“It doesn’t seem that the confidence you talk about extends to me.”
“Of course it does. I have complete confidence in you, and I’m trying to gain confidence in him. I’m defending him because it isn’t easy to do. I don’t want the priest we’ve been given to be disliked and persecuted. People are merciless, you know that yourself. But what if the ways of our Lord are such that he chooses a less popular and less radiant person to complete the revival that Kummel didn’t have time to accomplish. What if even Kummel’s death is a part of God’s plan for us?”
“Then I have a bone to pick with Our Lord.”
“This is not a joke. I’m saying we should be open to the possibility that Portman is God’s instrument, sent to us for our salvation.”
“Forgive me, Adele, but you’re the only one of us who thinks that. The priest is also a public official, and what’s happening here is a hopeless clash. And now I have to go. Thank you for the coffee.”
A brief handshake is all, his dark, imposing features a little too dark at the moment. Out of the house, he walks straight down to the dock, doesn’t look up even once as he cranks his Wickström into life and heads out. Sitting motionless in the boat, he turns away, as he must to be able to drive south. There is no light around the cup he drank from, the minutes he signed are lifeless. A wedge driven invisibly between her, who works to come closer to God, and him, who follows the ways of the world. Between her, who loves, and him, who doesn’t return that love.
It was Mona who saw to it that Adele and the Portmans got acquainted. She invited Adele and Elis to coffee one Saturday afternoon when the shop closed at one, and she invited the Portmans as well. “The church has a real friend in Adele,” she told them. “She’s on the vestry, and it would be nice if you got to know each other.”
It is as pleasant as always at Mona’s table, and the food is good. The Portmans are dignified and austere, with courteous smiles. Adele is in her element. Goes straight to the need for revival and a deeper faith among the Örlands’ lukewarm Christians, says how pleased she is that the venerable bishop has sent them a steady, experienced priest, hopes and believes that he will be a blessing for the parish. Unctuous and teary-eyed when she speaks of the work their former priest did not have the time to complete. Puts her faith now in the hope that he, Portman, has been guided by God to this isolated island parish.
“A demanding task,” Portman agrees, and Mrs Portman nods. “A shot in the arm is undoubtedly called for. What’s needed out here is a firm hand. The people are like big children.”
Mona laughs happily, to everyone’s astonishment. “You can’t imagine!” she says, a remark worthy of Mrs Hellén, her mother. She passes the cake plate and then rushes out to say something to her little girls, whom she’s been watching through the window. They’re playing a game Lillus has invented. She yells, “Potman’s coming!” and then they both scream and run and hide. When Sanna yells “He’s gone!” they come back and start the game over again. “Stop screaming like that, good heavens!” Mama says. She hurries back in and interrupts the conversation once again. Small talk, a little of this and a little of that, until it’s time to say their thank-yous and go.
Adele’s heart breaks when she sees Mona active and brisk, at full speed, but without the dash and ardour that were characteristic of her as Petter Kummel’s wife. Now she’s the mother of these little girls, and it will take many years of work until they can stand on their own two feet. How will she manage? It’s the question everyone asks, and Mona gives always the same answer. “I’ll have to manage. That’s all there is to it.”
Mrs Portman has no children, and therefore Lydia Manström is counting on her to be an asset for the Marthas as well as for the work on public health. New energies and talents are always a good thing, so she bids Mrs Portman a hearty welcome. Now, in the beginning, she is a little aloof and makes no promises. It’s understandable that she doesn’t want to play a visible role until Mona Kummel has gone, but it can’t hurt to pave the way and welcome her into the community of women in the east villages.
Arthur Manström’s attitude towards Portman is, on the other hand, both prejudiced and dismissive. He regards him as a crashing bore, an unimaginative cretin, a self-important little pope. “You need to hear him only once to realize that he has nothing to say,” he declares after the first church service. He used to go to church now and then to show his friendship for Kummel, and he had a very high opinion of the social gatherings at the parsonage, but now he goes on strike. No one so utterly without a silver tongue can possibly value it in someone else. So there is no point in wasting his eloquence on Portman, our sounding-brass prelate, as Arthur calls him. This makes it harder for Lydia to cultivate Mrs Portman’s friendship, but by no means impossible, for who is it who sits on the vestry? Arthur or his better half? And who is chairman of the Marthas? Not Arthur. You need perseverance and patience while you wait for the parish to regain its even keel after the heart-rending events of the past year. Then it will become clear where people stand, and where the strengths and talents of the newcomers lie.
