She signs the letter without reading it through, turns out the lamp, and plunges into the chaste, magnificent bed. She hasn’t pulled down the blinds, and the moonlight is sharp against the square windowpanes.
The day is cold and clear, and there’s nothing wrong with the lighting. The sunlight radiates around the yellow house and the birches. The house sits beautifully on the slope leading down to the swiftly flowing river and the rapids. In the overgrown garden there are fruit trees, berry bushes, and weed-filled beds for flowers and herbs. Against the west wall of the house is a lilac arbor, broken chairs, and a ruined table, and near the kitchen entrance there is a green pump standing on guard, a rusty bucket overturned on the cover of the well. The fire ladder has lost several rungs, and some of the kitchen tiles are missing.
The company consists of the future occupants of the house, plus Magda Säll and the churchwarden, Jesper Jakobsson, a taciturn man with a long face, faded eyes, and careful gestures. He has a bunch of keys and, according to Magda, is responsible for the repairs and upkeep of church premises.
At the very gate, before the visitors have had time to get out of the carriage, he turns around and says that personally he does not approve of the cathedral chapter’s decision to provide the parish with another priest. He also considers it a waste of money to restore the chapel. Attendance at the big church is constantly falling, in contrast to that of the Pentecostalists and the Mission Society, which is increasing. Also, young people are prey to false doctrines and politics. Forsboda has been abandoned to spiritual and material desolation. Nothing can be done about that. Every attempt to halt the destruction is doomed to failure. Money down the drain, as they say.
Jesper Jakobsson’s pallid face glows with mournful triumph. “Now we mustn’t spoil everything for these young people,” says Magda. “Let’s try to be happy.” “Far be it from me to do that,” says the churchwarden. “Far be it from me to do that.” He attempts a smile, which in fact makes him look even gloomier than usual.
Anna walks along the grass-covered gravel path and looks around. She turns to Henrik, who is still by the gate. “It’s lovely here,” she says. ‘As long as you can stand the rapids,” says the churchwarden. ‘And you have to watch that the children don’t fall in. There was a fence once, but it collapsed under the snow last winter.” “Then a new fence will have to be put up,” says Magda, somewhat irritably. “Yes, yes, of course,” says the churchwarden, offended. “I suppose so.” Magda takes Anna’s arm and says she mustn’t take any notice of Jesper Jakobsson. “He’s a bigwig in the community, but a builder from Gävle has already been here and made a preliminary plan for improvements and repairs. The contract has been sent in and approved. You needn’t worry, Anna. We can get you the list of what’s to be done. Any further improvements (within reasonable limits, of course) can all be made. The work is to start in the new year and will be finished by the middle of May.”
Jesper Jakobsson yanks open the kitchen door, which has swollen and sticks. A small square pane of glass has been replaced with a bulging sheet of cardboard. The kitchen is roomy, faces north, and has only one window. Mortar and brickwork have fallen down the chimney, the ancient iron stove is at an angle, and the larder door is off its hinges and now leans against a rusty sink and draining board.
“All this will be fixed up,” says Jesper Jakobsson, suddenly benevolent. “I’ve said water should be brought in. One could make room for a pump by the sink, but they said no to that. Otherwise it will all be fixed, the chimney rebuilt and the stove changed. We have an excellent, almost unused stove in the office. It’s to be moved up here. And the floor’s to be relaid. It has gone rotten. The bearing beam has decayed over there in the corner. No, the kitchen will be to your satisfaction, all right, Miss Åkerblom, I can guarantee that.” The churchwarden nods importantly, twice, and looks at Anna with his faded eyes.
He opens the door to a cramped little maid’s room, inside which is a red-painted pull-out sofa. “For the maidservants,” he says laconically. “They can sleep head to foot; otherwise we could put a camp bed in the kitchen.” Magda Säll softens. “If you’ll leave it to me, Miss Åkerblom, I can probably find you two good girls. I’ve already asked around.” ‘Are we to have twoT says Anna, appalled. “What do we want with two?” “That’s usual,” says Magda. “There’s always unexpected work in a parsonage, Miss Åkerblom, you’ll see.” Anna sighs silently. Henrik has not said a word all this time. Anna seeks his eyes, but he has turned away.
