Anna: How nice you could both come. Good day, Henrik. Welcome to Trädgårdsgatan.
Henrik: It’s very nice to see you again, Anna.
They are formal and a trifle embarrassed. All of this is in fact unlawful, taking place without parental knowledge and permission.
Ernst: Cold sponge-down, cold beer, two hours’ sleep, and a good dinner, and after that, festivities and improvisations. Does that sound good?
The huge tin bath is dragged out onto the kitchen floor, and buckets full of water are poured into it. Henrik and Ernst wash themselves and each other with soap and sponge. Anna has put out two bottles of beer, chilled in the icebox. After they have toweled themselves dry — Anna sitting on the wood box in the hall — and poured the water down the drain by the courtyard pump, they repair to their rooms: Ernst in his usual room and Henrik in the maid’s room behind the kitchen. The latter room faces north, is cool and a little dark. The wallpaper is verdigris green and smells of arsenic, the ceiling is high and has damp patches all over it. Henrik stretches out on the narrow, protesting bed. On the wall is a picture of a stagecoach stopping at a country inn, people moving busily around carriages and houses, dogs barking, a horse rearing. A four-legged gilt clock stands on a tall brown-painted chest of drawers with brass fittings, busily and kindly ticking away. The sheets and pillow smell of lavender. The heavy foliage just outside the window is quite still. Then a little breeze comes; the leaves turn slowly and rustle for a moment. Then all is quiet again.
Henrik can hear the brother and sister laughing and talking somewhere deep inside the apartment. He suddenly feels a profound peace. He hardly knows what it is that makes tears come to his eyes. What’s really the matter with me? he says to himself. Then he falls asleep.
Ernst rudely shakes him awake: “God, you’re a demon for sleep. You’ve slept for three hours. Come on now, wake up, and I’ll show you something amusing. But quiet, go quietly, so that she doesn’t notice anything.” Ernst takes Henrik by the hand and leads him out into the kitchen where some preparations for dinner are evident. The door into the hall is half-open. They can hear Anna’s voice from the hall. She’s talking on the telephone.
Anna: How nice of you to phone, Mama! Yes, Ernst has arrived all in one piece. What? He was fine. I told you. At the moment he’s snoring his head off. I can’t hear you very well. I said I couldn’t hear you very well. Has Papa got a stomachache? He’s always having them, poor Papa. What are we going to do this evening? We’ll probably go to Odinslund and take in a concert there. Are we alone? What do you mean, Mama? There’s only Ernst and me. Goodness, this’ll be an expensive call, Mammchen. Give my love to everyone! Big kiss, Mammchen, and don’t forget to give Papa a hug from me. What did you say, Mama? My voice sounds peculiar? You imagined it. The line’s so bad. Good-bye, Mama. We’ll ring off at the same time.
Anna puts down the receiver and winds the handle, then rushes out into the kitchen, pulls her brother’s hair, and flings her arms round his waist. “Watch out for my sister,” says Ernst with tenderness. “Do watch out for her! She’s the most honest hypocrite and the cleverest liar in Christendom.”
Dinner is perhaps not particularly well cooked but is festive nonetheless. Ernst has coaxed open the lock to the traffic superintendent’s wine cellar and chilled a few bottles of white Burgundy, and there’s port wine in the medicine cupboard. The windows are open onto the dusk and the silent street. A thunderstorm is on its way somewhere, and the sun has disappeared, sunk below a purple cloud beyond the copper roof of the library. Anna has got dressed up and is wearing a thin sepia-colored silk blouse with a square neck, long sleeves, and lace cuffs. Her skirt is elegantly tailored, her belt wide with a silver buckle. She has put up her hair into a low knot. Her earrings are small and glitter discreetly, but expensively.
What are they talking9/2/2011 about? Well, the strange experience at Bälinge station, of course, and then about Torsten Bohlin, who has gone to Weimar and is to continue on to Heidelberg. He has written several letters to Anna, which she now finds here at Trädgårdsgatan. No one put in a request for the mail to be forwarded. “I’ve only myself to blame,” says Anna. “Papa never likes my admirers.” “Only Ernst,” says Ernst, and all three of them laugh. Anna takes her brother’s hand. “Go and see if there are any cigars in Papa’s box,” she says.
