When Anna and Jack come down from their duties, Ernst and Henrik are sitting at the cleared dining room table, drinking milk and eating crispbread and soft whey cheese. The gramophone, brought from Tradgardsgatan, is wound up and ready with a Victor record of the latest tune on it. “There you are,” says Ernst. ‘A present for Anna, a late Christmas present, really.” “What is it?” says Anna inquisitively. “It’s a one-step,” says Ernst challengingly. “The very latest from New York, the very latest dance. It’s called the one-step.” Out of the gramophone’s red horn leaps Coal Milton’s syncopations. “This is what you do. It’s great fun,” says Ernst, demonstrating. After a few minutes, Anna imitates him. He pulls her to him, and they dance the one-step together. Henrik and Jack watch, noting the siblings’ delight, their affinity, their enthusiasm and laughter. ‘Again, again,” cries Anna, winding up the gramophone. “You and me, now,” she says, overweeningly, tugging at Henrik’s arm. “No, no, not me,” protests Henrik, pulling back. “Come on, now, don’t be silly, it’s fun, I tell you.” “No, no, it’s more fun watching you and Ernst dancing.” “Let’s all dance,” cries Anna, beginning to insist, her cheeks red. “We’ll all dance. You and I and Ernst — and Jack!” “No, no, let me go, Anna. I just get embarrassed.” “What do you mean, embarrassed?” laughs Anna, who has now kicked off her shoes, her hair loosened and down, with some help from Ernst, who has scooped up some hairpins and two combs. “This is how things should be,” she cries, raising her arms. “This is how things should be! Come on, Henrik, you who were such a one for dancing. Remember the Spring Ball.” “That was waltzing,” protests Henrik. “All right, then, we’ll dance a waltz although it’s a one-step,” says Anna, embracing her husband. “It’s the cassock that’s in the way. Let’s take it off the pastor!” She starts unbuttoning the cassock from the middle down. Ernst winds up the gramophone. Henrik flings his arms around his wife. “You’re squeezing me to death,” she cries, with a touch of anger. He lifts her and drops her, pushing her lightly in the chest so that she takes two steps back and stumbles over a chair. Then he shakes his head, goes out, and slams the door.
Ernst lifts the gramophone head off and smiles with embarrassment. “Henrik’s not the only one who doesn’t like the one-step,” says Ernst rather lamely, taking the record off and putting it back in its green cover. At that moment the door is flung open and Henrik comes back in again! “I know I’m an idiot,” he says quickly and apologetically. “We were only having a little game,” Anna says gently. “I’m a great spoiler of games,” says Henrik. “I can’t help it.”
“Let’s get the fire going and sit around and talk,” Ernst suggests as a diversion. “Jack and I were probably feeling out of it,” says Henrik in a feeble attempt at a joke. “Jack and I both tend to be jealous. Isn’t that so, Jack?”
The fire crackles with renewed vigor, the little doors of the tiled stove are open, the paraffin lamp glowing faintly on the round table by the window. They sit in a row on the sofa, Ernst, Anna, and Henrik. Ernst fills his pipe and slowly lights it. Jack has fallen asleep at a suitable distance, occasionally raising one eye or directing an ear, keeping his two gods and their untrustworthy friend under supervision.
“I’ve flown in an airplane,” says Ernst suddenly. “Our institute hires a Farman Hydro from the Norwegian Defense Forces. It’s a twoengine biplane that takes off and lands on water. Our people go up daily and make observations on weather fronts and measure temperatures and air pressure. They also photograph cloud formations from above. Sometimes they go up to a height of three thousand meters, but then we have to have oxygen — otherwise it’s hard to breathe. One day we went up to four thousand meters and the sky was dark blue, almost black. There was no color left, and the sound of the engine got fainter and fainter.” ‘Aren’t you scared when you go up?” says Anna. “Scared? No, the opposite. It’s an incredible feeling of . . . well, I don’t know what to call it . . . a feeling of power. No, not power. Of being perfect. Of being almost crazed with joy! I want to throw myself out into that sea of air and sail on my own. And I think, this is what the Creator felt on the seventh day, when he found his work good.”
