Henrik: Perhaps it is worse than that, Mrs. Åkerblom. I have felt unwelcome.
Mrs. Karin smiles a little and goes on winding. She waits a while before saying anything, and that makes him uncertain. He thinks perhaps he has gone too far, that he has overstepped the boundaries of courtesy.
Karin: And you think that?
Henrik: I do apologize. I didn’t mean to be discourteous. Nevertheless, I can’t shake off the feeling that I am not tolerated. Particularly by the mother of Ernst and Anna.
Another silence. Mrs. Karin nods as if in confirmation. I have received your message, Mr. Bergman, and I am mulling it over.
Karin: I’ll try to be honest with you, Mr. Bergman, although I may well have to hurt your feelings. In that case, it will be unintentional. My antipathy, or whatever I should call it, is nothing personal. I even think I would be able to entertain friendly and motherly feelings toward Ernst’s young friend. I see that you are a sensitive and vulnerable person, who has in many ways already been afflicted by harsh reality. My antipathy, if that is what we are to call my combined attitude, is entirely to do with Anna. I like to think I know my daughter fairly well, and I believe a liaison with you, Mr. Bergman, would lead to a catastrophe. That is a strong word and I know it may seem exaggerated, but nonetheless, I must use the word. A major catastrophe. I cannot think of a more impossible and fateful combination than between our Anna and Henrik Bergman. Anna is a spoiled girl, willful, strong-willed, emotional, tenderhearted, extremely intelligent, impatient, melancholy and cheerful at the same time. What she needs is a mature man who can nurture her with love, firmness, and unselfish patience. You are a very young man, Mr. Bergman, with little insight into life, with, I fear, early and deep wounds beyond remedy or consolation. Anna will despair in her helpless attempts to heal and cure. So I am asking you . . .
Mrs. Karin looks at the blue ball of wool that is growing in her hands. She bites her lip, and red patches appear on her cheeks.
Henrik: May I say something?
Karin: Yes. (Absently.) Of course.
Henrik: I refuse to accept this conversation. As Anna’s mother, Mrs. Åkerblom, you may well have good reason to poison me with accounts of my appalling spiritual life. I can assure you that most of your arrows have struck home. The poison will no doubt have the intended effect. And yet your attack is unforgivable, Mrs. Åkerblom. An outsider, even if she happens to be the Holy Mother, can never interpret what happens in two people’s minds. The family reads Selma Lagerlöf in the evenings. Has it never occurred to you from what you read that the author speaks of Love as the only earthly miracle? A miracle that transforms. The only real salvation. Does the family perhaps believe the author has invented that to make her dark sagas slightly more attractive?
Karin: I have lived quite a long time, but I have never even caught a glimpse of any miracles, either earthly or heavenly.
Henrik: Exactly, Mrs. Åkerblom. Australia does not exist because you have never seen Australia.
Mrs. Karin gives Henrik Bergman a sharp but appreciative look, then smiles quickly.
Karin: I fear our conversation is beginning to be far too theoretical. The facts are that with all my power and all my means, I will put a stop to any further dealings in love on the part of my daughter.
Henrik: I think that is an unrealistic decision.
Karin: What is unrealistic about it?
Henrik: You can’t possibly stop Anna. I think any such attempt would simply result in hatred and conflicts.
Henrik: Exactly, Mrs. Åkerblom! Time will reveal the consequences of a devastating mistake.
Karin: Whose mistake?
Henrik: I shall now go to Anna and tell her of our conversation. Then we’ll have to see what we’ll do.
Karin: Apropos that, what has happened with your engagement, Mr. Bergman? I mean, of course, your engagement to Frida Strandberg? As far as I can tell, it is still on. Anyhow, Miss Strandberg denied that it had been broken off.
Henrik lowers his arms and the remains of the blue wool. A nail has been driven through his heart. His eyes are glazed.
Henrik: How do you . . . ?
Karin: How do we know? My stepson, Carl, has been making inquiries. We already knew the truth a week before you came here.
Henrik: And you’re going to tell Anna the truth, Mrs. Åkerblom?
Karin: I have no intention of saying anything to my daughter. Presuming you and I come to an agreement.
