They go to the stairs leading up to the first floor. “Mama!” cries Ernst. Karin Åkerblom wakes from her dreams over the half-written letter, goes out to the stairs, and says sternly, “Ernst, what a noise. You’ll wake Papa.” “We’re going to the Gimmen for a swim. Are you coming, too, Mama?” “Anna, have you asked Miss Siri if there’s anything to do in the kitchen?” “Nothing for the moment,” says Anna. “Anyhow, the girls might help a bit more. They’ve gone and hidden themselves in the playhouse and are reading Countess Paulette’s Secret Lovers. Lovers in the plural, please note.” “Oh, yes,” says Mrs. Karin, resignedly. “That’s not my responsibility. Martha will have to deal with that.” “We’re off, anyhow,” says Ernst, rushing up the stairs and embracing his mother. “Thank you, that was nice of you,” says Karin Åkerblom, giving her son’s hair a tug. “You must get your hair cut. You’re inappropriately shaggy.”
So off they go on their shiny bicycles, first a few kilometers along the main road, then at right angles in among the trees. It’s a winding, sandy forest trail running along the shallow and stony Gima River, even now in the hottest summer months racing and tumbling wildly along.
The Gimmen is a long glacial lake, right in the middle of an endless forest landscape. The water is clear and icy cold, the shores stony, at first sloping gently, then suddenly plunging steeply into the depths.
The two have left their bicycles at the derelict mill and are making their way along a cattle track beneath alders and the darkening trunks of birch trees along the shore. They find their bathing place, a narrow, sandy strip of shore shaded by thick foliage.
After going for a swim, they share a melting bar of chocolate, a few sleepy flies keeping them company, but otherwise it is still, cloudless yet stifling, like thunder on the horizon, looked forward to but threatening. Ernst does a handstand. He’s quite a skilled gymnast. Anna has put on a vest and petticoat and is lying on her back staring up at the leaves. She stretches up one arm and follows the contours of the branches against the white vault of the sky.
Anna: Do you have any ideals?
Ernst: What?
Anna: Ideals!
Ernst: What a question.
Anna: Maybe so. But I’m asking you all the same, and I actually want an answer.
Ernst: Ideals. Of course I have. To earn money. Not to have to work. Erotic mistresses. Lovely weather. Good health. Immortality I want to be immortal. I don’t ever want to die. Immortality in the sense of being famous doesn’t interest me. I want the people I like to have as good a life as I have. I don’t want to hate anyone. I’ll never marry anyone. But I’d like to have children. Yes, I certainly do have ideals.
Anna: Don’t you ever take anything seriously?
Ernst: No, Anna my pet, I don’t take anything seriously. How could I, when I see the way the world behaves. I have a great need to maintain my sanity. So I don’t bother to think. If I started thinking, then “I’d go cuckoo,” as Fröding says.
Anna: At nursing school, we get quite a lot of theoretical teaching. Most of it awfully miserable, but sometimes it’s so disturbing and captivating that . . .
Ernst: . . . you’ve a talent for compassion, and I haven’t. In that respect, I’m like Mother.
Anna: You know, one day a woman doctor came, a professor of pediatrics. She started by just telling us about her practice and giving us examples from it. Mostly about children with cancer. She talked about such hideous suffering that we found it hard to control ourselves. We just wanted to cry so as to escape from all those horrors. Children in terrible pain. Little children, Ernst, who don’t understand and see clumsy grown-ups all round them. They’re tormented, crying, brave, silent, stoic. And then they die. There’s no cure. Sometimes unrecognizably cut to pieces. That woman professor talked about it quite calmly. Her compassion was total, all the time. Do you understand, Ernst?
Ernst (slightly sarcastically): No, Anna, my dear cranberry heart. What is it you want me to understand?
Anna: I want to be like that professor. I want to be right in the middle of unfathomable cruelty, Ernst. I want to help, to soothe and console. I want to acquire all conceivable knowledge.
Ernst: Then the nursing school must be good?
Anna: Oh, yes, I suppose so. Half the girls in the program get married as soon as they qualify. To me, it’s something greater and more difficult. You know, Ernst, sometimes I think I’m incredibly strong. I imagine God has created me for something important — something important to other people.