It may be appropriate to relate here how the seven-year-old Petrus Farg came to stay at the parsonage. It was at the end of January, and the cold had turned to a gray icy thaw with sudden sharp showers of rain and beating snow. What strange weather! One night they had a thunderstorm, and the Works transformer was struck by lightning.
One morning, Anna comes down to breakfast at half past seven (Henrik has already gone off to the village to be on duty at the pastor’s office, which opens at eight). When Anna comes into the kitchen for breakfast, Mrs. Johansson is sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and some bread and butter, and Petrus Farg is sitting on a stool by the woodbox. Mejan is going in and out of the larder. She has a big baking day ahead and is only moderately amused by the visit. Mia is cleaning somewhere, and they can hear her singing. She likes to sing when she’s in a bad mood. Mrs. Johansson at once gets up and makes a little bob. Her hand is still bandaged. Petrus gets up and bows when told to. Anna has completely forgotten her promise and is a little confused and rather short, at which Mrs. Johansson immediately apologizes for intruding. Anna collects her big cup and saucer and some bread and butter and urges her guests to come with her into the adjoining dining room.
Petrus Farg is standing at the end of the table with his hands behind his back. He is slim and gangling, with thick lips and large expressionless eyes, a high forehead, straight protruding nose, cropped hair, and large red ears. He is properly dressed in a thick jersey with too-long sleeves, dark blue shorts with a large patch in the seat, and well-knitted long stockings. His boots are on the porch. He is sniffling with a cold, and out of one nostril runs snot, which he discreetly licks up whenever necessary.
Mrs. Johansson again apologizes. She hasn’t announced her visit. She has come far too early in the morning. Anna drinks her tea and mumbles politely that it doesn’t matter in the slightest, she had promised, and it’s good that Mrs. Johansson has at last decided to come, and asks about her hand.
Yes, the hand is better; she can move her fingers, and the doctor was pleased with what the pastor’s wife had done.
Anna puts down her teacup and calls to Petrus. He at once turns around to her and steps forward, but still with his hands behind his back. He looks at her without fear or shyness, but at the same time almost blindly, as if he really were blind. “May I look at your hand?” says Anna. He holds it out and puts it in hers, a long hand, long fingers, clear veins, dry rough skin and bitten nails, the middle fingernail chewed right down to the flesh. Mrs. Johansson shakes her head. “It’s terrible the way he bites his nails. I put mustard on them and I reprimand him and I promise him rewards, but nothing helps.” Anna doesn’t answer but turns the boy’s hand over: the inside is crisscrossed with faintly red patterns and lines, an old man’s hand.
Anna: So you’re starting school in the autumn?
Petrus: Yes.
Anna: What do think about that?
Petrus: I don’t know. I haven’t been yet.
Anna: But you can already read and write?
Petrus: And do sums. I know my multiplication tables.
Anna: Who taught you?
Petrus: I taught myself.
Anna: Didn’t anyone help you?
Petrus: No.
Anna: Not Uncle Johannes?
Petrus: When we’re in the workshop together, Uncle Johannes asks me questions and I answer.
Anna: Have you any friends?
(Petrus says rwthing.)
Anna: I mean have you any boys to be with?
Petrus: No.
Anna: So you’re lonely?
(Petrus says nothing.)
Anna: Perhaps you like being on your own?
Petrus: I suppose I do.
Anna: And what do you read?
(Petrus says nothing.)
Anna: Have you got any books?
(Petrus says nothing.)
Mrs. Johansson: We’ve got some old Christmas magazines, and sometimes my husband buys the Gefle Dagbladet. So he mostly reads a reference book we’ve got, though only a part, “from J to K.” It’s a trial volume Johannes bought for seventy-five öre.
Anna: I think I’ve got some books you’d like, Petrus. Wait a moment, and I’ll see.
She goes over to the white, glass-fronted bookcase and hunts along the bottom shelf for a while, then pulls out a fat, red, clothbound book with a gold-worked spine and gold lettering on the front. It is Nordic Sagas, “edited and published for children.” There’s an illustration on nearly every page, some of them in color. “Here you are,” says Anna. “You read that, and when you’ve finished it, I’ve got some more books that are just as good. Take it, Petrus! We’ll just make a cover for it, like they do in school, so it doesn’t get dirty.”
Mrs. Johansson: Say thank you properly, now.