Karin: All right then, an ultimatum, if you wish to call it that.
Henrik: Then I’ll leave.
Mrs. Karin nods urgently She is calm and dignified, with no trace of anger in the plump face or the sharp, blue-gray eyes.
Henrik: May I write a letter?
Karin: Naturally.
Henrik: Does Ernst know?
Karin: He knows nothing. The only person who knows anything is me. And Carl, of course.
Henrik: And what reason shall I give?
Karin: You’re good at lying, Mr. Bergman. In this case, a quality of that kind can come in handy. I’m sorry, that was very nasty of me.
Karin: Do as you think best, Mr. Bergman. Whatever happens, there will be a great many tears.
Henrik: May I ask one last question?
Karin: You may.
Henrik: Why did you let me come here, Mrs. Åkerblom? Despite what you knew. That’s quite incomprehensible.
Karin: Do you think so, Mr. Bergman? I wanted to see my daughter’s love at close quarters. And the misfortune had already occurred.
Henrik: What do you mean by “misfortune”?
Karin: I mean just what you do.
Henrik: In that case, I can say that you made a serious misjudgment.
Karin: Did I indeed? And now?
Henrik: That actually concerns no one but Anna and me.
Karin: Go and write that letter, Mr. Bergman! And take the three o’clock train. Anna won’t be back until later and then . . .
Henrik:. . . then I’ll have gone.
The skein of wool runs out, and the ball is complete. Karin Åkerblom and Henrik Bergman rise to their feet without looking at each other. During the last few minutes, they have established a lifelong and irreconcilable hostility.
After this conversation, Mrs. Karin is exhausted and restless. She sits with a book but cannot read, pushes her gold-framed spectacles up onto her forehead. Stands in the middle of the room with the forefinger of her left hand against her lips and her right hand on her hip, then catches sight of herself in the mirror and turns away. Walks away and touches the edge of the rag rug, bends down and straightens out the fringe.
The kitchen door can be heard opening and shutting. She peers cautiously from behind the curtain. Yes, it’s Henrik standing on the steps, Lisen coming out with a packet of sandwiches. He thanks her dumbly, shakes her hand, picks up his shabby suitcase, and strides briskly toward the gate and the forest road. Karin is tempted to open the window and call him back, but at the same time realizes that there is no way back from what has occurred.
She is prepared to take the responsibility. She always takes the responsibility, and that stranger must be got rid of. For Anna’s sake alone. Or? Henrik goes out through the gate but doesn’t shut it. Other reasons? He’s a liar and deceiver, and Anna must be protected. He is now disappearing down the steep slope of the forest road, the tree trunks obscuring him. That open, vulnerable face. A child’s face. It was for Anna’s sake. Now he’s gone. I can’t stand that sort of dangerous, appealing pliancy.
Mrs. Karin puts her hands down flat on the spotless green desk top, fatigue coming in waves, then bends over and bows her head. Now there will be conflicts, strife.
In the kitchen, Lisen is preparing baked pike and gooseberry fool for dinner. Siri is setting the table. As if by chance, Karin goes through the kitchen and says that at the end of the outing, they are to stop off at Berglund’s to taste Aunt Greta’s fresh cheeses. “So they won’t have much appetite for dinner,” says Lisen curtly. “I just h
ope they come on time. The pike’s good. And what about Mr. Bergman, who’s just left?” Lisen goes on expressionlessly. “Something to do with his mother,” mutters Karin absently, her hand on the door handle. “But she lives in Söderhamn, doesn’t she?” says Lisen, still in passing. “So why was he in such a hurry to catch the Stockholm train?” “I expect he’ll change trains in Borlänge,” says Karin, moving out into the hall, where Johan Åkerblom is just on his way to his room, walking slowly, leaning on his cane. “We ought to get an indoor toilet,” he says and stops. “I’ve been going on about that for several years,” his wife replies. “The slope’ll be troublesome in the winter,” says Johan. “You’ll have to use the pail,” says Karin benignly. “Like hell I’ll sit on a pail!” Then, as if in an aside: “I think Henrik Bergman has left, hasn’t he?” “Yes, he has,” says Karin on her way up the stairs. “Something to do with his mother.” “I suppose you drove him away,” says the traffic superintendent, halfway into his room. “Just as well, I suppose. I didn’t think him suitable.” “You were so taken with him,” says his wife sarcastically. “Well, you know,” replies Johan. “A young man with opinions. But Anna was much too interested, though she’s at that age, of course.”