‘And this would be the dining room and parlor,” says the churchwarden. “The builder wants to make two rooms for reasons of heating efficiency, and the wall would be here, but I’ve objected, because there are many occasions when the pastor needs a large room for parish meetings. The church hall is over by the church and difficult to get to, especially in winter. So I’ve suggested we keep this room as it is today and put a larger tiled stove in that corner, where the chimney goes up to the first floor. So it’ll all be warm and cosy, Miss Åkerblom.” The churchwarden slaps the wall and rips off a piece of flaking wallpaper. “You mustn’t worry, it’ll all be warm and decorated. I can guarantee that.”
Jesper Jakobsson opens another door. This is the hall to the front door. The stairs up to the first floor are to be turned around. It’s rather peculiar that the front door faces the forest and the kitchen door the gate. “That’s a little inconvenient for guests, particularly if they come in a carriage.” Henrik looks straight at Jesper Jakobsson. “The house is simply oriented the wrong way,” he says with sudden arrogance. The churchwarden is at once surly. “I didn’t build the place,” he says. Silence after that.
“The guest room,” he demonstrates laconically, then goes up the sagging, creaking stairs. “Don’t tread on that stair,” he warns, pointing. “You can’t trust that stair, and you could injure yourself. Watch out, Miss Åkerblom. Take my hand. Well, this is the upper floor, and it’s not in too bad a state, if I may say so myself. We’ll just paint and decorate here. Please go ahead. The bedroom. Not that large, but there is in fact a small washroom and the view is lovely. We could have a few trees cut down. We can’t see the water now, but we’ve talked about doing some clearing. This is due south. And then the nursery on the right and the pastor’s study on the left. The nursery and the study can naturally be exchanged to suit your needs. All you have to do is to say so, and it can be arranged, evening sun or morning sun.” ‘And where is my room?” says Anna suddenly.
The depressed atmosphere, which has been lying in wait for some time, now becomes quite tangible. Magda Säll stares in astonishment at this little person in her elegantly tailored coat. Dark, serious eyes. Determined chin, resolute voice. “I’d like to know where I am to be? I’ll have just as large a burden of work as my husband. And unpaid, too, all right, but where am I to go when I want to write letters and read and do the family accounts?” Anna looks at the churchwarden, who looks at Henrik, pleadingly. “I’m used to having a room of my own,” the calm voice goes on. “I realize it may seem slightly spoiled, but I must actually demand one.”
Now the amazement is total. Demand? What does the creature mean? Won’t she come unless she gets a room of her own? What’s this all about? “It’s probably not usual for the pastor’s wife to have a room of her own,” says Magda Säll conciliatorily. “Oh, really. Well, I couldn’t know that,” says Anna. “Would the guest room be an idea?” says the churchwarden, clearing his throat surprisingly submissively. “You could have the guest room as your room, Miss Åkerblom. What do you think?” “I suggest that Henrik take the guest room as his study,” says Anna decisively. “I want to be near the nursery.” “It might be a little disturbing with everyone going in and out,” says Mrs. Sail cautiously. “The pastor has to be undisturbed when he is preparing his sermons.” “Then he’ll have to put cotton in his ears,” says Anna, smiling at Henrik. Say something, Henrik dear! her eyes are saying. You’re master in your own house. You decide. But Henrik is struck dumb. “Does this
have to be decided here and now?” he mumbles. “Mr. Jakobsson and I will go out and look at the outbuildings,” says Magda with sudden insight.
So Anna and Henrik are left to themselves. “I was only joking/ says Anna, laughing. “It was only in fun because everything is so dreadful and we were getting depressed.” She flings her arms around Henrik and holds on to him tightly. “Laugh now, Henrik! It’s not a major catastrophe. We’ll make a lovely home and I — can — wind — Jesper — Jakobsson — around — my — little — finger! You could see that, couldn’t you? Now you’re laughing, thank goodness. I thought for a moment you were angry.”
