When evening comes with its harsh, bright yellow light between the slats of the blinds, the clang of bells from the nearby Maria Church, and distant music — when evening comes, Mrs. Karin suddenly turns very pale. She is standing by the dinner table that has been ordered in their rooms. They haven’t eaten much. She pours herself a glass of wine, her hand trembling. She is pale, with dark shadows under her eyes. Anna is leaning over her suitcase.
Anna: We must make sure we’ve not forgotten anything. Everything’s packed except our toiletries and traveling clothes. We’ve canceled our rooms in Venice and Rome, and settled things with Mrs. Egerman, thank goodness. The porter assures me we have first-class seats on the Northern Express tomorrow afternoon from Milan — then we’ll be home by the evening the day after tomorrow. We’ve also spoken to Oscar and Gustav. Mama, I don’t think we’ve forgotten anything, do you?
Mrs. Karin has raised the glass of wine to her lips, but doesn’t drink it. The pain is so unexpected and so violent that she has to stay still, quite still, to survive the next second and the next and the next.
Anna (gently): What is it, Mama?
Her mother turns her head toward her daughter and looks questioningly at her, like a child.
Karin: I don’t understand. (Shakes her head.) Don’t understand.
Anna: Mama dear, come over here, and we’ll sit down. I’ll draw the curtains, shall I? Does the sunlight bother you? It’ll soon be gone, anyway. Would you like some more wine? It’ll do you good, Mama. Let’s sit quite still here, you and I together.
Anna takes her mother’s hand and holds it tightly. The sharp pattern of sunlight on the wall’s gold-framed pictures and the red wallpaper slowly fades. The clang of bells ceases; the day becomes quiet. All they can hear now is the waltz from the Merry Widow played by the hotel orchestra far down inside the great house. Lippen schweigen, ‘s flüstern Geigen, hab mich lieb! All die Schritte sagen, Bitte, hab mich lieb! Mrs. Karin takes a drink of her wine, leans back against the sofa cushions, and closes her eyes.
Karin: The worst of it is that I left him alone. He was alone, Anna. And it was at night.
Anna (pleading): Mama!
Karin: He was alone, and I wasn’t there. He was in pain and got out of bed. Then he sat down at his desk and switched on the desk lamp. He’d taken out paper and pen; then he fell to one side and down to the floor.
Anna: Mama, don’t think about it.
Karin: I’ll tell you something strange, Anna. When I decided I was going, when everything had been arranged, when I had said goodbye to Papa and was going out through the front door, I suddenly thought, quite inexplicably: Don’t do it!
Anna: Don’t do what?
Karin: Don’t do it. Don’t go. Stay at home. Cancel it all. For a brief moment, I was overcome with anguish. How strange, Anna.
Anna: Yes, that was strange.
Karin: I had to sit down. I broke out in a cold sweat. Then I got cross with myself. I’ve never given in to whims and fancies of that kind. Why should I give in this time? There was no reason to at all.
Anna: Poor Mama.
Karin: Exactly. Poor Mama. I make decisions and carry them out. It’s been like that all my life. I never change my mind.
Anna: I know.
Karin: Most people don’t like making decisions. So I have to.
Anna: You shouldn’t blame yourself, Mama.
Karin: No, that’s pointless. (Pause.) I’ve made a lot of wrong and stupid decisions, but I wouldn’t say I’ve ever had any regrets. But this time . . . (Draws breath.) Oh, God!
For a short while she holds her hand over her eyes, but then at once takes it down, as if she thought the gesture was exaggerated or perhaps melodramatic, and takes another sip of wine.
Anna (holds Karin’s hand): Mama.
Karin: When your father asked me if I wanted to marry him, although he was more than twice my age and had three sons, I decided without even thinking about it. Mother warned me, and Father was very upset. I didn’t love him. I wasn’t even in love with him, I knew that. But I liked him. I was sorry for him. He was so terribly lonely with his wretched, lazy housekeeper who cheated him out of money and didn’t look after the home properly, and then those three badly-brought-up, lost boys. I was also a little lonely, and so I thought we’d be sure to alleviate each other’s loneliness.