And there are — rather dry of course, but passable. Ernst persuades Henrik to tell her about the row at Åkerlunda. Then Henrik suddenly turns to Anna, looks hard at her, and says, “You’re going to be a nurse, aren’t you?” That prompts Anna to go and fetch a small album. “This is Sophiahemmet, you see, and here at the back, with the windows facing the park and Lill-Skogen, that’s where our lecture room is. And those are our bedrooms. It’s quite grand, only two to each room. The food’s good, and the teachers are excellent. Though strict. And the days long, never less than twelve hours. From half past six in the morning until long past six in the evening. You’re pretty well beat by then, I’ll have you know, Henrik.” Anna is kneeling on a dining room chair, close to Henrik. She smells fresh and sweetish, not exactly of perfume, but perhaps good soap. Or perhaps she just smells like that. Just of herself. Ernst is sitting at the end of the table, rocking his chair, his cigar between thumb and forefinger. He is looking at his sister and his friend with a smile on his face, and may well be a little drunk. Henrik can feel her upper arm against his own, and her hair tickles him when she bends her head, looking for herself in one of the photographs. “There I am,” she says. “You may not believe it. The uniform is not exactly becoming, though the cap’s pretty, but we don’t get that until we’ve qualified.” “My sister’s going to be a sister, my sister Sister Anna,” says Ernst, and they laugh. “You two look sweet together,” he adds.
Anna at once closes the album and leaves a space between herself and Henrik. “Do you think my sister’s attractive?” “She’s more than that,” says Henrik gravely. “What do you mean by that?” Ernst persists. “Don’t spoil everything just when we’re having such a nice time,” says Anna, slightly annoyed and pouring out some port wine for herself. “I’ve splashed some on my skirt,” she says. “Henrik, dear, give me the water carafe, would you. Ordinary water’s best to get it out. Damn! My lovely skirt!” Ernst and Henrik watch while Anna rubs at the spot with her table napkin. The skirt tightens over the curves of her hips and thighs.
They drink up and do the dishes together. Ernst washes up, Henrik dries, Anna sorts and puts things away in cupboards and drawers. What are they talking about now? The siblings are probably talking about Mammchen. Mama does the deciding, Mama controls, Mama decides. Mama goes to Papa, just as he has sat down in his favorite chair with the morning paper and his morning cigar, and says: “Johan, listen to me now,” or, if it’s something serious, “Listen to me now, Åkerblom, we really must decide whether we’re going to help Carl with his debts this time, too, or whether we let him go to the dogs. It’ll be the moneylenders as usual, you know that.” “You must decide,” says Papa Johan. “No, Johan,” Mammchen protests, sitting down. “You know I always defer to you in money matters. You mustn’t wear that jacket any longer. It’s beginning to shine at the elbows!”
The siblings are clever at acting comedy They laugh and act the fool, and Henrik is drawn into it. He has never seen such beautiful people before. He feels a violent yearning but doesn’t really know what he’s yearning for.
“Or like this” says Anna eagerly, imitating Mama Karin. “Now listen to me, Ernst. Who was that lady you were with in Ekeberg’s coffeehouse on Thursday? I saw you through the window, all right. What were you talking about that was so secret you forgot both your hot chocolate and the Napoleon cakes? Yes, yes, of course she was quite pretty, very pretty, I’ll admit, but was she a really nice girl? What’s happened to Laura? We really liked her, both Papa and I. Such a pity you don’t settle down, dear Ernst. You’re much too spoiled with girls. All you have to do is to crook a little finger, and they come galloping up in drov
es. Your young friend, whatever his name is, Henrik Bergman, that’s it, isn’t it? He’s another of those gadabouts who’s sure to be up to all sorts of things with girls. He’s far too good-looking for a young girl to dare trust him.”
It starts raining in the evening. They have sat down in the green drawing room among the shrouded armchairs and draped pictures. In the fading light, the carpetless wooden floor looks whiter than ever, the contours of the curtainless windows even sharper. Ernst is singing a Schubert song. He has a light baritone voice, and Anna is accompanying him on the piano. It is Die schöne Müllerin, the eighteenth song: Ihr Blumlein alle, die sie mir gab, euch soil man legen mit mir ins Grab. The notes float gently through the dusky room. Two candles illuminate Ernst and Anna as they lean over the notes. Ach Träinen machen nicht maiengrün, machen tote Liebe nicht wider blühn . . .
