The Emigrants (41 page)

In this way he requested payment many times, and I grew accustomed to it. But as soon as I could I ran away from my foster home, and soon I met menfolk and found company. I received food to eat, and other things I needed, and when I had to pay I gave the only thing I had—I understood no better. I had been trained by the farmer in Alarum. Since he had insisted on payment so many times, there was little left to save. At last I became Ulrika of Västergöhl; I whored, as they called it. I was excluded from the Lord’s table, and those who had taught me, and used me, passed judgment on me and thought it right that I was under the ban of the church.

But the rich farmer of Alarum, my foster father, was a great friend of the dean, and went to parties with him. And when the devil at last fetched him home, the dean gave a pretty oration at his funeral and praised his good deeds on earth. You may be sure nothing was mentioned about the time in the calf pen when he had raped a fourteen-year-old orphan girl whom he had bought at auction. Perhaps that deed was considered a part of all the others he had performed to get into heaven. But there is one who knows where he landed! And when his coffin had been lowered into the grave, and all the people left the churchyard, there was one who stepped up to the graveside and spat on his coffin. It felt good; damned good.

So I kept up my whoring, and in time I bore four bastards. Three were taken home while they were little—the Lord was good to them. And my Elin is no longer a bastard, she is received among those reborn, she has been confirmed by the Lord’s apostle.

A leprous person can be hated no more than I was in that old peasant village. The women shoveled most of the dirt on me; women never have been able to tolerate me. They cannot forgive me, that I have had more men than they themselves, that I have felt the rod of more men than any other woman in the parish. Go to Ulrika of Västergöhl! they would say; she will grind your seed! And it was true—in my mill everyone could grind. It was true that many women had to share their husbands with me. But why should I turn away those who came? They needed to come to me, it was good for them. It is dry and bare-bitten in the meadow for married men, when their wives get on in years. Some women grow fat as filled grain sacks, so no man can reach them; others grow skinny and bony and sharp as a swingletree, so the men cut themselves on them; and all become as large and bottomless as a peat mine. So one can easily understand why the men are not satisfied in their wedded beds.

I have heard men talk of their wives’ shortcomings. That’s one reason why the women hated me. But I have only pitied the menfolk, and let them in—as one opens a gate for hungry, thirsty cattle, and lets them into the clover field. God has given me a shapely body, and no male has complained. Many men who were forced to chew dry old hay at home have been given juicy clover with me. And I enjoyed it myself, many times. Excuse me, dear Jesus, but I did! My dear little Saviour, forgive me the joys I had while living in the flesh. Because one sins mostly when one has most joy from sin.

But if the sins of Ulrika of Västergöhl were blood-red before, they are snow-white now. I live now in Christ’s body, and He lives in mine. And this body of mine is still white and soft as a snowdrift on Christmas night. I am not afraid to show it to anyone who wants to come and stare at it—it is a wondrous work of the Lord.

Tonight as I lie here in my bunk I smell billy goat worse than ever. My old body is nudging me, it wants to crawl back into me again. There are so many men around—I can’t endure men so close; then my old body wants to come back. There are men who walk around here so hot their pants nearly burst. They can’t get their seed ground here on the ship, they walk about and squeeze and suffer. I recognize them, I know how they act when that itch gets them. Who should know better than Ulrika of Västergöhl?

I can’t stand Kristina of Korpamoen, that proud piece. She goes around staring at me as if I were an old whore, when in fact she is the one living in the flesh. She has no respect for Christ’s body—the bitch! She thinks she is pure because she was married by the dean. But the Lord’s apostle says that whoring goes on inside a marriage as well as out. Her husband is young and husky, and no doubt he can use his rod. But now he can’t get what he wants because he has to sleep with the unmarried men. I can still please any man, if I wish. If I lived in my old body, I would try to help him.

