In August, a ship docks in the harbour at Novo-Arkhangelsk, carrying post from Europe. Anna wakes up early, quickly dresses, then settles herself in the garden. The sun rises and Anna takes her breakfast of scones and honey, and at half past seven she makes out the sails of theSophie Adelaide.From her summerhouse, she watches the bark slowly make its approach until shortly after noon it lowers anchor, and she sends one of Hampus’s manservants down to the harbour. She would dearly like to go to the quayside herself, to get her hands on her mother’s words the very moment they arrive in Alaska, but Hampus has no time to go down into the town and Anna doesn’t dare walk around outdoors without her husband to escort her, so she sends Wickström in her place, tells him to hurry, and bedamns him when he stops on the steps to catch his breath.
Finally, the moment has arrived. There are a great many letters, and Anna hurries back to the summerhouse with the bundle of post in her arms. She places the letters on the table then savours the excitement a moment longer before beginningto look among the names on the envelopes for her mother’s familiar hand. She goes through the letters once, then again, but not one of the envelopes bears her name.
How is this possible? She has written to her mother every day, sent a thick bundle of letters with every departing ship, all tied together with pretty ribbons. She has sent her correct address many times, but theSophie Adelaidedoes not bring a single line from her mother or Florence, and the next ship is not due until October. Will she have to suffer a full six months without news, half a year of unbearable silence? Has something happened, has her mother forgotten that she has another daughter too, one that has been sent to the ends of the earth all alone? At luncheon that day, she watches as the officials read their post, each with a letter in his hand, and she is unable to swallow a single morsel of food.
But the greatest tribulation of all is yet to come, as soon after this Hampus leaves too. He is due to travel out into the territories and does not take Anna with him; he refuses flat out no matter how much she begs and pleads. She is too close, Hampus will not be back in time for the birth of the child, and Anna cannot bear the thought that it might take weeks before he learns that he has become a father. She cries and complains so much that her usually calm husband loses his temper. Imagine wishing to travel out into a wilderness populated with wolves and bears with a little one in your belly – what an ungodly idea! Anna should think of the child and of her husband, she should control her emotions and help Hampus to overcome the anguish of their separation – surely she understands that thegovernor cannot put himself and his family before the needs of the Company? Anna does understand. Hampus sets off and she remains at home, an obedient wife, she bids her husband farewell on the quayside as the others stare at them, she kisses him on the cheek and wishes him Godspeed on his journey, though she feels the urge to scream.
For three days, Anna lies in bed bemoaning her fate, until eventually forcing herself onto her feet. She decides to drown her sorrows in work. This should be easy, as there’s endless amounts to do, and she is keenly aware that she is constantly being compared to the wife of the Finnish governor who preceded the Voevodskiis. Margaretha Etholén held dances, masked balls and musical soirées, and all those who visited Novo-Arkhangelsk marvelled to find such a refined cultural life in the colonies. Margaretha seemed indefatigable: she founded a school for the local girls where she taught them Russian, history, geography and housekeeping; she invited them for dinner at Kekoor Castle, where they practised dances and learned the art of sophisticated conversation. Some of them even learned French, and these girls made excellent wives for the Company’s officials. For this, Margaretha received plaudits all the way from St Petersburg, as there was a constant dearth of suitable wives out in the territories. In Anna’s imagination, Margaretha was as perfect as a statue.
Anna visits the girls’ school. She decides to give the children some Bibles and to read the Word for them, but the Orthodox monks forbid her from sticking her nose into the children’s religious education. What else could she teach the children,what can she talk to them about? The girls sit at their desks, stony-faced, and Anna is at a loss as to how best to win their affection. The native children do not understand what is best for them, many of them try to flee the school and run back to their families, to a life of poverty and misery. Anna has heard the servants saying that the girls even sell their services to visiting sailors, and the thought makes her feel sick. The child inside her slumps like a slippery fish, and the teacher complains about the children’s laziness and the school’s leaking ceiling. The classrooms smell of fungus and algae, and Anna escapes the building at the first opportunity.
On the Tzarina’s name day, Anna hosts a dinner party, but nothing goes the way she plans. The cook drinks the port wine intended for the jelly, and in a drunken stupor he neglects to prepare some of the dishes. There isn’t enough soup to go round, and in an attempt to rectify matters the cook offers the remaining guests bowls of coloured water. Anna has never felt so mortified, and she cannot even sack him as there is no-one else capable of making pastries in this ghastly town. But she stops visiting the kitchen and instead passes on her wishes via the housekeeper, though she knows that the servants laugh at her, at her weakness, and she is sure she hears giggling each time a door closes behind her.
