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.”