But Ulrika knew that Miss Skalrud’s eyesight was poor. She had of course held the child too far away from her eyes. Besides, it was still quite dark outside, and their only light was the pale flame of a tallow candle; the midwife was obviously wrong.
“Take the candle and peek closer!”
This was an insult to Cora Skalrud’s professional pride. She replied that in her life she had helped more than a thousand children through the portals of this world — who would know the difference between male and female better than she?
Ulrika sat up in bed. “But you are shortsighted, Skalrud! And you are a stubborn woman because you are Norwegian. Give me the brat and the stump of tallow and let me look for myself!”
Without reply the midwife held the newborn child close to the mothers face and let the candle shine on the wriggling little body. Ulrika looked herself.
“Well, what do you say now?”
Ulrika said nothing. She had sunk down into her bed again.
This child could not become a minister. No woman could be consecrated for pastoral duties.
The midwife remained at the bedside, the child in her arms, reproaching Ulrika. She should be proud to have given life to such an unusually well-shaped girl. Why did she act as if she were disappointed and annoyed? Miss Skalrud had assisted at the births of creatures born blind as kittens, ill-shaped, hare-lipped, one-handed, one-legged, noseless, or crippled changelings. In such cases she could understand if the mother were unhappy and complained. If she had put any such monster in Ulrika’s arms there would have been cause for wailing!
The words rang true to the mother and she asked for the girl. Miss Skalrud was right — she was a beautiful child, a wonderful little bundle. The baby was amazingly well made, perfect in every way.
“Yet a thief for a father!”
“What’s that?”
“And a whore for a mother!”
“Have you lost your mind, woman?”
The midwife was greatly disturbed. She went in to Pastor Jackson to tell him that his wife was successfully delivered, but she added: “Your wife is out of her head. I’m afraid she has childbed fever.”
Pastor Jackson became greatly upset. He immediately sent for Dr. Christoffer Caldwell, a contractor, carpenter, and blacksmith in the town, but first and foremost a capable doctor. He examined Ulrika and pronounced her a woman with the strength of a horse; never had he seen a woman so fully recuperated one hour after a birth.
Ulrika had no childbed fever. After a few days she was up, attending to her usual chores. And when one evening the Baptist congregation offered a prayer of thanks for Mr. and Mrs. Jackson’s newborn child, the pastor expressed his gratitude to the Lord.
But now, at the big Christmas party which Ulrika intended to give, there would be something amiss. She had planned to step forward with a boy-child on her arm and say to her guests: Look at this little one! He will be a man of the Church! He will stand in his surplice before the altar! He will climb the pulpit in full regalia! He shall be as important a man as Dean Brusander back in Ljuder, Sweden. And she who has carried this Lord’s servant in her womb for nine months is Ulrika of Västergöhl, the old parish whore from Ljuder, who at home was denied the holy sacrament and forbidden the Lord’s house. She is the one who stands before you now in her glory — the mother of a priest!
So she had intended to speak. But now she could not. And Ulrika searched her soul, realizing she had not yet managed to shed her old sinful body, and that God looked upon her as unworthy of mothering a minister.
But that day would come if she continued to improve. At the age of forty she had not many years to lose — she must make sure she became pregnant again as soon as possible.
— 3—
On the “fourth day of Christmas” Mrs. Henry O. Jackson gave the first party of her life, in the Baptist minister’s home at Stillwater. Her Swedish guests, grown-ups and children, came from Taylors Falls, from New Kärragärde, and from Duvemåla. Two Norwegian immigrants from Stillwater, Miss Skalrud and shoemaker Thomassen, were also invited. Karl Oskar and Kristina came with their four children; they would stay the night with the Jacksons. Only Swedish Anna did not come. Jonas Petter told them his housekeeper had awakened during the night with chills and running bowels and dared not travel the long road in this winter cold. The chills, that horrible disease, was prevalent among the settlers this winter, he explained. But they all knew that Swedish Anna refused to have anything to do with Ulrika after she became a Baptist.
Jonas Petter offered the excuse innocently, at face value, and Ulrika replied that she realized chills and loose bowels were the most annoying of ailments since they reduced a human body to a shadow within a short time, making it useless for both one thing and another. But a human soul could, in spite of this, remain honest and truthful. Then she whispered to Kristina, “I bet Swedish Anna prayed the Lord for this diarrhea!”
The only American among the guests was Pastor Jackson himself, and in his own home today he was not the host; it was his wife’s party and he also was an invited guest. The language barrier separated him from most of the others but some of them spoke English passably, so he wasn’t entirely deaf and dumb. He tried to make himself understood with motions of his hands, nods, pointings, and winks, and when he himself failed to understand what was said to him, he smiled his radiant smile, filled with friendship and warmth, making everyone feel happy.
Ulrika offered her guests old-fashioned Swedish Christmas dishes: boiled pig’s head, preserved and rolled pork, stewed pork, meatballs, chopped calf liver. She had made sausage of lamb and veal, prepared sweet cheese and cheesecake. This was not ordinary food, it was holiday abundance, not meager, everyday fare but sumptuous Christmas dishes — the Christmas delicacies of Sweden served to the Swedes in the St. Croix Valley.
The guests helped themselves from the smörgäsbord and found places to sit down with their overflowing plates. They ate in silence. The fat rolled pork melted in their mouths, their tongues savored the aftertaste, the jellied pork from the pig’s head trembled on their plates, the smell from the sweet cheese penetrated their nostrils. It was a revelation: they had forgotten this taste. They had forgotten how wonderful all these dishes were. But after a few bites memory returned and they ate in silence and reverence; it was the taste of Christmas in Sweden!
Only a few times had they eaten these dishes since they left their homeland. After having been away for so long this feast became to them a return home, as it were. They saw, they tasted, they smelled Christmas in the homeland. It penetrated their eyes, mouths, and noses. The Christmas fare they devoured affected them more than physically — it penetrated the souls of the immigrants.
Memories from that land where they had eaten these dishes every Christmas filled the minds of the guests. A vision of that land suddenly fled before them with Christmas tables and festivities, with close relatives, intimate neighbors, forgotten friends. In their vision, they sat down with people they would never again see; they were sitting in a company who no longer belonged to the living. They remembered that year, and that Christmas, and that party — what festivity and hilarity! But she? She was at that party, and she is dead now. And he? I’ll never see him again.
To the Swedish settlers in Minnesota Territory Ulrika’s party became a party of memories; their old-country past caught up with them in the new, dwelt with them in this room. Ulrika’s table brought back their homeland in concrete reality. They had left that country, but the country was still with them.