The Best Intentions
Page 32
Gransjö: Henrik, please go up to the Works and see if you can be of some help, outside or inside. I’ll stay here and hold the fort. When it’s this cold, my hip aches and I can hardly move. I’d only be a nuisance over there.
Henrik: I’ll go at once. (Gets up.)
Gransjö: Do you know whether the Nordenson girls are at home, or whether they’ve gone to their grandmother’s?
Henrik: They’ve gone.
Gransjö: Sit down for a moment.
Henrik: Yes.
Gransjö: How are things with you?
Henrik: Excellent.
Gransjö: I hear that Anna has gone to Upsala.
Henrik: Yes, that’s right.
Gransjö: With the boy?
Henrik: Anna’s mother will at last see her grandson.
Gransjö: Is she coming home for Christmas?
Henrik: I don’t know.
Gransjö: Henrik, do you know in general when she’s coming back?
Henrik: No.
Gransjö: What has happened?
Henrik: I’m sorry, but I’m not prepared to make any kind of confession. May I go now?
Gransjö: Of course.
Henrik: I have no wish to be unfriendly, and I am grateful for your interest, but I consider the occasion ill chosen to discuss my private griefs when the whole Works is faced with disaster.
Gransjö: The disaster at the Works is a fact. Your disaster might possibly be avoided.
Henrik: Was there anything else?
Gransjö: I just want to point out that the offer still stands.
Henrik: The offer? As far as I am concerned, it doesn’t exist.
Gransjö: So may I write to those concerned and tell them that whatever the circumstances you are not interested? Is that what you want?
Henrik: I would be singularly grateful.
Gransjö: Singularly grateful. I have noted that.
Henrik: I know where I belong.
Gransjö: And your wife?
Henrik: She has also decided.
Gransjö: Go now, Henrik Bergman. And make yourself useful.
Henrik bows politely to the old gentleman and goes through the pastor’s office. He buttons up his short coat and pulls on his gloves, picking up his fur cap in the porch. His eyes are dry and smarting from lack of sleep. As he turns off toward the Works, he meets Magda Säll, who greets him kindly.
Magda: Are you on your way to the Works?
Henrik: Your uncle sent me.
Magda: There’s a lot of talk about sending for the army.
Henrik: Is it that bad?
Magda: I don’t know. It was just something I heard. When’s Anna coming back?
Henrik: I don’t know exactly.
Magda: We have to discuss the bazaar. I suppose it’ll have to be postponed now.
Henrik: Your uncle is still at the office.
Magda: I was just going to fetch him. He finds walking so difficult when it’s cold. And he’s in pain all the time, poor thing.
Henrik: I’ll let you know.
Magda says something, but Henrik has already started off along the hilly road toward the Works. An engine and some empty goods wagons are standing at the railway station. No one in sight. The daylight has gone, and the light is leaden.
Outside the office and outside the yard walls, it is black with people. The policeman has climbed onto a ladder leaning against the warehouse wall and is speaking in a loud voice, saying it is pointless to stay there. Everyone should go home and wait for information that might come the next day or at the earliest the day after tomorrow. A special delegation from the Unemployment Commission is on its way, and starting up the Works again in the new year is being discussed. The Works has outstanding orders, and the creditors are meeting in Gävle at this moment planning to continue production. “So please go home. I am asking you to go home. Go home, please. There’s no real reason to worry. Most of all, we don’t want any trouble.”
A hard snowball hits the wall. The policeman looks with astonishment at where it landed, then back at the silent crowd. Perhaps he is wondering whether to say something, but he doesn’t, and gets down from the ladder. People make way for him. Henrik is dispirited and stays where he is. He recognizes his parishioners but doesn’t dare go any nearer. He walks through the silent groups, occasionally greeting someone, and they greet him back.
Nordenson is lying on his leather sofa in his study His head is bandaged, his face protruding from the bandages, that great nose standing out more than ever, the thin lips half-open, exposing his top teeth, his skin discolored, the stubble dark and eyelids red. He is still wearing his stained dressing gown, a shirt with no collar, baggy trousers, and slippers. The overhead electric light is on, but otherwise the corners of the room are in darkness.