The little girls cannot imagine that the summer will end. For Mama, it passes at a dizzying speed. Their departure date at the end of August is already fixed, transport to the slaughterhouse for Apple and her calf has been arranged. Before she knows it, it’s time to milk her for the last time and ferry her to the steamboat pier, pursued by Goody’s anxious bellowing from the shore. From the steamboat pier, she is chased on board and down into the open hold of the freighter that will carry the Örlands’ wretched autumn beasts to the abattoir in Åbo. It’s all done harshly and mercilessly. For a person with Mona Kummel’s background, there is nothing unusual about sending animals to slaughter, and among all the cows she’s milked in her day, the obstinate and haughty Apple is not one of her favourites, but nevertheless. Her cow. Her life. Now over. And it’s awful to see how lost Goody feels, even though she’s had to put up with a lot of hard bumps from Apple and move out of her way all her life. Looking at Goody now is like looking at Lillus if Sanna were sent away.
Silly thoughts, as if cows were human beings. They’re not, and she has to get Goody under control and lead her into the cow barn and tie her up so she doesn’t rush around Church Isle bellowing all night.
The girls are nearly as unaware as the cows about having to leave. Sanna knows they’re going to move, though she doesn’t know what that means, but she has started to worry and sleeps badly, and Lillus, now two years old, is getting more troublesome. In order to get anything done, Mama has to hire Cecilia for a few weeks. Cecilia is calmer than Mama, and everything gets easier. Above all, Cecilia is Sanna’s friend, and whoever Sanna likes, Lillus likes. And with Cecilia in the house, Mama has to control herself and try to seem cheerful. She doesn’t mind that the girls are much happier in Cecilia’s company than in her own, for all that matters now is getting through the next few weeks, whatever the cost.
The days fly by. The sheep are sheared one final time and the wool packed away. On auction day, they stand on display in their sheepfold, naked and trembling. The cat is allowed to stay with the Portmans once Mona has told them about the mice, but the four hens are too much trouble and will be sold. On the day of the sale, all three of them go to Sister Hanna’s by boat—not because she couldn’t stand to be present, Mona assures them, but because she thinks the auction will go more smoothly if people don’t see her and grow depressed. The organist keeps the books for the auction. In light of all that’s happened, there is no reason to cry over the sale of the sheep and chickens, the milk cans and the farming equipment. “So what?” she says defiantly.
Yes, so what? She packs and organizes. Like a machine. Has to stop when the vestry appears to pay their respects. The organist speaks for them all, thanks her for the hospitality of the parsonage, looks back at the past three years as an unusually happy time in the life of the parish, hopes that the bonds between them will never be broken. He wishes Mona and her girls good fortune in
the future, wants them to know they will never be forgotten on the Örlands. “Don’t forget us, either,” he admonishes her—and to help them to remember, he removes the brown paper wrapping on a lovely painting of Church Isle commissioned from an artist in Mariehamn.
The vestry in tears, the widow self-controlled, as she was at the funeral, but slightly less so now as she thanks them for the painting, for their friendship, and for the best years of her life. Turns quickly away, puts more wood on the fire, has a bit more colour in her face when she looks at them again and glances around the parlour. Packing crates stand in rows on the floor. Some have already been nailed shut, others will be filled with last-minute items. Her china has also been packed, so she doesn’t know if …
No, no, of course no one expects her to give them coffee in the midst of moving. They are leaving, but nevertheless they want to thank her, officially, on behalf of the parish, for everything, even though every one of them has thanked her personally as well. Adele Bergman in tears, Sörling clearing his throat and uncharacteristically quiet, Lydia Manström concerned, hoping they can leave without any further outbursts of emotion. The organist so tense that he can’t bring himself to suggest a verse of “Shall We Gather at the River” now that they must say farewell.