I have no use for his brother, the young fool. He hangs about and sniffs at my girl the minute I turn my back. If he thinks he can pluck that little chicken, he has another think coming. What has such a whelp to offer? All he owns he carries in his servant bundle. And what little he has in his pants had better be left growing. Yet here he snoops around and fishes for my Elin. He wants to taste the brew, taste it and leave it, like all men. Oh, no—I know you wolves! Oh, no—you little snot-Joe! You walk about here like a wolf, stalking God’s pure lamb. But you won’t get to her! You shall never enter that door, you wretched farmhand. It is saved for someone more important than you.

My child is my only joy in this world. Elin was allowed to remain with me when the others went home to God, so I know she is meant to have a beautiful life here on earth. North America is teeming with rich men greatly in need of wives. Capable, beautiful girls have proposals before they can step on shore in America. Over there my girl shall marry a man of high station, prominent, and kind to boot. It will be her portion to eat eggs in a silver bowl, and sleep every night in a silken nightgown. She will not forget her old mother then, who once upon a time, among the peasants at home, had to whore in order to feed her.

Yes, but I can’t get the smell out of my nose tonight—billy goat. Young and old bucks jostling. My old body is hard on God’s chosen one. Dear Jesus, give me strength to withstand it! Because at times I don’t know what I might do. But You must know of this Yourself—You Who live in my body. You must not let me be tempted too strongly. I am a wretched creature at times, You must have noticed that. And it is not always easy to be reborn. Yes—my dear little Jesus, You are so very good and kind to me.

But this is a devil’s ship—I knew that at once.

Elin:

One has to think of something when one cannot sleep.

He shouldn’t have said what he did about my mother. I haven’t forgiven him for that yet. He didn’t know how much he hurt me. He can pity himself. He knows nothing about this world. But he should learn. He need not have said anything. I know I am Ulrika of Västergöhl’s bastard; I have been reminded of it every day since I was very little. I have known everything since I was very little.

Only men came to visit my mother at home, never women. And when visitors came I was sent outside, and my mother locked the door. In wintertime I had to sit in the woodshed and wait till she let me in again. She always tied me up in a warm sheepskin, so I wouldn’t get cold out there—she has always been a good mother. Most of the time we had little to eat, sometimes nothing. When we were short of food, and a man came to visit, then I was very glad, for I knew it wouldn’t be long before we had food again. And I liked many of the men. They were never unkind to me. Some were unkind to my mother. One of them hit her with an ox-whip once. I threw the pressing iron at his head—then I helped Mother push him outside. He fainted and lay outside for a long time.

I wondered at times why no women came to visit us—only once in a great while some very old hag. But as I grew older Mother let me know why only men visitors came—I was told their errand. I never thought Mother had done anything wrong.

One time I wakened in the middle of the night when Mother had a visitor. I had a kitten which one of the men had given to me, and I thought it was the kitten who cried and made sounds. But it wasn’t. I think that was the only time I had bad thoughts about my mother. I spoke to her about it, and she forgave me. Then she cried, the only time I ever saw her cry. I’ll tell you, she said, what people have done to me. And she told me everything. Since then I have never thought ill of my mother.

That poor, childish boy—he thinks I don’t know anything. He speaks to me as if I were a little child, needing milk and swaddling clothes.

Mother thinks my father was a tramp who once stayed overnight in our cottage, and never came back. He was a happy soul, she says, and he could play the violin. I’d like him to be my father, as long as some man must be my father. Mother says it could also be the churchwarden, Per Persson of Åkerby. She doesn’t want him to be my father—nor do I. He is an evil man, and has called mother a whore—even though both she and I are reborn in Christ and washed pure in His blood.

Last night I dreamt that Mother made a little hole with her fingers in the flower bed in our garden outside the cottage. Then she put a plant in the hole. She pressed down the earth around it to make it stand up straight. Then she patted the earth around the roots as she pats me. The plant began to grow, and before I knew it it had grown taller than I. I stood there and stared at the flower as it grew and became taller and taller. It grew all the way up into the sky. At last it reached heaven, and then the crown opened up. The flower was white, and I noticed it was a China lily. And when it was in full blossom, a window in heaven was let open, and God peeked out. He was old and had a large head, white flowing beard, and a serious and wrinkled forehead. He looked thoughtful. God broke off the flower and took it—then He closed the window again.