When she was in London, Anna picked up a copy of Dr Bull’sHints to mothers for the management of health during the period of pregnancy and in the lying-in room, with an exposure of popular errors in connexion with those subjects, and hints upon nursing.She follows these guidelines most diligently, wakes upearly in the morning, does some physical exercise and washes her nipples with a tincture made from green tea and birch bark, she bathes in cool water and dries her body with a rough linen sheet, tries to remain calm and happy, to avoid vexation and palpitations. But everybody knows someone who has died in childbirth. She is to have her firstborn in this unknown town, on this strange continent, and she will do so alone, without the support of her husband, her mother or friends, and she does not trust the colony’s doctor, a young man with a penchant for drink and who cannot answer even the most rudimentary questions without first consulting his books. Anna writes letters one after the other, imploring her mother for guidance and advice, though she knows that her letters will not reach Europe before her time has come.
Summer comes to an end. The hummingbirds leave the garden, wind presses the clouds against the mountains and water runs down into the town. The duckboards placed along the streets sink squelching into the mud, and one cannot step outside without dirtying one’s shoes. Dampness creeps into the walls of Kekoor Castle too, but Anna pulls a shawl around her shoulders and opens the windows to allow fresh air inside. She airs the room until she wakes up, her fingers blue with the cold, and she flinches, frightened that she might have hurt the child, and eventually swallows her pride and asks the housekeeper to seal the windows shut once again.
Their town is only called Novo-Arkhangelsk on maps and in St Petersburg. To the locals, it is Sitka, and this old world continues to seep through their lives. The church has clearlyneglected its responsibilities, for in a hundred years only a handful of the natives have accepted the true and righteous faith, and the colonists are no better than them – they know what is right, but they have chosen differently. In Sitka, Anna witnesses sins she cannot even name, and by the shores she sees the totem poles: the raven–bear, the bear–frog, the frog on a man’s shoulders. She sees their wooden, grimacing mouths and wakes from her dream, covered in sweat. The cat has jumped onto her bed, a primitive, distasteful beast that brings voles and rats indoors and crunches their bones under her bed. Everything around her is brutal, foreign and ugly. She has had enough of hermission civilisatrice, and she gets up and writes another letter to her mother in which she says she has decided henceforth to concentrate only on the upbringing of her own children for she believes a mother’s responsibility is always first and foremost toherfamily.
In December, Anna gives birth to a daughter. The birth is difficult, the midwife is sweating and Anna is screaming, panting and praying as blood, mucus and faeces pour out of her, things she wishes neither to see nor name, but eventually she is able to hold the newborn baby in her arms. She lifts the girl up to her breast: she is a modern woman who will nurse her baby herself, allow nutrients to flow from her body and spend sweet, precious days alone with her in the nursery. But try as she might, she produces no milk, though she does exactly as the books instructed her: swallows tinctures, wraps herself first in warm, then cold towels and allows the confused doctor to examine her breasts. Nothing seems to help. She cannot express anymilk, then to compound matters further she comes down with a fever. Through her slumber she can hear the child crying with hunger; at first she sounds angry, then gradually weaker, until she no longer has the strength to demand food but simply lies in her crib, limp and pale, and Anna cannot understand what she has done wrong. Why can’t she do something that even the simplest beast can do?
Eventually, she is left with no option. The doctor goes looking for a wetnurse, but in this godforsaken place there are no women of sufficient standing currently nursing a child of their own. They will have to find an Indian woman from one of the local villages, where there is no shortage of children, but at this Anna draws the line. No heathen will suckle a child of hers; let the girl drink cow’s milk. But here, even that is hard to come by. There are very few cows, for keeping them is so impractical; the bears are all too keen to help themselves to some easy prey, and they pluck the livestock from their enclosures like berries. Despite their numerous attempts, the Alaskan soil resolutely refuses to be turned into fertile farming land, and animal feed must be imported from elsewhere, but then the humid air rots the hay, meaning that during the winter the cattle have nothing but mouldy fodder, and after eating this they become thin and sickly and produce no milk. Anna does not care. Let them fetch milk from California if necessary; she will pay whatever it costs.