Petrus: Thank you.
A few kilometers south of the parsonage, where the Gräsbäcken flows into the Gävle River, is the Sawmill, which, like the Works, belongs to the estate. The Sawmill employs twenty-two men who live with their families in ramshackle rows of cottages above the timber chute. The sawn timber is transported to the Works harbor along a narrow-gauge railway and all around the timber-roofed sawing sheds that lean toward one another are stacks and stacks of fragrant planks. The dust above the Sawmill is thick, and thin streams of water spurt through the closed hatches all summer and winter.
One day in the middle of February, this is what happens: The foreman announces abruptly that Arvid Fredin has been dismissed on the spot and told to get out of his house within a week. To start with, there are no protests or comments, and work goes on as usual inside the Sawmill and out on the stacks and the freight cars. At the eleven o’ clock break, some of the men doing the sorting start talking about the dismissal, and it is considered unjust. True, Arvid Fredin is a loudmouth, and it is also true he’s careless with his drink, but he’s also a good worker who has never been guilty of absenteeism or drunkenness at work.
Arvid himself is standing in the yard, his arms at his sides, and he is unusually silent, his expression one of astonishment and distress. His wife opens the window at regular intervals and tells him to get going, go on down to the office and talk to the manager, complain to Nordenson. No one should submit to things like this!
During the break and on their way to the afternoon shift, a lot of the men stop by to see Fredin. “You’ve been sacked for what you said at the meeting on Monday,” says Måns Lagergren, one of the oldest men, who has become increasingly involved in social-democratic politics. “I warned you not to let your tongue run away with you.” “I was no worse than anyone else,” protests Arvid. “Maybe not, but you read something you’d written. A sort of manifesto, or whatever the hell it’s called,” says Måns, lighting his cold pipe.
Another ten or so men have assembled in the muddy yard. “They’re making an example of you,” says Anders Ek, starting off toward the Sawmill. “Come on now, for Christ’s sake; otherwise there’ll be more trouble.” No one moves. No one goes.
Henrik is paying a sick call. One of his confirmands is ill with the present rampant sickness and is in bed, coughing and having difficulty breathing. It is probably not just a chill, but something else, and worse. Henrik has just agreed with the mother that he must talk to the doctor and promises to phone that afternoon.
Henrik looks out the window and sees the crowd. “What is it now?” he asks Mrs. Kama. “I don’t know,” she says irritably. “There’s always trouble these days. I think they’ve sacked Arvid. Arvid Fredin. I’m not saying anything. He’s a real agitator and drinks and fights. He says we should all join world communism and shoot Nordenson or hang him from the bell tower. I don’t know, and it’s best not to know anything. Last week he sat here jawing away with Larsson, wanting him to sign something. We had to get the neighbor to help get him back up to his place. So I’ve nothing against him going.”
Henrik says good-bye and goes out to the yard. The foreman has just come up the slope but has stopped some distance away. He’s trying persuasion. “Come on, men. It’s high time. We don’t want no more trouble than we’ve already had.” Everyone stands still, some of them to their own surprise. “Wait a few minutes, and we’ll be along,” someone says. “Well, then, I’ll go on down and wait for the time being. I don’t want to hear any more of that rubbish.” “If you go down, you can send the others up.”
The foreman doesn’t answer, but turns his back and moves off. He could telephone the office, for there’s a sort of local phone, but he doesn’t.
“This isn’t about Arvid Fredin,” says Johannes Johansson. “It’s a matter of principle. We must tell them we won’t agree to . . .” “Yes, to what?” says someone. “We won’t agree to Arvid getting fired, although he drinks and talks shit?” Disapproving mumbling. “They’re making an example,” says Anders Ek stubbornly, his voice hoarse. “Because he can write and express himself. He’s dangerous, of course, so they’re kicking him out. Not because he drinks and is a shit.”
This is all said in a friendly way; even Arvid is smiling. “Anyhow, we can’t accept this Arvid business,” says Måns Lagergren firmly. “We must state that clearly, but by all means politely. There’s no point in yelling and screaming. We’ve had enough of that. The agitators from Gävle have been no help. On the contrary.”
They listen to Lagergren and agree with him. Actually, no one really likes Arvid Fredin. He may be good and thorough at work, but he’s a loudmouth and reads extracts of books no one’s ever heard of.