Elin: This is his farewell letter. Perhaps you would like to hear what he says, Pastor Bergman (doesn’t wait for an answer and starts reading in a calm voice).
In recent years, anyhow for the last two years, almost every evening I have gone into my study, locked the door, and put the barrel of my gun into my mouth. I can’t say that I have been particularly desperate. I have just had a desire to train my will for the inevitable. It will be a great relief to go into final, and as I see it total, loneliness. I have made provision for my nearest, for Elin and the girls. They will not be affected by the financial situation. I have no reason to apologize for my death, even if it will cause some practical and hygienic problems. Neither have I any reason to apologize for my life. As is well known, I was attracted by all kinds of gambling. I won occasionally and that was fun, but on the whole I was indifferent to it. Life itself was one of the more banal gambles, a gamble I mostly had to take on someone else’s conditions. It wasn’t a question of chance. Perhaps I was occasionally my own opponent. In that case, that would be the only really comical point. Now I am drunk, sufficiently drunk, and so put a full stop.
Mrs. Elin lowers the letter and breathes jerkily, a kind of dry sob. She smiles in embarrassment.
Elin: Do you wish to say a prayer, Pastor?
Henrik: No, I don’t think so.
Elin: You don’t think . . .?
Henrik: I don’t think Mr. Nordenson would like it if I stood here and read a prayer. (Pause.) Have you spoken to the girls, Mrs. Nordenson?
Elin: They’re staying with my mother over Christmas.
Henrik: Is there anything I can do? (Helpless.)
Elin: No. No, thank you. Please give my regards to the Reverend Gransjö and say I will come to the office early tomorrow morning, so we can discuss the funeral.
Henrik: I’ll tell him that.
Elin: I must thank you, Pastor Bergman, for taking all this trouble.
Henrik does not reply, but simply shakes hands and bows. On his way home, he goes past the Works office. It is still closed, but lights are on in the windows and strangers in hats and overcoats are moving about inside, talking to one another, looking in files, sitting at tables, and leafing through papers. The wind has got up, and snow comes drifting in thick chunks from the dark icy wastes of Storsjön. A greenish uncertain strip of light is hovering above the edge of the forest. The harbor area and the road are deserted. People have gone home. There had been no trouble. Someone had just thrown a snowball, which hit nothing.
Anna has put on a high-waisted, ankle-length, dove-gray silk dress with a broad belt under her breast, wide sleeves, oval neckline, high-heeled shoes with straps, lacy stockings, necklace, and earrings. She has done her thick hair into one braid that comes down to her waist. She has put on perfume and blackened her eyelashes. For the first time, her son is wearing a sailor suit, white knee-stockings, and shiny new low shoes. Mrs. Karin has put on a gray dress of thin wool with a lace collar and high cuffs. She has gathered her white hair into a graceful knot on her head. In honor of the day, Miss Lisen has put on her black dress and a brooch, small gold rings in her ears, a genuine tortoiseshell comb in her hair, and her best boots, which creak.
Thus clad, th
e three women and the boy are to celebrate the most deplorable Christmas in the history of the family. The Christmas tree between the windows in the drawing room is decorated with customary finery and numerous candles, despite wartime shortages and rationing. Presents in colorful wrappings lie under the tree. The chandelier sparkles, and the mirrors behind the wall brackets reflect innumerable flames. A Christmas creche of the biblical scene and small figures are set out on a table, a concealed electric bulb covered in red tissue paper letting the light come from the Virgin and Child. A fire crackles, shooting glowing sparks at the protective brass guard.
On the stroke of five, there is thunderous knocking on the door, and Uncle Carl comes tumbling in dressed as Santa Claus. “Isn’t it terrible?” he cries. “Isn’t it terrible! I’ll go mad. What! Well, for God’s sake. Are there any good children in this house? Or only bored old women and runaway wives? No, no, Mammchen, I’ll be serious, but I nearly die laughing when I see all your efforts. It’s quite mad. So, Eyes front! Is there a Good Little Boy here?” Uncle Carl turns his terrifying mask toward the four-year-old, who immediately begins to cry. Carl snatches off the mask, takes Dag up on his knee, and plays a tune on his lips as he trumpets with his nose. The boy stops crying and stares with fascination at the swollen benign face grimacing and playing tunes. “I’ve earned a drink now,” sighs Uncle Carl, putting on his pince-nez. “My God, the way you ladies have got dressed up! I can hardly believe my own eyes.”