The vestry out onto the steps, for the last time. Everything packed except the most essential things, which will go into a suitcase in the morning. Cecilia is to go home this last evening. Mona doesn’t want a farewell committee on the shore, she wants to say goodbye in an orderly manner. “Thank you, Cecilia, for all your help, we’ve been so happy to have you here.” An envelope with her payment is put in her hand, real money. Sanna is allowed to go with her all the way to the bridge and then come straight back home.
Lillus cries when they leave, just Sanna and Cecilia. The evenings are already a bit chilly in late August, and Sanna shivers. Cecilia holds her hand and tries to be cheerful, but she cries when she says how awfully sad it is that they have to move. But Sanna shouldn’t be sad, she’ll have fun with Gram and Gramps and all the animals, and when she gets bigger she can come to the Örlands for a visit. “And I’ll write letters to you,” she promises, “and Mama can help you write back.”
All too quickly they arrive at the bridge. It still doesn’t have a railing, but it stands on solid pilings. Now that it’s there, no one need drown on the way to Church Isle. This is where Sanna will turn back and Cecilia continue on. But they stand where they are and hold hands. Cecilia cries, and tears run down Sanna’s cheeks and the tip of her nose. Anxiously, Cecilia realizes that because she’s older, she must decide when to go. She lets go of Sanna’s hand, feels how reluctantly it is withdrawn. Cecilia can’t look at her when she says, “Now I have to go. And you have to go straight home, otherwise Mama will worry. Goodbye, Sanna. Run home now.”
Sanna is frighteningly wise and sensible. She doesn’t ask even once if she can go with Cecilia a little farther. Nor does she beg Cecilia to stay. She doesn’t say she’s scared to walk home alone. Dusk comes quickly in August, and now they both have to go. She dries her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater and starts to run. Cecilia walks out onto the bridge and stops and looks around. Sanna is so little and slim that she quickly disappears among the junipers and shadows. The path is empty, as if she had never existed.
But Sanna has no way to leave her own life. She’s in it all the time, and she’s afraid. Although she and Cecilia came from the parsonage, she can’t know for certain that it will still be there when she gets back, for the path is different from when they were together, goes uphill where before it went down, zigs where it used to zag. She works herself up so badly she forgets to cry, and then the parsonage is there, oddly crimson in the twilight with white trim that seems to sail out ahead of the red. She stops and starts buttoning her sweater, otherwise Mama will scold her and tell her it’s her own fault if she catches cold. It’s hard. The cardigan is tight and there are lots of buttons and buttonholes and they’re small and she can hardly see the top ones at all. She furrows her brow and squints and has to do it all over again from the beginning when it doesn’t come out even. Maybe Mama will come out on the steps and say, “Come, Sanna,” but the house is completely quiet as if no one lived there. She goes up the steps and pulls hard on the door to get it open. It’s dark in the hallway and she stumbles over a box and hurts herself. Then Mama comes out the kitchen door. “So there you are!” Behind her, Lillus has been crying but hops with joy now that Sanna has come back. It’s like Mama says to everyone—how fortunate that Lillus has Sanna.
It’s unexpectedly difficult to get the cow aboard. I’ve seldom seen such a bewildered beast. She’s lost her leader cow and has no idea what to do, throws her head about and bawls and foams at the mouth and can’t stand still when we finally get her tied up. She’s on her way to Åbo, where they’ll force her into a truck and drive her someplace near Helsingfors. There they’ll lead her into a cow barn with ten gigantic Ayrshire cows she’ll have to live with. The concentrated feed and ensilage they’ll give her will be way too rich and you don’t have to be a dairyman to realize how much gas that will produce, and what godawful diarrhoea. She may get through her first calving, but then she’ll get milk fever and be slaughtered. Better if she’d been sent to slaughter right away, with Apple. Poor, pathetic parsonage cow.