Anna: Surely, that wasn’t a wrong thought.
Karin: Yes, Anna. It was wrong. One loneliness is all right. Two are unendurable. But in the end you must never probe it too deeply. Then you and Ernst came along. That saved me — was my salvation.
Mrs. Karin smiles apologetically. She hears herself using words she has never used before. She sees herself making gestures she has never made before. She struggles with a weighty, swelling grief, a grief she has never before experienced. She empties her glass.
Karin: Would you give me a little more wine, please? Aren’t you going to have any yourself?
Anna: I have some, thank you.
Karin: That’s how we came out of our loneliness, Johan and I. I don’t know, for that matter. Perhaps those are just things you say. But you and Ernst became a great joy, something we had in common. We had to busy ourselves with the two of you, and every little thing became important.
Anna: And so Ernst became mother’s boy, and Anna became daddy’s girl.
Karin: I don’t know. Is that what happened?
Anna: But Mama!
Karin: Yes, yes, perhaps you’re right.
She is sitting turned away, the wound bleeding quietly, scarcely hurting anymore. It grows darker. The streetlamps are turned on. Through the stillness and the faint rumble from the city they can hear the murmur of the river.
Anna (gently): Shall we go to bed now, Mama? We’ve got to get up early.
Karin (absently): Yes, perhaps we should.
She leans her forehead against Anna’s shoulder, then bends right down and rests her head on Anna’s lap, a puzzling movement, almost prohibited. Anna draws her mother’s hands to her and holds them against her breast. She doesn’t know what to do next. Then she is seized with a sudden impulse and takes her mother in her arms and holds her tight. A few long, ragged sobs come from Karin, very unfamiliar and frightening.
Suddenly she frees herself from Anna’s embrace, almost brutally. She sits straight up, runs both hands over her face, and touches her hair, twice, running the palm of her hand over her forehead, then leaning to one side and switching on the electric lamp by the sofa. She looks at her daughter, coolly, searchingly.
Anna (terrified): What is it, Mama?
Karin: There’s something you should know.
Anna: To do with me?
Karin: Most certainly to do with you.
Anna: It can wait, can’t it?
Karin: I don’t think so.
Anna: Then you’d better tell me what it is that’s so important.
Karin: It’s about Henrik Bergman.
Anna (suddenly on her guard): Yes. And?
Karin: You write to him?
Anna: That’s true. I have written to him. I sent the letter to Ernst because I didn’t know Henrik’s address. I’ve never had an answer, for that matter. The letter probably went astray.
Karin: It didn’t go astray.
Anna: I don’t understand.
Karin: I must tell you this. I took the letter, read it, and later burned it.
Anna: No.
Karin: I must tell you, because your father warned me. He said it was not right. He said we had no right to interfere. That it would do harm. He warned me.
Anna: Mama!
Karin: I’ve no excuse. I thought I was doing this for your own good. Johan warned me.
Anna: I don’t want to hear any more.
Karin (not hearing): Now that Johan’s gone, I realize I must tell you what happened. I can’t even ask your forgiveness, because I know you’ll never forgive me.
Anna: I don’t think I will.
Karin: Well, now you know, anyhow.
Anna: As soon as we get home, I’ll go and find Henrik and tell him everything.
Karin: There’s only one thing I beg of you. Don’t tell him I burned the letter.
Anna: Why not?
Karin: If you marry Henrik. Don’t you understand? If you tell him, his hatred will be unbearable. We have to live with each other.
Anna: Why?
Anna looks thoughtfully at her mother. An anger she has never felt before is rising inside her, producing a pleasant sensation.
Karin: Now you know.
Anna: Yes. Now I know. (Pause, change of tone.) Shall we go to bed? We may need some sleep, and it’ll be a long day tomorrow.
She quickly gets up from the sofa and goes toward the door, turns, and politely says good night.