“Then let’s go and eat,” says Mrs. Karin, taking the boy by the hand. “You’re to sit by Grandmother.”
Everything is as it always has been in the kitchen. “No sign of wartime and food shortages here,” says Carl, clapping his fat hands. “We decided not to celebrate Christmas at all this year,” says Mrs. Karin. “But then we had second thoughts. The boy is to feel Christmas is just as usual.”
A few hours later, they have used up all their strength and the masks have cracked, the candles flicker and die in their holders and candlesticks, the fire dies down and glows, half-light. Dag has fallen asleep in his still-far-too-large bed, surrounded by his Christmas presents. Uncle Carl has collapsed on the green sofa, his speech slurred, and he keeps dozing off. Lisen is sitting on a straight-backed chair, her hands lying on the silk of her dress as she stares at a candle on the tree, which flares and goes out, flares up again, and suddenly the flame is a bluish colour.
Mrs. Karin and Anna are in armchairs around the tiled stove, gazing into the embers, allowing themselves to be enveloped in the warmth, which already smells of ashes.
Karin: I’ve taken to having a glass of brandy before I go to bed. It helps, and is also warming.
Anna: Helps?
Karin: I find it hard to sleep.
Anna: But you’ve always slept well.
Karin: Not any longer. In the stormy days I slept well. It’s more difficult nowadays. (Drinks.)
Anna: Thank you for a lovely Christmas, Mama dear.
Karin: I thought it was quite deplorable.
Anna: Dag was pleased.
Carl (grunts): I’m also hugely pleased, Mammchen.
Karin: Thank you, Carl dear, it’s kind of you to say so. (Stretches.) I’m not really particularly sentimental, but I felt like crying. Several times. So I said to myself, Don’t be silly, Karin Åkerblom, what are you whining about?
Carl: One has to be brave. (Grins silently.)
Anna: I had a letter from Henrik this morning.
Karin: I didn’t want to ask.
Anna: He sent his regards.
Karin: Thank you. Please return them when you next write.
Carl (sniffing): I warned him. You bloody well watch out for the Åkerblom family, I said to him.
Anna (ignoring him): He’s preaching in the big church for the early service. They’ve closed the chapel for the time being. The stove’s broken down.
Karin: So things are all right with him.
Anna: It seems so. He has sent Mejan and Mia home over Christmas. He and Jack go on long skiing trips.
Karin: How does he manage for food?
Anna: He’s often invited to dinner with the Reverend Gransjö.
Karin: (drinks): I’m glad things are all right.
(Anna cries.)
(Listen turns her head and looks at Anna.)
Carl: The time has now come for Santa Claus to take himself off to his hotel. Thank you for this evening, Mammchen dear. Thank you for this evening, Miss Lisen. Thank you for this evening, Anna, little crybaby (tenderly). You really are a muddle. There you are, a big wet kiss. Cry away, my heart! Women cry so that their eyes are more beautiful. Yes, yes, Mammchen, I’m going. We won’t see each other tomorrow because I’m taking the early train to Stockholm. No, no, I can manage. Stay where you are, for God’s sake. I’m not very drunk. I’ll leave the fancy dress at the hotel. Regards to the brothers, by the way, and wish them a Happy New Year from me. No, don’t give them my regards. There is a limit to my capacity to lie. This evening has reached it, gone beyond it. I have no more allowance until the new year.
The front door slams, and Carl goes whistling down the stairs. Lisen gets up on a chair and blows out the last candles on the Christmas tree. Then she wishes them good night and disappears into the kitchen, where she cleans up and puts things away. Karin holds out her hand and takes her daughter’s.
Karin: Are you cold?
Anna: No, no. I’m warm.
Karin: Your hand.
Anna: Yes, I know. Whenever I’m miserable, my hands and feet get icy cold. You remember, don’t you? (No pause.) I’m so upset about Henrik. I have such a terribly guilty conscience.
