had gone to bed in that room there I could not sleep. I was so worried that I was almost sick myself.

“Mother came in and dragged herself to the bed. It took her half an hour to undress; she lay down with a moan.

“My father followed her. I acted as if I were asleep; not in order to spy on my parents; but to save mother worry about me. My father got ready to go to bed himself. As a last thing before blowing the lamp he bent over me to see whether I was asleep. Then he knelt by his bed and prayed, loud and fervently and long.

“Suddenly I heard mother's voice, mixed with groans, Oh John, don't.

“I will not repeat the things my father said. An abyss opened as I lay there. The vile, jesting, jocular urgency of it; the words he used to that skeleton and ghost of a woman … In order to save mother, I was tempted to betray that I heard. Shame held me back …

“Once she said, still defending herself, You know, John, it means a child again. You know how often I have been a murderess already. John, Please! Please!

“God has been good to us, he replied; he took them …

“And the struggle began again, to end with the defeat of the woman … That night I vowed to myself: No man, whether I liked him or loathed him, was ever to have power over me!

“A few months later haying time came again. Mother went on the stack. Soon after she went to bed, never to rise again …

“And now, Niels, if you still can, ask me once more to be your wife. But if you do, it will cut our friendship even.”

Niels stood up.

“When death came,” Ellen went on, “as a great relief to her, you may believe it came as a relief even to me.”

“Three or four days before the last my mother—to me she had become a tender, sweet, and helpless creature; to him a living indictment, I hope—mother, I say, called me and whispered, Ellen, whatever you do, never let a man come near you. You are strong and big, thank God. Make your own life, Ellen, and let nobody make it for you!

“I sank down by the side of her bed; and I lifted this hand up to God and said, mother, there is one man who is different from the others. I hope he will be my friend and brother. But I swear to God and to you he shall never be more!

“Her head sank back on the pillow; and her thin, transparent hand lay on my head.”

N
IELS TURNED
and went to the door. For a moment he held the knob; then he shrugged his shoulders convulsively and went out.

Ellen sprang up and ran to the door. “Niels!”

He stopped without looking back.

“Niels,” she repeated, “promise that you will come back. Not now. Not within a day or a week. I know you can't. But I shall be so lonesome. You must fight this down. Don't leave me alone for the rest of my days. Promise that you will come back …”

“I shall try,” he stammered and left the yard.

He did not see that over that farmyard there followed him a girl, her hand pressed to her bosom, tears in her eyes; nor that, at the gate, she sank to the ground and sobbed …

One night, late in the fall, Nelson came with Hahn, his German neighbour. Both were on horseback, driving a big bunch of
steers
which Nelson had sold and which he had to deliver at Minor.

“Hello, Lindstedt,” he sang out while he was circling his drove, spurring his horse in wild-west style. “For God's sake, open your gate. Let us drive these creatures in on your yard. They're wild as can be. We've got to rest our horses. We haven't had dinner yet. They take to the bush every chance they get. We can't stop while they're out in the open …”

Niels did as requested.

And as the two riders put their heels into the flanks of their frenzied mounts and once more circled the drove, the steers tore into the enclosure of the yard, racing around it, along the fence, their heads lowered, bellowing with excitement. There were over thirty of them: round, fat animals that had all their spirit left after seventeen miles of road.

As soon as Bobby caught sight of the men, he busied himself preparing a second supper: he was frying eggs and cutting bread of which by chance there was a supply in the house. Every few minutes he came to the door to look admiringly out into the turmoil on the yard.

“Thank the Lord!” Nelson's voice boomed when the gate swung shut. “That was a piece of work, I can tell you, Lindstedt. Thank the Lord, there's no more bush for a while. All day long we've sighed for this corner. Out on the Marsh you can see the beggars. Hi! What's that? Your own cattle coming?”