The widow doesn’t want to give her up, she’s all she has left of everything that flourished on Church Isle. Well, the children of course, but they’re as bewildered as the cow and just as scared. A perfect disaster now that they’re on their way. She made it known that she didn’t want a farewell committee, so it’s only the verger and Brage who are there to carry crates and furniture and help Kalle and me get it all stowed. She’s in a terrible rush. It all has to go quickly, and she runs back and forth directing the loading and the little girls run after her, crying. She screams at them, tells them to stay where they are and just wait, she’ll be right back. “Quiet, Lillus!” she commands, and the girls stand deathly silent on the dock while she runs up to the parsonage one last time.
I don’t know but what somewhere deep inside she still imagines that everything will be all right. That she’ll open the door and see him standing there in his everyday clothes, happy, wondering where she’s off to in such a hurry. That all the rest of it has been a long illness, bouts of heavy fever with restless nightmares. Now finally over. In any case, something drives her up to the house one final time.
In the hall, she collides with the Portmans, who have come down a little too soon, they can’t wait to take possession of the house. “Oh, excuse me!” she cries, “I was just going to …” She has already said goodbye to them and runs past them into the parlour, nothing, the bedroom, empty, as if they’d never, hurries on, dining room, kitchen a final survey, got everything, back down the steps, no glance towards the churchyard where the grave is groomed and the rosebush blooms, back down to the church dock. There we wait, loaded. The men in the machine room as usual, in the saloon, several women on their way to Åbo, Brage and the verger at a loss on the dock.
The cow moos on deck and the widow Kummel comes running down the hill. She shoves Sanna on board, the little one is lifted across the railing. “Hold tight,” she calls, and they hold on as tight as they can. And when I say to Kalle, “Okay, then we’re off,” they hold on for dear life. He pulls in the gangplank and closes the grating. The verger stands by the rail. Maybe he was more attached to her than anyone else, and he has the most to lose by the change in priests. She can’t ignore him. He says, “Mona! I won’t say goodbye …”
“No!” she says. “We’ve done that.” She sounds angry and remote, but he goes on.
“I’ll say ‘Until we meet again!’” He covers his large honest face with the whole sleeve of his coat, and she, small, the tip of her nose white, says, “Good!” She sweeps the girls with her down into the saloon, and when she decides, no one dares grumble. There will be no teary-eyed looks at the church and the parsonage and the sea and
the land. The saloon is under the deck, and from there you can see nothing unless you press your nose against the portholes, which I must admit have never been washed.
Once the engine is going, you can’t hear a thing, and when you can’t hear, it’s harder to see. I can’t even say if the verger and Brage waved or just stood there. The women told me that the widow greeted everyone and was careful not to look out. The girls were as quiet as mice, and neither one cried.
It was a great disappointment to the women that Mrs Kummel had chosen this particular time to travel. When there are several of them, and they’ve got hours to kill, they really open up and talk away as if they were drunk or ecstatic. Anything at all, and in whatever order, and the unspoken agreement is that no one will be held responsible later for what she says in the frenzy of the moment. They talk about the living and the dead and friends and enemies, urge each other on and get obscene, laugh and interrupt, start over and exaggerate and turn themselves inside out like wartime clothing. Most of all they love scandals and horrible accidents. The worst of all is still the death of the vicar, and here sits his wife, so how can they?
Here sits his wife, and they have to talk but restrain themselves and watch what they say. The whole pleasure of the trip is gone when they have to be so careful, and although they gossip about much and many, the absence of all the other things they might have said is great and vivid. The remaining subjects are dry and the hours stretch on.
Human beings are made to live on the surface, and for long periods at a time they can forget what lies underneath. Some things sink to the bottom and other things rise up instead. What has happened in the past moves steadily away from the real world, precisely the way the priest grows more and more unlike the man he was when he walked among us, and more of a stranger. This is as it should be, for everything flows and shifts and changes. It’s the way of the world, and on the Örlands the priest is already a story, which people are happy to embroider. As long as his widow and his little girls stay put, the flow is interrupted, and depression and sorrow cling to the discussion, although new currents ought to wash them away.
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