At this time of year (in this case, a July day in 1912), the university town of Upsala can appear so still that it seems to be unreal or perhaps a dream. If it weren’t for the chatter of small birds in the dark, leafy trees, the silence would certainly be frightening. The reminder from the cathedral clock of time racing toward annihilation makes the stillness even more immense. The Flustret is closed, and the orchestras have removed themselves and their medleys from the Pearl Fishers and La Belle Hélène to some health resort or spa. In the homes of the wealthy, sheets hang over the windows as if there were corpses indoors, and the smell of mothballs trickles sorrowfully along the hot pavements. The ghost of Gustavianum’s anatomical theater has withdrawn into the wall behind the picture by Olof Rudbeckius. The brothel by the Svartbäcken has closed, its industrious occupants gone off to Gothenburg, where the fleet of the British Royal Navy is in port. In the town’s ancient theater, dust swirls in the patches of sun that have penetrated the badly fitting stage window-hatches and drawn magical patterns on the sloping floor of the unscrubbed boards of the stage.
Yes, empty, silent, unreal, dreamlike, slightly scary if you happen to be so inclined. The sun is high in a colorless sky; there is no wind, but only a whiff of dried tears, soured grief, suppressed pain, a faint though perfectly perceptible smell, harsh and musty.
There are people who say the world will come to an end with a bang, a crash, a crack. Personally I am convinced that the world will stop, fall silent, be still, fade, languish away in an endless cosmic mist. This July day in this little university town may well be the beginning of such an extremely undramatic end.
The scene is Henrik Bergman’s room, at first empty of people and movement. Then the door jerks open, and Henrik comes in backward maneuvering his metal-edged trunk through the narrow door. Everything has already been taken out and flung around on tables, chairs, and floor. He starts packing unsystematically and listlessly and finally sits down on the floor, lights his pipe, and props his elbows on his knees. He sits there, and in that position, for quite a long time.
Suddenly Anna is there in the doorway, behind her the dirty, narrow, sunlit window facing the street. She is in mourning, her hair up under the sable beret, the mourning veil making her face pale and obscuring her eyes.
Henrik (not moving): I was almost frightened.
Anna (not moving): Were you frightened?
Henrik: I was sitting here thinking about you.
Anna: And then I was suddenly there.
Henrik: It’s like in my dream.
Anna: I’ve something for you.
Now she is in the room. She falls to her knees by his side, searching in her little silky black bag.
Henrik: You’re different.
Anna (looks at him): So are you.
Henrik: You’re more beautiful.
Anna: You look sad.
Henrik: Probably because I am.
Anna: Sad just now, or all the time?
Henrik: I’ve missed you.
He falls silent and swallows, takes off his glasses and flings them on a pile of books, then looks over at the window.
Anna: But I’m here now, Henrik.
Henrik: Is it true?
Anna: Yes, it’s true. I’m here.
Henrik: This is like in my dream. First you come and say something I don’t understand. Then you’ve suddenly disappeared.
Anna: I’m not going to disappear.
She smiles and rummages in her bag, finds a small object wrapped in tissue paper, puts it into his hand, lifts the veil off her face, and pulls off her hat. It lands on the floor. A strand of hair falls over her forehead.
Henrik: Anna?
Anna: Look and see what it is. I bought it the day we left Florence. It’s nothing special, and certainly not genuine.
He unwraps the paper. It’s a small statuette in darkened wood of the Annunciation of the Virgin Mary. Henrik lets it lie in his open hand.
Henrik: It’s Mary without the child. It’s the Annunciation.
Anna (looks at him): Yes.
Henrik: It’s warm. It’s warming my hand. How strange. Feel.
Anna takes off her glove, and Henrik puts the figure into her open hand. She shakes her head and smiles.
Anna: No, I can’t feel it warming.
She puts the figure on the pile of books beside Henrik’s glasses, then picks up her glove.
Henrik: Your father died?
Anna: Yes. The funeral’s the day after tomorrow.
Henrik: Is it hard?
Anna: I lived in his love, if you see what I mean. I never thought about it, except when it sometimes bothered me. Now I’m miserable because I was so childish and ungrateful.
Henrik: What have you done with Ernst?
Anna: He’s waiting down in the courtyard.
Henrik: Aren’t you going to ask him up?