The stalk began to wither, it turned black, like potato stalks in fall after a few nights’ frost—they get black and slimy and stick to the fingers when one picks the potatoes. The stalk withered and I could see it lying in the flower bed where my mother had planted the flower shortly before. As I stood there and looked at the hole Mother had made I could see the black stalk lie there, rotten, smelly, and coiled like a horrible, slimy worm. I became terribly frightened, because the hole in the flower bed became deeper and deeper and more frightening. It looked like a grave in the churchyard. I began to cry aloud, for suddenly I knew where I was: in the churchyard when my little brother died. And a voice said: “She lies down there, her body is in the grave.”

And as I awakened I understood that I myself was dead, and that it was I who lay there in the churchyard.

Mother had awakened when I cried, and I was so frightened that I told her my dream. She explained it to me: I was the flower she had planted. But the stalk that blackened and withered and rotted and was eaten by worms—that was my sin-body. The grave where my body rested was our home parish in Sweden, that hellhole, said Mother. But the crown of the flower that God picked and saved, that was my soul.

When Mother comforted me I lost my fright.

And now she and I are traveling to the promised land. There we shall live forever. And the way Mother explained my dream, I shall now grow up and blossom and open like a flower in that land.

Mother has told me that. . . .

Jonas Petter:

Sometimes I don’t rightly know why I am lying here on this ship. I must be traveling somewhere, I think; I am after something, I believe.

Anyway—I have freed myself of her. She never thought I would do it, but there are already many miles between us. There will still be many more—so many that I can never travel them again.

I woke up one morning and made my decision. We had quarreled the night before. It began with the grain shovel. I wanted to get some oats from the attic bin for the mare, but I couldn’t find the shovel. I asked her if she had seen it. Must I keep track of your shovel? she said; am I your maid? That’s not what I said, I answered; but I need the shovel to get at the oats for the mare. For that gluttonous creature! she said. Your mare stands there with her fat belly like a barrel, and eats all our oats. My mare? I said. Yes, she said, you have most use of her, for you drive around the roads on your own errands. Then I began to get angry. I said, I want the shovel! Have you used it? Have you shoveled oatmeal for the cows? Never, she said. My wretched cows never get oatmeal. Your cows? I said. They are mine as much as yours. Have you forgotten that I brought two cows in my dowry when I moved to this farm? she said. No, I said—and now I was really angry—that I have never forgotten. How could I forget something you have reminded me of every day for twenty years?

It had started with the shovel. The quarrel lasted the night through, and the next morning I had made up my mind.

We have been married for twenty years, and during those years we have had about two small quarrels every week and a big fight every month. All together there must have been several thousand quarrels, over the years. But the shovel one was the last. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I prepared to leave. And in order to have peace and quiet while I got ready, I sharpened the knife and let her crank the stone. That was the only way.

I found the shovel next day. It had slid so deep in the bin I couldn’t see it. And I was grateful to the shovel that it had hidden itself—it helped me get started on my way to North America. I pressed the handle, as though I shook hands with the shovel: Thanks for the help!

I have quarreled away one whole year of my life. Now I am so old that I cannot afford to give up any more years in quarrels. I will be careful with the days I have left. I wish to live in peace with all. And I have lived in peace with everyone but her. Why should I live with the only person with whom I can’t get along? Why should I dwell under the same roof with someone who only criticizes and irritates me? Why should I live in a house where I never can have peace?

We should never have married. But our parents thought we were suited for each other—we were equals as far as possessions were concerned. And God tells us in His Fourth Commandment that we must obey and honor our parents so that things may go well and we may live long on earth. I obeyed my parents, and she hers, and we were married. Her outward appearance was shapely enough, she was young and healthy, but otherwise I knew nothing about her. Not what she was like inside, not her disposition. That I got to know by and by.