Anna Elisabeth Furuhjelm, the doyenne of Novo-Arkhangelsk high society, the nubile young wife of the Governor of Alaska, lies in bed chewing the drawstrings on her nightgown. It is alreadymidday, but she has not yet risen, has not asked the housekeeper whether she has fetched everything they will need for dinner. She does not meet the pastor to discuss the morals of the girls at the school but sits in bed feeling the patterns of her lace gown between her teeth and imagines she is somewhere else, someone else, someone who knows not what it feels like when a husband abandons his newly wed wife at the edge of the known world. She doesn’t get out of bed for six weeks. This she does not mention in letters to her mother.
Constance Furuhjelm has imagined the meeting in advance, gone over it in her mind so many times that it’s almost as though they have already met. She has decided to stand with her back straight, her face relaxed, to look her brother’s wife firmly in the eye, but now that she is finally standing on the quayside, a headache is making her eyes water. She has to lower her gaze and look at the ground so as not to be dazzled by the light. When she stepped off the boat, she very nearly stumbled and fell into the sea. Only the quick reactions of the rower stopped her from tumbling into the waves, but the fear of drowning remains, and she cannot stop herself trembling. She is so tired that, if she were to close her eyes, she would fall asleep on the spot, sink into a deep sleep there on the crowded quayside, but Anna seems not to notice her misery; she simply opens her arms and clasps Constance against her.
Anna tries to look like the considerate, warm-hearted hostess that she is supposed to be, but she is terrified. Her back is damp with sweat and her heartbeat is erratic. She has not left her chamber for weeks, but today she has taken the steps down from the house and walked through the town, with servants and guards to protect her, to receive her husband’s beloved, long-awaited sister. The two women have never met before. Constance was too sickly to attend her brother’s wedding, but now she has been sent across the world to their residence, and Hampus has told Anna nothing about his sister except that she suffers from falling fits, and this is why she has never married. He has told her nothing else because he barely remembers his sister and cannot imagine a grown woman where only recently there was a child skulking in the doorway, but in Anna’s imagination Constance is an eerie, cunning creature that will make Hampus see all of his wife’s flaws. She too has pictured their meeting, she has worried and fretted about it, yet now there is nothing but this gaunt, scrawny thing in her arms, and she releases her grip and looks at the woman standing before her. Anna smiles, but Constance can tell that her sister-in-law is unhappy, she knows she ought to say something, but the words will not come, and the two women stare at each other, silent as rabbits.
Constance waits for the door to close behind her, then slumps into a chair. Pain swirls in her head, and she presses her forehead against the window. The moisture of her breath condenses on the glass and turns to frost. She looks at her new home: the water, the rocks and the decaying town in between, but she isconcerned neither by rotting wood nor dwindling morality. No – she likes the sound of this town of whores and drunks. The ebb and flow of the ocean helps her withstand the throbbing pain in her temples, and she breathes in time with it. The waves are like the ticking of a clock, you cannot hear it without concentrating, but it is there all the same, always in the background, an even, reassuring hum, and she closes her eyes and drifts into sleep, and in the morning she hears Anna complaining to the housekeeper: Constance leaves greasy marks on the windows.
Of course, there is nothing Constance can do about her condition. They say that those with falling fits enjoy God’s special protection, that it is a sacred disease, but Anna thinks this is probably nothing but Catholic heresy and she is anxious about having to witness all that thrashing and moaning. Her sister-in-law is timid and taciturn. Anna finds it hard to believe that this young woman is related to her husband, until one day she sees Hampus’s expression in Constance’s face, as if imitated by a bad actor. She watches her sister-in-law with a mixture of fear and curiosity, looking for clues as to when she might start having a seizure. Constance asks if she can hold the baby – what a mad thought; she might start having a fit and drop the girl – and Anna gives the servants strict instructions: her sister-in-law must never be left alone with the child, and she may only appear in public when accompanied by a member of staff, who must be ready to whisk her away again at the slightest sign of an attack.
The governor’s sister arouses great curiosity among the residents of Sitka. The officers and officials try to catch a glimpse of Constance as she arrives for luncheon, and their wives invite the two ladies for tea, but Anna declines these offers and sends Constance to her room whenever someone is visiting the house. Her sister-in-law is not suited for polite society. Her mind and memory are weak. For the most part, Constance is silent, and when she does open her mouth she babbles like a child, twitches restlessly and gracelessly, and Anna resolves that Constance should not attend Mass. Pastor Winter can provide her with communion at their home, and Anna can keep her company, so Hampus’s dear sister will not have to strain herself by leaving the house.