Ernst: So you believe in God?
Anna: No, unfortunately I don’t believe in any god.
Ernst: You think too much. That’s why you get stomachaches.
Anna: I’ll speak to Mother and Father about this business of training to be a doctor.
Ernst: That won’t be easy, Anna, my pet. Think of Upsala! Think of those medics you know. Think of the professors!
Anna: What she managed, I can manage, can’t I?
Ernst: But what about us two if you become a professor?
Anna: We can get married, and you can look after the household.
Ernst: But I want children.
Anna: You’ve got your mistresses, for goodness sake!
Ernst: You’ll just be jealous and make a fuss.
Anna: That’s true. No one may touch my darlings.
Ernst: What darlings have you got?
Anna: Wouldn’t you like to know! Papa, of course. And you, of course. (Falls silent.)
Ernst: And Torsten Bohlin?
Anna: No, no. Heavens, how stupid you are. Torsten’s no darling.
Ernst: But someone is.
Anna: Maybe so. But I don’t know.
Ernst (abruptly): By the way, would you like to come with me to Upsala for a few days?
Anna: I don’t know if Mama would let me.
Ernst: Don’t worry about that. I’ll fix it.
Anna: What are you going to do in Upsala in the middle of July?
Ernst: They’ve just set up a meteorological institution. Professor Beck has suggested I apply.
Anna: And you’d like that?
Ernst: Watching the skies and clouds and horizons and perhaps going up in a balloon. Eh?
Anna: You’ll have to speak to Mama. I don’t think she’d let me go.
Ernst: Who’s going to cook my meals! Who’ll darn my socks? Who’s going to see to it that Mother’s little darling goes to bed on time? You know, we could have a good time.
Anna: It’s tempting.
Ernst: I’ll go by bike, and you can go by train. Then we’ll meet at Trädgårdsgatan. This summer idyll is beginning to get on my nerves.
Anna (kisses him): You’re a cunning beast, Ernst.
Ernst: You’re also a cunning beast, Annie-Pannie Cranberry Coot. Though of another kind.
Summertime tutoring. Reluctant and depressed pupil with scabs on his knees, half-asleep. Reluctant and depressed tutor with suppressed rage and lewd thoughts. The window is open to the July summer. Far away, but visible, four young women are bathing, shrieking, and laughing. The garden’s balmy scents. Åkerlunda Manor, Åkerlunda estate, twenty or so kilometers northwest of Upsala. The Åkerlunda River, the estate road, the waterfall, the beehives, some leisurely stray cows in the rye field.
The young count is called Robert and is glaring sulkily at an open German grammar. He is expected shortly to recite the present tense, the imperfect, and the pluperfect, and if possible the future of the auxiliary verb Sein. Henrik, in a tie and shirtsleeves, is sitting on the other side of the table reading church history, occasionally underlining something with a blunt pencil stub. Robert and Henrik, two slaves chained together at the very bottom of the galley of learning. The bathing girls shriek. Robert raises his eyes and stares out the window, the white curtain lazily billowing. Henrik takes his feet off the table and slams his book shut.
Henrik: Well?
Robert: What?
Henrik: Have you learned it?
Robert: Can’t we go f
or a swim?
Henrik: What do you think your father would say to that?
The young count lifts one buttock, farts, and shoots a look of hatred at his tormentor, then unbuttons his trousers. Robert is really a handsome youth and his mother’s darling, but now he is caught between the hammer and the anvil — the count’s arrogance and ambition.
Robert: Oh, bloody fucking hell.
Henrik: Do you think I like this any more than you do? Let’s make the best of the situation.
Robert: At least you get paid! (Scratches his crotch.)
Henrik: Button up your trousers, and chuck the grammar over here.
Robert throws the book at Henrik and reluctantly tucks in his bluish, slightly floppy dick. He puts his arms on the table, his head on his arms, and takes up a sleeping position.
Henrik: Well, start now . . . present tense first.
Robert (rapidly): Ich bin, du bist, er ist, wir sind, Ihr seid. Sie, sie sind.
Henrik: Bravo. Dare I ask for the imperfect?
Robert (equally rapidly): Ich war, du warst, er war, wir waren, Ihr wart, Sie, Sle waren.