Anna: No, no. Later. I didn’t dare come here alone. It was sheer speculation. I knew you’d moved out of town. And yet I couldn’t help it. So I said to Ernst: Come on, let’s leave this house of mourning and go for a walk; we could go down Ågatan; maybe we’ll bump into Henrik. It was like a joke. We laughed. When we came past your house, Ernst said: Go in and see if he’s at home; bet you five kronor he is. You nearly always win our bets, I said. So I went in. There you were, and Ernst has won five kronor. Incidentally, I know you never got my letter.
She gets up quickly and goes over to the open window, pushes aside the curtain, and calls out to Ernst in a low voice. He is sitting on a pile of planks, smoking a cigar, bareheaded and in somber clothes, with a white necktie and a mourning armband. He at once turns to look up at his sister and smiles.
Ernst: I’m fine where I am. Just tell me when you feel like company.
Anna: I owe you five kronor.
Ernst doesn’t reply but makes a little gesture with his cigar. Anna feels she is bursting with joy all over, in her breast, head, legs, and loins. She turns back to Henrik, who is still sitting on the floor. Maybe he thinks the dream will dissolve if he makes the slightest move. Anna sits down on a rickety wooden chair with a broken back. They are silent and slightly at a loss.
Henrik: You wrote me?
Anna: Yes, it was a rather urgent letter. But it went astray.
Henrik: How do you know it went astray?
Anna: I just know it did.
Henrik: And what did you say in it?
Anna: That’s unimportant. It’s unimportant now.
Henrik: I’ve got a temporary position in a small parish not all that far from here. They’ve just extended it by six months. That’s why I’m packing. Professor Söderblom, you know who I mean?
Anna: Yes, of course I do.
Henrik: Professor Söderblom has told me to apply for an appointment in Forsboda parish, up in Gästrikland. I’ve been told it’s a difficult parish. Mama was upset, of course. No doubt she’d hoped for something more genteel.
Anna: And now you’re not lonely anymore?
Henrik: No, no. I can change, can’t I?
Anna (practical tone of voice): Of course, we’ll go there and see for ourselves.
Henrik: Of course if I’d known . . .
Anna (soberly): Henrik, don’t be stupid. If you’ve
promised, then you’ve promised. You can’t change things like that.
Henrik: The parish priest is said to be old and ailing.
Anna: We’ll take a look at him, too.
Henrik: You realize the stipend is poor.
Anna: We won’t bother about that. (Leans forward.) And, Henrik! You’ll make a brilliant match if you marry me. I’ll inherit lots of money. (Whispers.) A fearful amount of money. What do you say to that?
Henrik: I have no intention of letting you support me.
Anna: Just listen to me, Henrik! (Practical and decisive.) First of all, we must get engaged, as soon as the funeral is over. We’ll order the rings this afternoon so that we have them on Saturday at the latest. Then we’ll get engaged and invite Ernst to an engagement party here in your room, but we won’t tell anyone. Next week we’ll go and see your mother. I want to get to know her as soon as possible. You write to the parish priest and tell him you and your wife-to-be will be coming to Forsboda at the end of the week to inspect the parsonage, church, and the parish priest himself. Then we’ll get married in September, or at the very latest at the beginning of October — and it’s to be a grand wedding, Henrik. What are you looking at?
Henrik: I’m looking at you.
Anna: We’ve waited long enough. Mama always says, “You have to make decisions and take the responsibility.”
She falls to her knees, takes Henrik’s head between her hands, and kisses him on the mouth. He at once loses his balance and falls over on the floor, pulling her with him in the fall.
Henrik: One mustn’t forget the kisses.
Anna: No, kisses are important.
And so, ardently and thirstily, they kiss each other. Anna sits up, her black mourning clothes now rather dusty.
Henrik: Your clothes are dusty.
Anna: Yes, goodness, what on earth do I look like! (Laughs.) Now let’s just tidy up and then we’ll go down to Ernst and invite him to our engagement on Saturday.
Henrik: What do you think your mother will say?
Anna: After Florence, what my mother says or thinks is of no importance whatsoever.
Henrik: Has something happened?
The Best Intentions Page 15