Henrik sees Anna’s face, the soft line of her mouth, the gentle shine of her eyes, the shimmering wave of hair. Close to her with his face turned to Henrik, Ernst with his soft, thin hair brushed back from his forehead, the pale mouth, the determined, strongly marked features.
Henrik stares steadily at the two siblings, calling a halt to time. It’s not to slip away in the old way this time. Nothing has ever been like this before. He didn’t know such colors existed. A closed room opens. The light gets stronger, and his head whirls: Naturally it can be like this. So it can be like this for himself as well.
Ernst: Schubert knew something about space, time, and light. He put together unimaginable elements and breathed on them. In that way they became comprehensible to us. The minutes tormented him, and he freed them for us. Space was cramped and dirty. He freed space for us. And the light. He lived in the cold, raw shadows and turned the gentle light toward us. He was like the saints. (Falls silent. Silence.)
Anna: I suggest we take a walk to Fyris bridge before we go to bed.
Ernst: It’s raining.
Anna: Only drizzling. Henrik can take Papa’s old raincoat.
Henrik: I’d like that.
Ernst: I certainly would not.
Anna: Come on now, Ernst, don’t be silly.
Ernst: You and Henrik can go. I’ll stay at home and finish off what’s left in the bottle.
Anna: I want you to come too. Not only do I want you to, but I insist that you come. Just so you know.
Ernst: Anna is her mother’s daughter. In every way.
Anna: My brother lacks the most elementary sensitivity. It’s a pity.
Ernst: I really don’t understand what you’re talking about now.
Anna: Exactly. Exactly that.
So they walk through the drizzling rain of the summer night, Anna in the middle, quite small and plump, with the tall young men on either side of her. They link arms and slowly stroll along. No streetlights on to disturb the night light. They stop and listen.
The rain rustles in the trees.
Anna: Ssh! Can you hear? A nightingale.
Ernst: I don’t hear any nightingale. For one thing, they don’t come this far north, and for another, they don’t sing after midsummer.
Anna: Quiet now. Don’t talk all the time.
Henrik: Yes, it is a nightingale.
Anna: Ernst, open your ears!
Ernst: Anna and Henrik hearing nightingales in July. You’re lost. (Listens.) Well I’ll be damned, if it isn’t a nightingale after all!
At about two o’clock that morning, flashes of lightning can be seen against the blind in the maid’s room. Sometimes there’s a faint rumble of thunder. The rain rustles, sometimes a little louder, sometimes dripping and faint. Suddenly it can be so quiet, Henrik can hear his heart pounding and his pulse beating in his eardrums. He can’t sleep, anyhow. He’s lying on his back with his hands behind his head, his eyes wide open. That’s it. So that’s how it can be. For me, too, Henrik! The opening into the room that used to be tightly closed gets wider and wider. It is like vertigo.
Someone is moving about in the kitchen, and the door opens, creaking noticeably. This is no dream. Anna is standing in the rectangle of light. He can’t see her face, and she is still dressed.
Anna: Are you asleep? No, I knew you weren’t asleep. I thought I’d go in to Henrik and tell him what’s happened.
She stays in the doorway without moving. Henrik doesn’t dare breathe. This is serious.
Anna: I don’t know what to do about you, Henrik. It’s not just that you are here with me. But it’s much much worse when you’re away from me. I’ve always . . .
She falls silent and ponders. Now it’s presumably vital to be truthful. Henrik is about to say something about his confusion and the closed and open room, but it’s too complicated.
Anna: Mama says that the most important thing is to keep one’s emotions under control. I’ve always been sensible about that. So I think I’ve become a little self-confident, actually.
She turns her head away and takes a step back. The dawn light from the kitchen window falls on her face, and Henrik can see she has been crying. Or perhaps she is still crying. But her voice is calm.
Anna: One can’t — Mama and other people, my half brothers, for instance, say I have inherited too much cleverness from both Mama and Papa. I’ve always been rather proud when I’ve been praised for my cleverness. I’ve thought that was the way life should be, and that was how I wanted it. I certainly don’t need to be afraid. (Long silence.) But now I’m afraid, or to be quite honest, if what I feel is fear, then I’m frightened.