Nothing is said for a while. They ought to go to the afternoon shift, and it’s already very late. The foreman is a decent man, and they all know him well. He is a local. He doesn’t make a whole lot of unnecessary fuss, but things may get bad for him if the work doesn’t get started. Despite this, they stand around, dispirited and indecisive. “Can’t we have a meeting and talk about this properly?” says Johannes. “There are various sides to this question, and we solve nothing by standing around here with our mouths open.” Mumbled approval. “Then the question is, where can we meet?” Johannes goes on. “We ought to get the men down from the Works to meet with us — it shouldn’t be just us. If we use any of the Works premises, they’ll throw us out, and there’ll be trouble about that, too. We can’t be out of doors in this god-awful weather, and it’s colder in Robert’s barn than it is outside.”
“We could use the chapel,” says Henrik, without thinking. “We can be warm in the chapel, at least on Sunday after morning service. The stoves are on all morning. The chapel holds a hundred and fifty people, and that’s big enough, isn’t it?” Henrik looks around, a question in his eyes. Closed, mistrustful, surprised faces. “In the chapel?” says Johannes. “What d’you think the minister’11 say about that, Pastor?” “I have the right to arrange meetings and assemblies. That’s actually my right.” “Oh, yes,” says Lagergren, with surprise in his voice. “Well, shall we accept the pastor’s offer? Suppose we could, so long as you don’t regret it, Pastor.” “I won’t regret it,” says Henrik, as calmly as he can. “Shall we say Sunday at two o’clock?” says someone. “That’s all right,” says Henrik. “Will you be coming, Pastor?” “Yes, of course. I’ve got the key.”
That same night, Anna and Henrik are awakened by a thunderstorm over Forsboda. It’s like continuous gunfire over the Storsjön, the ridges and mountains, hailstorms coming in waves over the roof. “I’ve never seen such peculiar weather,” whispers Anna. She lights a candle and fetches Dag, who has slept all through the racket. So all three of them are lying in Henrik’s bed. “Thunder in February is like the final judgment,” says Henrik.
The racket gradually subsides and is now just flashes of lightning and softly rustling rain. “What’s that down on the veranda?” says Anna, suddenly wide awake. “It’s nothing. Your imagination.” “Yes, I can hear something, someone knoc
king on the pane of the outer door.” “Who could that be? A ghost?” “No, listen, can’t you hear?” “Yes, you’re right. There’s someone on the veranda.”
Anna lights a paraffin lamp, and they put on dressing gowns and slippers, the stairs creaking. Now they can hear the knocking quite clearly, faint and irregular. Henrik unlocks the door and opens it. Anna holds the lamp up. On the steps, a dark figure is crouching, faintly outlined against the blurred snowy light of the yard. It is Petrus, in a much-too-long woman’s coat, a large peaked cap, and boots. He is just standing there, motionless, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, the peak of his cap hiding his eyes, his mouth half-open. Anna stretches out her hand, pulls him into the hall, and takes off his cap. The blue eyes are expressionless, the face pale, lips trembling. “Are you cold?” says Anna. He shakes his head. “What have you come for?” says Henrik. Another shake of the head. “Come on, I’ll heat up some milk,” says Anna, temptingly. “Take your coat and boots off.” Obediently, his head down, the boy slouches along behind her.
The next morning, Mia is sent with a message to the Johanssons, who have awakened to find the boy gone. There is a very early meeting in the parsonage kitchen. Johannes and his wife are standing in the middle of the floor apologizing. As one of them draws breath, the other starts up. Mia is seated at the table eating her breakfast porridge; Mejan is busy at the stove. In vain Henrik begs his two guests to have a cup of coffee or at least sit down. Anna has gone to the guest room to wake Petrus, which turns out to be unnecessary, for he is already awake, curled up at the head of the bed wrapped in a red blanket. Above the blanket is a bloodless face and two wide-open, watery eyes, a blind whirlpool right in the center of his gaze, the dry lips clamped together. Anna takes a chair and carefully sits down opposite her strange guest. “You must come now,” she says kindly. “Your parents have come to fetch you.”
Petrus: They’re not my parents.
The Best Intentions Page 24