Henrik (surprised): Listen to that. And now . . . well, what?
Robert: Perfect, for Christ’s bloody sake.
Henrik: The perfect?
Robert: Ich habe gewesen. (Silence.)
(Henrik stares at him.)
Robert: Du hast gewesen, er hat gewesen. (Silence.)
Victim and tormentor look at each other with irreconcilable repugnance, though at this particular moment it is hard to say who is playing which role.
Henrik: Oh, yes . . .
Robert: Wir haben gewesen.
At that charged moment, the old count comes in without knocking. Maybe he has been listening outside. Svante Svantesson de Fèste fills the room with his bulk, his voice, his sideburns, and his nose. His eyes are childishly blue, his face red merging into purple. Henrik has got to his feet and is straightening out his clothing. Robert hunches up, well aware of what is coming.
Count Svante: Ah, yes. German grammar. Well now, what was it I was going to say? Yes. A young gentleman called Ernst Åkerblom has arrived on his bicycle and wishes to speak to you. I informed him that you were occupied with my son until one o’clock, and urged him to visit our girls down at the bathing place, advice he clearly accepted with pleasure. Yes, well, that was that. How are things going for Robert? Is he ineducable, or have you managed to knock into him some of the education expected of a nobleman? — now that the old parliamentary system has been abolished. How’s it going?
Henrik: I think Robert’s very able and is making good progress. If there are gaps . . .
Count: Do you mean gaps, not chasms?
Henrik: . . . there are gaps, as I said, but with mutual efforts, we shall no doubt achieve something before the beginning of the autumn term.
Count: Really? You don’t say! Well, that sounds hopeful. What do you say, Robert? Eh?
The count slaps the back of Robert’s neck so that the boy’s teeth rattle. The gesture is intended to be encouraging, but Robert lowers his head, starts sniffing, and a tear trickles its way down his dirty cheek.
Robert: Yes.
Count: What? Are you blubbering?
Robert: No.
Count: I was mistaken. I thought you were. Blow your nose, boy! Don’t you have a handkerchief? What sort of sloppiness is this? Here. Take mine. Stop sniveling. I want to talk to Mr. Bergman alone. Take your grammar with you, and go and read in the arbor.
Robert slouches off, a walking misery After he has closed the door, the count lowers his bulky frame onto an unsteady chair with a broken back and sits there hunched up, growling to himself.
Henrik: You wish to speak to me, sir?
Count: His mother says I’m unfair. That I drive him too hard. I don’t know. She says I don’t love him. I don’t know. Perhaps I’d better stop this cruelty to animals. What do you think, Mr. Bergman?
Henrik: One should never give up hope.
Count: Nonsense, Mr. Bergman! My son Robert is an ineducable sluggard, a damned idiot. A tearful slouch. He’ll grow up to be a spendthrift, a ne’er-do-well. He reminds me of his uncle, my wife’s brother. In him, you can see the final result.
Henrik: I feel sorry for him.
Count: What? Sorry for someone who’s had everything? Who’s never had to make the slightest effort? Who’s his mother’s spoiled brat? If you’re sorry for that creature, then you’re sorry for mankind.
Henrik: Perhaps I am sorry for mankind.
Count: What sort of damned nonsense is that, Mr. Bergman? That sort of morbid fantasy — no thanks! Ich habe gewesen! What? Mankind is a muck-heap, Mr. Bergman. An excrescence on the face of the earth. Thank Christ for horses, Mr. Bergman. If I didn’t have my horses, I’d put a bullet through my head. Horses — you can be sorry for them. Their great mistake was at the beginning of time when they made a pact with man. They’ve had to pay dearly for that agreement. (Abruptly.) So we’re agreed to stop this nonsensical coaching of Robert?
Henrik: That’s for you to decide, sir.
Count: Exactly, Mr. Bergman, the count decides. We’ll send the crybaby to his grandmother in Hägersta, where there are plenty of old biddies to spoil him. And he’ll have to repeat a grade next year. What’s the date today? Saturday, July 9? You’re finishing at your own request as of today and will be paid up to Friday the fifteenth. You can stay or leave, Mr. Bergman, whichever you like. Does that suit you?
Henrik: May I remind you, sir, that I was appointed until the first of September. I lack resources and have counted on this appointment.