The door closes, and Karin stands on the stairs, not knowing whether to go up or down. She is tired again. Must be the menopause, she thinks suddenly, and feels some relief. When she gets to her room, she hears the Stockholm train signaling as it comes into the station.
Down in the yard, Ernst gets off his bicycle and flings his knapsack and pack to the ground. His mother opens the window.
Karin: Oh, so you’re the first one home?
Ernst: I thought I’d have a quick dip before dinner. Is Henrik in?
Karin: Henrik has just left.
Ernst: What? Has he gone?
Karin: He took the Stockholm train.
Ernst: Why?
Karin: I don’t really know. Something to do with his mother.
Ernst: Does Anna know he’s gone?
Karin: How could she? Mr. Bergman said he was going to write a letter.
Karin closes the window. “What’s really happened?” says Ernst, but his mother pretends not to hear the question and shrugs her shoulders. Then she lies down on the bed and pulls a rug over her feet.
After a short — all too short — spell of stillness, she hears the horses and carriage, the bustle and noise of unloading, happy cries from the girls and the tinkle of a bicycle bell (Carl insists on cycling). The noise spreads through the house, laughter and talk and heated arguments about a swim before dinner. Martha’s voice, annoyed. Oscar and Gustav on the terrace with a whiskey. Suddenly Anna’s quick footsteps. She has seen the letter; she is opening it; she is reading it. Then rapid footsteps, the door, short hard knock. Mrs. Karin hasn’t time to answer; the door is jerked open, and Anna is standing on the threshold, dry-eyed and raging. She has the letter in her hand and holds it out accusingly toward her mother, who has sat up on her bed, pulling vainly at the rug.
Anna: I won’t submit to this! Mama! I won’t submit to it.
Karin: Don’t stand there making so much noise the whole house can hear. Come in and shut the door. Sit down.
Anna slams the door shut but remains standing. After a few moments, she has her voice under control.
Anna: He says that we’ll never see each other again.
Karin: He may have his reasons.
Anna: There isn’t a single sensible reason in this letter. Who made him write it? Did you, Mama?
Karin: No, I didn’t make him. But when I found out about the circumstances, I advised him to leave and never show himself again.
Anna: What circumstances?
Karin: I would prefer not to say what I know.
Anna: If I am not told the truth, I’ll immediately go and find him. No one can stop me.
Karin: You’re forcing me to.
Anna: What is it you know that I don’t? Is it his fiancée, that Frida woman? He has told me about that. I know everything. He’s been completely honest.
Karin: I don’t think he’s been entirely honest.
Anna: You’re deliberately hurting me, Mama.
Karin: Now listen to me, my dear. Your brother Carl has absolutely reliable information that Henrik Bergman is still living with that woman. If you like, I can . . .
Anna (gestures): No.
Karin: If you like, I can ask your brother Carl to come here and confirm his information.
Anna: . . . no.
Karin: I refuse to go into detail. You’ll have to draw your own conclusions.
Anna (gestures): . . . no.
Karin (calmly): . . . from the very first moment, I felt there was something unpleasant about that man. Naturally, he is to be pitied, I mean, fatherless, poor, a difficult upbringing. It is all very touching, and I don’t deny I felt a certain pity that made me hesitate. (Pause.) You’re saying nothing.
Anna: So Carl has been spying?
Karin: That was hardly necessary. Let us say he was informed and thought I ought to be told.
Anna: . . . I won’t submit to this.
Karin: . . . what will you do?
Anna: . . . I won’t tell you.
Karin: . . . in any case, it’s time for dinner. Perhaps you would like something in your room? I’ll tell Lisen to bring you up some milk and sandwiches.
Mrs. Karin’s fatigue has gone, and she gets up from her bed with lively movements, folds up the rug, smooths down the bedspread, and checks her hair in the mirror. Then she goes over to her daughter, who is still standing by the door.