Mrs. Säll and the churchwarden note that the young couple come out into the autumnal sunlight in a good mood. Together they view the woodshed, the carpentry workshop, the outhouse, the sawdustcovered stack of ice, the storage shed, and the little earth-cellar. “There’ll be lots of wild strawberries on the top of it, I see,” says Anna.
After that, the chapel is to be inspected. Henrik unlocks the tall, plain iron door. “I borrowed the key from Jakobsson. I said we wanted to be on our own when we went into our church for the first time.”
Forsboda chapel had been built at the end of the eighteenth century and was intended to house the park’s palms in winter. The room has high, slightly vaulted windows with stained glass in the chancel, thick walls, and a flagstone floor. All around the chapel is a churchyard now no longer in use, partly overgrown, the tombstones barely visible in the long yellow grass.
Henrik and Anna go into the church. Pigeons fly up and make their way out through a broken windowpane. The benches have been cleared away and stacked in a murky heap along the far wall, and the flagstone floor stretches bare and echoing toward the raised space for the altar. The altar cloth is gone, and the wooden stand gapes emptily; a hole has been dug in the corner. Numbers hang on the hymn board: two hundred and twenty-four, second verse:
Strive not for fortune, bread or honor in this world.
Let sorrow not consume you, for this thy short time on earth.
“That’s almost like an exhortation,” says Henrik, his arm around Anna’s shoulders. The sunlight falls sharply on the plastered wall and forms squares and elongated shadows of trees. At the entrance door, a builder’s scaffold goes right up to the roof, which soars in a gentle curve. Bird wings. Sun shadows. Somewhere the wind grumbling. Dead leaves have blown in through the broken and partly nailed-up window.
“The pulpit is sixteenth century” says Henrik knowledgeably. “Look at that lovely carving! Peter and John, and there’s the Archangel with his sword and the sun and the eye. I wonder where they’ve taken the reredos. Perhaps in the sacristy.”
But the sacristy is empty, nothing there but a stained cupboard with its doors wide open and paintpots and brushes standing on the floorboards, the window wall already painted, the cracks and sores in the wall already healed. “They’re getting on with the repairs, you see,” whispers Anna.
Then they examine the organ, which is under a cover to the right of the altar. It’s a tall, finely carved structure with two manuals and a great many stops, two foot-bellows at the side. “Shall we see what it sounds like?” says Anna, sitting down at the organ.
Henrik pushes the tarpaulin to the floor and stamps on the bellows. Anna pulls out some stops and presses the keys in a C-major chord. The instrument emits a tremendous but frightening discord. “The organ will also have to be repaired,” says Anna, taking away her hands. “I wonder if Jesper Jakobsson has thought of that little detail? It’s a fine old chancel organ. Where do you think it was before it landed up in exile here? By the way, perhaps the reredos is over there in that corner, under that cloth?”
They lift the dusty cloth and open the closed doors of the reredos. In the middle part is the Lord’s Supper, clumsily carved, but dramatic, the disciples rolling their eyes, the Master raising a disproportionate hand, the corners of his mouth drooping. The face of Judas is dark, weighed down by his approaching crime. On the right is Christ nailed to the cross, his head hanging. His wounds are terrible, and the Roman soldier is just thrusting his lance into his side, the blood gushing out. On the left is the Annunciation, Mary with her hands on her stomach, with a menacing figure with flapping wings stretching out a long forefinger and wagging it officiously. In the background the sun is shining above a peacefully grazing lamb.
All these images, all this goodwill and tenderness, are perishing. Dust from the wood flies about; pieces have fallen to the floor; patches of damp have faded the colors; mice and insects have partaken in Holy Communion.
Anna and Henrik stand there mournfully and appalled. Carefully, they replace the stained draperies.