Henrik: I’m afraid, me, too.
He has to clear his throat. His voice has dried up somewhere along the way. Now, right now, his heart stops, quite briefly, but stops all the same.
Henrik: Besides, my heart stopped. Just now.
Anna: I know what it’s like, Henrik. We’re in the middle of a crucial moment. Can you imagine anything so amazing and puzzling? Time stops, or we think time stops, or “your heart,” as you say.
Henrik: What shall we do?
Anna: There are really only two possibilities. (Soberly.) I say to you: Go away, Henrik. Or: Come into my arms, Henrik.
Henrik: You think both alternatives are bad?
Anna: Yes.
Henrik: Bad?
Anna: Of decisive importance.
Henrik: Can’t we play a little?
Anna: Besides, I don’t even know what sort of person you are.
Henrik: I’m not in the slightest peculiar.
There is a note of terror, comical terror. Henrik has not much self-insight, never has had, and never will have. Anna shakes her head with a smile: “Now you can see for yourself how risky this can be!” She steps over the threshold and into the room, sits down on the end of the bed, and smooths out her skirt. Henrik struggles up into a sitting position.
I don’t think you kn anything about anything. I think you’re I can’t find any other word for it at the moment.
Henrik: Obscured?
Anna: You just keep repeating what I say all the time. Tell me the way you want things to be.
Henrik: I’ll tell you exactly. I have never, and I say never, and I swear it’s true, I have never in my life had a day and an evening and a night like this day, evening, and night. I swear. I know nothing else. I am confused and grateful and frightened. I think all this will be taken away from me. It’s always like that. It has always been like that. I am empty-handed. That sounds dramatic, but it’s true. I think, quite simply, why should any of what I’ve had today fall to my lot? Do you understand, Anna? You and Ernst live in your world, not just materially, but on all levels. Inaccessible to me. Do you understand, Anna?
Anna slowly shakes her head and looks at Henrik with sorrowful eyes. Then she smiles and gets up, goes over to the doorway, and turns around.
Oh, well. I suppose we can postpone the decision for a few hours, or even days or weeks.
When she has said that, she smiles indulgently and says good night. Then she closes the door, which creaks loudly.
I can see them sitting in the dining ro
om at the large cleared table with its lion feet. They have the superintendent of traffic’s chessboard between them. The protective sheets have been removed from two of the windows. It is raining quietly and persistently. I see Ernst, too, standing in the doorway in a raincoat, his student cap in his hand, saying he must be off to the meteorological institution for a while, because the professor wishes to speak to him. “Dinner at five o’clock,” mumbles Anna, moving a bishop. “Bye, then, and good luck,” says Henrik, rescuing his queen. The hall door slams, and quiet descends. Somewhere in the building, a piano is being played, slowly and hesitantly.
Anna suddenly knocks the chessmen over and hides her face in her hands, then peeps through her fingers at Henrik and giggles. Henrik leans over the board and tries to reinstate the chessmen. After one lame attempt, he sits still and watchful.
Anna: We needn’t tell everyone that we . . . well, that we’re thinking of . . .
Henrik: No, of course not.
Anna: I’m suddenly terrified when I think about that we don’t know the slightest thing about each other. We ought to sit at this table for a hundred days and just talk and ask questions.
Henrik: It wouldn’t be enough.
Anna: We decide to live together for the rest of our lives and know nothing about each other. That’s a little unusual, isn’t it?
Henrik: And we haven’t even kissed.
Anna: Shall we kiss now? No, that can wait.
Henrik: First we must state our failings.
Anna (laughs): No, I don’t dare. You’d run away!
Henrik: Or you.
Anna: Mama says I’m obstinate. That I’m selfish. Pleasure-loving. Impatient. My brothers say I’ve a damned bad temper and get angry about nothing. Well, what else can I think of? Ernst says I’m coquettish, that I love looking at myself in the mirror. Papa says I’m lazy about things I must do, cleaning, cooking, doing boring homework. Mama says I’m much too interested in boys. Well, as you hear, there’s no limit to my failings.
The Best Intentions Page 7