Anna: . . . this I’ll never forgive.
Karin (mildly): . . . who won’t you ever forgive? Is it me you won’t forgive? Or your friend? Or Life, perhaps? Or God?
Anna (darkly): Don’t say another word.
Karin: When you’ve had time to think it over, you’ll be sure to understand a little better.
Anna: . . . can’t I be left alone?
Karin: My poor little girl.
Anna: . . . don’t! Don’t give me that pity!
Mrs. Karin is about to add something, but changes her mind and leaves Anna standing there speechless.
An icy wind is blowing across the plain and sweeping over the town, which crouches down submissively. Is the misery of winter to start as early as the end of October? It’s bound to be both long and wearisome. The cathedral bell is tolling loudly. It’s three o’clock on an iron-gray Thursday afternoon, the jackdaws screaming around towers and projections and the brown Fyris River flowing sluggishly under the bridges. In university lecture rooms, glowing eyes of iron stoves glare at sleepy students and mumbling professors ensnared in their bitter intrigues. The fading light struggles listlessly with the dirty yellow gaslights in stairwells and corridors: to think freely is great, to think correctly is greater. Not to think at all is safest. This is the day when you die because you’ve stopped breathing. Immanuel Kant totters along with his head thrust forward, pursed mouth, and bad breath through this stronghold of knowledge: “To be moral one must bow to the laws of morality out of sheer respect for this moral law as it appears in the categorical imperative: act so that the maxim of your will can always be a principle for public legislation!”
At four o’clock, it is almost dark. Snow has now begun to fall, sometimes swirling, sometimes gentle, covering streets and roofs. But things are at least better now: the lecture came to an end, and the students are throwing snowballs at each other and at the statue of Erik Gustav Geijer.
Henrik has left his friends, who have hurried off to Cold Märta’s steaming pea soup and warm wood stoves. He goes to stand opposite 12 Trädgårdsgatan and remains there for an hour, then another, snowcovered and stiff with cold in body and soul. No one is in sight; no one comes or goes; the street is deserted. There’s a light on in a first-floor window, and occasionally a shadow flits across the white curtain. Behind him, inside the grammar school’s dark, deserted yard, a door slams in the wind. Squeaks and creaks in
between. Sometimes it is completely quiet, and Henrik can hear his own heart beating. The lamplighter comes, crosses the street, reaches up with his long pole, and pulls the lamp’s steel loop. The snow whirls and dashes against the sources of light. The clock strikes quarter to seven, three ringing notes far away in the darkness. A small tram works its way up the curve from Drottninggatan toward the cathedral, screeching violently, the snow swirling, figures just visible behind its misted-up windows. Then all is still again. Henrik stamps his feet, his toes frozen in his thin boots, but otherwise he has made himself numb. I’ll stand here until she comes. She must come. She’s sure to come.
And then she does come, not alone, but with her sister-in-law, fat Martha. They emerge from the porch entrance, well wrapped and chatting amiably Anna at once sees Henrik, says something to her companion, and crosses the street. Her face is suddenly illuminated by the streetlamp.
Anna: Don’t stand watching for me. No, you may not touch me.
Henrik: Surely we can talk to each other! Just for a few minutes?
Anna: You’ve misunderstood everything, Henrik. I don’t want to talk to you. We have nothing more to say to each other. Can’t you leave me in peace?
Anna starts crying openly and vehemently, like a child. Martha comes waddling over in her gleaming matt fur coat and Russian fur hat. She is annoyed and tugs at Henrik’s arm.
Martha: You must leave the girl alone. Don’t you see you’re frightening her?
Henrik: Please don’t interfere. This is none of your business.
Martha: You’re behaving like a fool. For that matter, we haven’t time to stand here. We’re going to a concert in the university hall, and it’s nearly seven o’clock.
Anna: Can’t you leave me in peace? Please, Henrik, I’m asking you as kind;y as I can. Leave me alone!
Henrik: How are you? You look ill.
Anna: Yes. No, I don’t know. I’m probably just miserable.
Henrik: I can’t go on living.
Anna: Oh, don’t be so dramatic! Of course you can go on living, and so can I.
Henrik: Anna, speak to me!
The Best Intentions Page 11