Now I shall describe a quarrel that is soon to explode between Anna and Henrik. Right here, in this decaying palm house, which on a whim became a House of God and on another whim has once again decayed. It is always hard to trace the real reason for any conflict. The origin and outburst are seldom identical (just like the actual scene of a murder and the place where the body is found). One can imagine quite a number of alternatives, both random and fundamental. Go ahead, you can browse and speculate; this is a party game. Two facts, however, are established. First of all, we are witnessing the first heartrending conflict between our two main characters. Second, Luther is right when he says that words flown out cannot be caught on the wing. Meaning that certain words can never be taken back, nor forgiven. Words of that kind will be exchanged in the argument described here. In reality, I know practically nothing about what transpired that Friday afternoon in the ruins of Forsboda church. I only remember a few words of my mother’s. “We were in the chapel for the first time, and we quarreled. I seem to remember we even put an end to our love as well as our engagement. I think a long time went by before we forgave each other. I’m not sure whether we ever forgave each other, wholly and fully.”
It should perhaps be pointed out that all her life, Anna was quicktempered and equally quick to make up. She found it difficult to reconcile that hot temper with the Christian concept of turning the other cheek. Henrik was slow to any visible rage, but when the barriers were down, he could reveal a terrible brutality. And he was almost comically unable to forgive things easily. He never forgot an injustice, although with pronounced acting talent, he managed to show a smiling face to whoever had wounded him.
At any rate, this scene now starts, and I maintain it starts at this very moment: Anna is standing by the covered reredos, her head down, her arms hanging by her sides. Then she slowly starts putting on her gloves, which she had pulled off when she had made an attempt to play the organ. Henrik goes up to the altar rail and its stained and worn kneeler. He is standing with his back to Anna and looking at the stained-glass windows in the cruciform. Lighting? It’s dramatic and full of contrasts! The sun has stopped going down at a snow-laden cloud, which has appeared above the edge of the forest. The cloud forms a blue-black wall and the light is white and merciless, but only over half his face. The compensatory light on the other half has turned to gray.
Henrik: Anna?
Anna: Yes, my dear.
Henrik: I want us to . . . (Falls silent.)
Anna: What do you want?
Henrik: When we get married . . . can’t we get old Samuel Gransjö to officiate?
Anna: Yes, of course. If you like.
Henrik: Here.
Anna: Here?
Henrik: Yes, here in the chancel of our unfinished church. Just you and me. And two witnesses, of course.
Anna (mildly): I don’t know what you mean. Are you saying our wedding should take place here?
Henrik: Just you and me and old Gransjö, then two witnesses. Mrs. Säll, for instance, and the churchwarden. Then we’d be dedicating the church and dedicating ourselves to this church. Can’t we do that, Anna?
Anna: No, we can’t.
Henrik: Can’t? What do you mean?
Anna: You and I are to be married in Upsala Cathedral. and the dean is to marry us. He’s promised.
And we’re going to have a proper marriage with bridesmaids and pages and ushers and guests and the Academic Choir and lots of family and dinner at the Gillet. We’ve agreed on all that, Henrik dear. We can’t change it.
Henrik: Can’t change it! We’re getting married in March, and it’s only September!
Anna: What do you think Mama will say?
Henrik: I thought you no longer cared what your mother thought.
Anna: I’ve invited my whole nursing-school class to the wedding. Nearly all of them have accepted. Henrik, dear, we’ve already talked about this before.
Henrik: You’ve told me what it’ll be like. I have had to keep my views to myself.
Anna: It was you who wanted the choir. You and Ernst have already decided on the program. You can’t have forgotten that?
Henrik: What if I ask you now to abandon all that? Is that so impossible?
Anna: Yes, it’s impossible.
Henrik: Why should it be . . . ?
Anna (incensed): Because I want to have a proper wedding! A really splendid, impressive festivity. I want to celebrate. I want to be joyful. I want a terrific wedding.
Henrik: And the wedding I’m suggesting?
Anna: Let’s stop this stupid argument here and now. Otherwise we’ll start quarreling. And that really would be unfortunate.
Henrik: I’m not quarreling.
Anna: No, not you, but I am.
Henrik: Think it over. (Pleads.) Anna!
Anna: I have thought it over, and of all the idiocies I have endured for a very long time, this latest whim of yours is the worst. If you don’t see that, you’re more idiotic than I thought you were, and that’s not saying much.
The Best Intentions Page 20