Anna greets her husband at the gates of Kekoor Castle. She tries to remember to breathe, but it is hard. She knows that men wish to have sons, but she has given him a small, burbling daughter instead. One of the servants carries the child to the governor for inspection, thank God the girl doesn’t start wailing but stares at her father calmly and seriously. Hampus lets the child grip his fingers. Anna says she would like to call the girl Annie after her grandmother. Hampus nods, presents Anna with a pearl necklace and some European novels and wants to hear all about the child, what she can do, what she likes, her disposition, and Anna tries to think of something, but such a young baby cannot do very much, she sleeps and cries and sleeps again, and Anna does not know quite what to say.
The ship that brought Hampus home also brings Anna’s long-awaited piano. Finally, she can play for the family. Herhands fumble across the keys, Beethoven, Mozart, Mendelssohn and Chopin, and Hampus appears not to notice the stiffness in her fingers but closes his eyes and listens, his face relaxed. Constance takes the hint, complains of a headache and retires to her room early; this evening, the couple can dine alone. Once Constance has gone, Hampus admits that had he bumped into his sister in the street he would not have recognised her, and Anna finds herself smiling for the first time in weeks. They eat, dusk descends outside, and after dinner they gaze out of the dining-room windows at Sitka sprawling at the base of the manor. Here there are no street lamps, the evening outside is dark, and people walk along the streets carrying small lanterns. They watch these dots of light bobbing in the darkness, and for a moment their town looks beautiful.
In the morning, Anna wakes happy, but as she sits down to breakfast and sees her husband’s expression, her happiness fades. Hampus has examined his daughter. She ought to be rosy-cheeked and sprightly, but Annie is pale and limp – surely she is not ill? When he hears that the girl is being fed cow’s milk, he becomes upset. What on earth has his beloved wife been thinking? They must find Annie a wetnurse without delay, and with that the doctor drags a scrawny, dirty woman to their door, a Yupik who lost her child only seven days ago but who is still expressing milk. The servants heat up the sauna, wash the woman and burn her clothes, cut her hair and tie it in neat plaits. The woman does not speak any known language but neither does she resist their treatment, and when the doctor shows her the child, she takes Annie in her arms and begins singing her asoft, gentle lullaby. Anna looks on as the heathen lifts her baby to her breast, her daughter’s lips pucker, she takes the nipple and drinks.
Anna orders the housekeeper to sleep with the wetnurse. Ida Höerle is to ensure that the wetnurse does not mistreat Annie, does not touch her unnecessarily or speak her own language, but the housekeeper shakes her head: this job should fall to a maid. But Anna is resolute. Nobody else has experience of rearing a child properly; dear, sweet Ida is the only one Anna can trust in this matter. She has her way, but she is saddened to note that Ida Höerle no longer seeks out her company, she does not sit down and tell her about the day’s events, the village gossip or her family in Dresden, but listens to Anna, her lips clenched in a taut line, and leaves immediately upon receiving her instructions. It seems Montaigne was right:plus de valets, plus d’ennemis.
Finally, the long-awaited day arrives, and a ship comes bearing a letter from Anna’s mother. Anna retires to her room to read her mother’s words. Now all will be explained! But her mother writes as though their communication had never been interrupted, she does not explain her lengthy silence but gives advice for the birth and for nursing a child – too late, all of it. Little Annie has already learned to crawl, she is wary of her mother and holds her wetnurse tight whenever Anna comes too close. Anna has been waiting for a letter, for her mother’s warm words of encouragement, but her mother does not appear thrilled at the news of another grandchild, she offers perfunctory congratulations and tells Anna about her sister Florenceand her sons, how affectionate they are to their grandmother, what splendid times they have together.
Anna’s mother asks her to describe the landscape around their new home, and Anna looks out at the mountains, the sea and the forests, the rain driving in across the ocean, and cannot think how to turn this panorama into words. To her, the steep shoreline means simply that she is far away from everything she knows, from towns and civilisation, thousands of miles from decent roads, theatres and museums. To her, the sea and the mountains are a dull façade, their drab town nestling right in the middle. She apologises that she cannot describe the view and instead lists the rooms at Kekoor Castle, depicts the furniture and silverware and attaches a sketch to her letter. In the sketch, Kekoor Castle seems separated from its surroundings; it is a house on a white sheet of paper, devoid of any backdrop.My own dearest mother, everything here is going marvellously, the sea air is so terribly good for one. We are so proud of Little Annie, and I have a friend here now, Hampus’s sister has been sent to keep me company, never was any woman as happy as I.