Count: Well, I’ll be damned. Are you saying you should be paid for doing nothing?
Henrik: It would be quite impossible for me to find another post this late in the summer. I have to live, sir.
Count: You certainly have pretensions, Mr. Bergman. And you’re insolent, to boot. I hadn’t expected that of an apprentice priest.
Henrik: I’m sorry, but I stand by my rights. If you refuse, sir, I shall be forced to turn to the countess, for the written agreement was in fact signed between her and me.
Count: Don’t you dare speak to the countess.
Henrik: I’ll have to.
Count: You’re a damned scoundrel, Bergman. Clearly you weren’t thrashed enough in your childhood.
Henrik: And you, sir, if I may say so, are a bounder who was presumably thrashed far too much in your childhood.
Count: What if I make up for some of your father’s sins of neglect by giving you a good thrashing here and now?
Henrik: If you do, sir, you can count on me hitting back. Go ahead. You may strike first since you, sir, are undoubtedly the elder. The nobler.
Count: I have high blood pressure and am not supposed to get annoyed like this.
Henrik: May one hope for a slight stroke. In that case, God is merciful, freeing the earth of such a scoundrel.
Svante Svantesson de Fèste now starts laughing and punches Henrik in the chest with his fist. Henrik smiles in confusion.
Count: Damn it, you’re quite something of an apprentice priest. Well, not bad at all, young man. If you’re to get anywhere in this rotten world, you have to stand up for yourself. Did you say the first of September? Then I owe you for July and August. That’ll be two hundred and fifty riksdaler. Let’s settle up on the spot, and not a word to the ladies, eh?
Henrik: Our agreement actually included food and lodging until the first of September. But I’ll forego that.
Count: Stay on, won’t you? It’s pleasant here. And pretty girls! And good food! You must admit we eat well.
Henrik: No, thank you.
Count: Christ, you really are stuck-up. Don’t you forgive easily, either?
Henrik: Not in this case.
Count: Come on then, we’ll go and have coffee with the countess and the girls. And your companion. What was his name again?
Henrik: Ernst.
The count, in a good mood, slaps Henrik on the back.
The day is growing hot, the dust swirling around in the dry puffs of wind. Henrik and Ernst are on their way to Upsala. They are cycling side by side along the bumpy road. Sandals, trousers rolled up a little, shirts open at the neck. Rucksacks filled with diverse necessities. Jackets, underclothes, socks rolled up in raincoats on the carriers. Student caps. Leisurely pace. They set off at five o’clock and after a great many rests and swims have got as far as Jumkils Church.
There are people about, standing in groups and walking along the side of the road, men in their best suits and round hats, collars and ties. Suddenly Ernst gets a lump of earth between his shoulder blades. He stops and turns around. Henrik stops a little ahead of him. A group of men pass, talking to each other, but not looking at Ernst. A tall, thin man suddenly rushes up and snatches off Henrik’s student cap, spits on it, hurls it to the ground, and stamps on it. Henrik is dumbfounded. Ernst pedals past and signals for him to get a move on.
They pass Bälinge station. A special train with a large number of cars has stopped on a siding, and there’s a great deal of activity near the train, a brass band unpacking its instruments, flags being unfurled. A hundred or so men are moving about on the dusty sunny-white open space outside the station.
Ernst: We’ll see if there’s going to be any autumn term at all.
Henrik: Why shouldn’t there be an autumn term?
Ernst: Don’t you ever read the newspapers?
Henrik: How can I afford to?
Ernst: They say there’ll be a general strike and a big lockout. In August at the latest.
Henrik says nothing. He is confused and embarrassed because, as usual, he is ignorant of such matters.
They arrive at about one o’clock at an Upsala empty of people. The sun is straight above Trädgårdsgatan, and the shadows have retreated far in under the chestnuts. They put their bicycles in the cobbled courtyard and unstrap their packs. Anna has already seen them and comes running out. Her cheeks are red, and she is sunburned, her hair in one thick braid. She wears a big kitchen apron with pleated shoulder straps as wide as angel wings on top of her linen dress. She embraces Ernst and kisses him on the mouth, then turns to Henrik and, smiling, holds out her hand.
The Best Intentions Page 6
