The Last Letter Home by Vilhelm Moberg Page A

former Ulrika of Västergöhl appeared to be in the prime of her life. Time had left her clear, healthy complexion intact, uncorroded. Lately her limbs had somewhat fattened and she had put on weight around the waist, but the change was becoming to her. Her step was as quick as ever, and men still let their eyes rest on her.
    “You’re lucky, Ulrika, you have been given such good health,” sighed Kristina. “When I look in the mirror an old hag looks back at me!”
    Why hadn’t the Lord created the white women like the squaws, wondered Mrs. Jackson. When an Indian woman rode through the forest and felt her hour was near, she jumped off her horse only long enough to bear her child. Then she put it in a bag on her back, jumped back up again on the horse, and rode on as if nothing had happened. A squaw birth took about as much time as a visit to the privy.
    “We get labor pains because of the original sin,” said Kristina. “Perhaps the heathen women don’t have the original sin.”
    But God had chosen woman as the tool for his creation when he trusted her to bear children into the world and she must be worthy of God’s trust. Kristina herself would always gratefully accept the new lives he wished to grant her. She knew now why a pregnant woman was called blessed.
    The Lord had given to women the honor of bearing children because he put women above men, explained Ulrika. The great mistake with men had already occurred at the Creation: God had finished with all the wild beasts and had some stuff left over when he began to make Adam. In fact, he made man from that stuff. That was how some of the qualities of the beasts had got into men. It explained the similarity between men and the bucks in the animal world.
    But fortunately there were also men who understood that a woman was made of nobler material than they themselves and didn’t use her for their carnal lust in bed only. They knew she too needed joy and satisfaction.
    “Are men really so different in that respect?” wondered Kristina.
    “A hell of a lot different in bed, I should say! Didn’t you know that?”
    “No, I didn’t. I’ve never had anyone except Karl Oskar.”
    “I see,” nodded Ulrika. “No other man has ever got near you.”
    Kristina laughed: “What can I say when I can’t compare Karl Oskar with anyone else!”
    “But he is a first-class man in bed, isn’t he?”
    “I guess he is the best one I’ve had!”
    Kristina laughed, but Mrs. Jackson, who once had been Ulrika of Västergöhl, was deeply thoughtful as she dispersed the knowledge of an experienced woman:
    “I guess your husband is all right in that respect. It shows on a woman if her man is capable in that way. It shows on you that Karl Oskar can take care of you, for you look satisfied, your disposition is peaceful and even.”
    “Karl Oskar and I have always got along.”
    “Just what I thought! You’re happy in that way, Kristina!”
    Mrs. Jackson’s bosom rose and fell in a deep sigh, and Kristina remembered Ulrika’s confidence at the wedding of Danjels son last fall.
    The two women broke off their conversation as Karl Oskar entered the room. He was carrying an armful of firewood which he stacked against the fireplace, he then began to make a fire.
    When the flames had a good start Ulrika removed her shoes and put her feet on the hearth. Her toes were cold and stiff after the journey from Stillwater, for she had traveled in a sled that had no heated stones to warm the feet.
    It was an un-Christian winter this year, said Karl Oskar. Happily it was a little milder now, and Kristina wanted to resume her milking chores, but she was still so weak from her sickness he wouldn’t allow her to leave the house.
    Kristina told of the great flow of blood that had come from her one evening while she was milking.
    “That sounds bad!” said Ulrika.
    “But I didn’t lose a life—it was not a miscarriage.”
    Kristina continued: She had had smaller bleedings before, but she had