The governor’s family spends the evening in the salon, but the atmosphere is flat. Constance is sitting in the corner reading and takes no part in the conversation, and her sister-in-law’s withdrawal irritates Anna. Has she not treated her well, tolerated her eccentricities? Yet Constance behaves like a thrashed dog and makes Anna look like a bad hostess. Constance – the name truly is an omen: her constant, agonising presence, her twitching at dinner and in the salon, and Anna and Hampus never have a moment to themselves. Anna tries to be patient,but Constance makes it so difficult, she tries to help but forgets her instructions, and she is so timid around the servants that she will not ask for advice, she tries to polish the silverware, but her hands tremble so much that she spills the lye, leaving a misshapen blotch on the tabletop. Now it looks as though the table has some kind of frightful, exotic disease too. It will have to be sanded and lacquered again, and for this they will have to send it to California, as Anna does not trust the local carpenters. An expensive and troublesome endeavour; anyone would have lost their temper.
Anna invites Constance to take part in a game. Constance obediently sits down at the table, but she cannot remember the rules and plays the wrong card time after time. Anna takes a deep breath. She has decided this will be a sweet, pleasant evening. The home should be a place where Hampus can unwind and take a break from the woes of the world, for there are certainly plenty of them. He has returned from his travels tired and worried, he works more than before, locks himself away in his study and sighs over his papers late into the evening. Now he has put the reports aside and come down to the salon to spend time with his family, and Anna wishes to give him a moment’s respite from his concerns. This always sounds so easy in books, but Constance keeps dropping her cards and Annie is fretful in her playpen, throwing her head from side to side and grizzling. The wetnurse takes the girl away, and Anna watches as the girl rests her head against the Yupik woman’s shoulder. She cannot even play the piano – the humidity has loosened the strings so much that her sonatas sound like a terrible dirge – so they continuewith their parlour game, but Constance cannot seem to get her cards in order.
Hampus was not especially elated at the news of his sister’s imminent arrival. Why would he be? His father had sent Constance to the ends of the earth as revenge, to plague his son. After hearing of Hampus’s appointment, his father celebrated his success, offered drinks all round and bought gifts on credit by telling moneylenders of his son’s good fortune, and now he writes to Hampus asking for money but has not yet received a reply. Only an ingrate would leave his own flesh and blood in such trouble, but Hampus’s father has plenty of imagination, and if his son will not send him money, he will send his son an extra expense: Constance, pack your belongings, you are going to Alaska.
And, likewise, Hampus is far from elated by his sister’s arrival, but he accepts his lot. It would be cruel to send a sick woman back to the other side of the world, and perhaps his sister will be good company for Anna, but nothing works out as he had hoped. Now he must listen to Anna’s complaints about how Constance blows her nose into her sleeve cuffs, laughs at inappropriate moments and drools. He must listen to tittle-tattle about the housekeeping, though the fate of the colony rests upon his shoulders. But the more he learns about the situation in Alaska, the further away any solution seems to be: the otters are few and far between, and now they are running out of hunters too.
When otter numbers began to drop, the Company concluded that noisy, unregulated hunting must have driven the animals away, forcing them to flee to quieter shores. As a result,the hunters were given strict orders: otters can no longer be hunted with firearms, so that the shots and the smell of gunpowder do not scare off the remaining animals. From this point onwards, hunting the otters has been the job of the Aleuts, skilled coastal warriors who work with spears and arrows.
The villages are suddenly emptied of men, who are now transported from one hunting ground to the next. This is an excellent solution. The Aleuts are cheap and competent, and they do not seem to suffer unduly from poor provisions, but over time it transpires that they are particularly susceptible to disease and can even succumb to the common cold. Thus, their hunters dwindle in number, and the remaining natives start to complain about their conditions: the Company sends the men on long hunting expeditions, leaving their women and children behind. They support themselves by fishing and collecting cockles, but despite the otters’ disappearance, fish and mollusc stocks have diminished too. Food is in short supply, and on top of this they must contend with the cold, for every pelt upon every animal in Alaska is now the Company’s property, and the price has risen so high that the Aleuts’ hunting wages are not enough to buy furs. Now they are forced to darn their old clothes, to patch their dwellings with hay and grass, and before long it is not only the otters and walruses that have disappeared from the coastline but humans too. Islands become uninhabited one after the other, and Hampus is left scratching his head: with neither prey nor hunters, how can they continue to hunt?