So Henrik has sent Mejan and Mia home for an indefinite period of time. At the same time, he shows some practical and organizational talents, among other things by contracting his living space and moving into the abandoned maid’s room off the kitchen, thus enabling him to combat the cosmic cold. The fire in the stove is on all day and night, and the stove wall and the tiled stove stay warm. His household routine is otherwise meticulous. The dishes are done every day, the sofa bed made, the paraffin rationed and topped up, his cassock brushed, trousers pressed, and he eats a properly cooked meal in the middle of the day. Necessities of life are brought by his neighbor, who goes to the store daily. Every morning, Henrik makes his way to the pastor’s office on skis, a half-hour journey if the going is fairly good; then he sets off for home at dusk. The dog Jack goes with him and stands guard, though he does indeed grieve over Someone’s incomprehensible absence. But he fulfills his duties.
Henrik writes his sermons at the kitchen table, in his usual everyday clothes, a large cardigan with long sleeves and collar that is as warm as a fur coat, his trouser legs tucked into gray socks and wooden shoes on his feet. He has let his beard grow, but trims it with Anna’s nail-scissors, which she has left behind. He has brought a bookcase into the room and filled it with important books. Tolstoy, Rydberg, Fröding, Lagerlöf, Walter Scott, Jules Verne, Albert Engström, and Nathan Söderblom.
His alarm clock measures the time, an ancient monster of tin and brass, its bell capable of waking the dead, but at the moment ticking peacefully, the fire roaring in the stove, the pastor sitting at the kitchen table preparing his New Year’s Day sermon. It’s about the reluctant fig tree and the conscientious vineyard worker. “Lord, let the tree stay this year as well, and meanwhile I can dig around it and manure it, so maybe in that way it will bear fruit next year.”
He lights his well-broken-in pipe: he has real tobacco, a Christmas present from Gransjö, who has just given up smoking, and he breathes in the mild, sweetish smell. Jack is asleep on his piece of matting under the table, his legs twitching, and he is growling faintly. Suddenly he leaps up and goes over to stand by the door. Someone is approaching by the gate, someone on a sled. Henrik opens the kitchen door to the porch and closes it behind him to keep the warmth in. Magda Säll jerks open the outer door, for the kitchen steps have become a snowdrift during the night’s bad weather.
Magda holds out the basket she has with her. This tall, broad-shouldered creature fills the kitchen porch, her graying hair sticking out from under her shawl and curling down over her forehead, her cheeks and the handsome nose red with cold. Her very dark eyes are looking at Henrik with no dissembling, her mouth smiling: “Surely we don’t have to stand out here,” she says, laughing in a friendly way. “Have you got something warm to offer, Henrik?” She pulls off her felt boots. “My toes are frozen stiff. Despite my boots. Can I put them in front of the stove? It’s nice and warm in here. Oh, so Henrik’s moved into the maid’s room and made the kitchen into his study. Oh, and I can see you were preparing your sermon, and I’m sure I’m disturbing you, but I won’t stay long. I must just sit down for a moment or two and get my breath back. Is the coffeepot warm? Do you think it’d be all right if I take a cup? I see you’re keeping the place neat and tidy, Henrik. And you do the dishes, too.”
She has wriggled out of her thick winter coat and the shawl crossed over her chest. “I stole this jersey from Uncle Samuel, and my skirt’s twenty years old but is just right for this weather. Why is Jack growling? Is he angry because I’m disturbing you?”
Magda: How are things?
Henrik: Fine. Excellent.
Magda: (smiles): That’s good.
Henrik: I see from your smile that you don’t believe me.
Magda: But, Henrik dear . . .
Henrik: How could a lone man manage on his own, abandoned by his wife? Out of the question, isn’t it?
Magda: It was only a polite inquiry.
Henrik: And so you’ll be given a polite answer. Fine. I’m well. Things are all right. I have adapted.
Magda: You sound angry.
Henrik: I can’t help my tone of voice. You come storming along on your sled, up to your eyebrows with compassion. That embarrasses me. I cannot fulfill your expectations.
Magda: Henrik, my dear . . .(Laughs.)