Anna: They’re like your parents.
Petrus: No, they’re not.
Anna: They’re nice to you, Petrus.
Petrus: Yes.
Anna: Things couldn’t be better for you, Petrus.
Petrus: No.
Anna: No one’s angry with you, you know.
Petrus: Why should anyone be angry?
Anna: No, no, you’re right.
Petrus: But I don’t want to.
Anna: You can’t decide that for yourself, Petrus.
Petrus: No.
He gets up meekly. Anna lets him keep the blanket. Obediently and sorrowfully, he trots along behind her through the hall and the dining room, then out into the kitchen. When he sees his foster parents and the others in the kitchen, he stops and draws the blanket tighter around him. Anna is behind him and tries to push him forward, but with no result. He stays put, immovable.
Mrs. Johansson has been saying something meek and sorrowful, but at once stops. “Come, now, Petrus,” says his foster father, taking a step toward Petrus, who at once turns to Anna and clings to her, pressing his face into her stomach. She stands still, nonplussed, gently stroking the back of his neck. Johannes carefully tries to loosen his hold, but when the boy persists, the man takes a firmer grip and Anna falls forward welded to the boy. Then Johannes grabs hold of him, pries loose his arms, takes him around the waist, and lifts him up. Without a sound and with fierce strength, the boy tries to fight his way free, wriggling and jerking, kicking and scratching, trying to bite his foster father’s hands.
“Let him go,” says Henrik. “Let him go. That’s not the way to do it.” Johannes lets the boy go, and he at once clings to Anna again. Mrs.Johansson is rigid, as if paralyzed, her hand to her mouth. Johannes is breathing heavily, his face red and tears in his eyes. “I don’t understand” is all he can say. “I don’t understand. We’re such good friends, Petrus and me. Aren’t we, Petrus?” But the boy doesn’t answer or even move, simply clutches Anna. She has her hands around his head. Mia is sitting there openmouthed, her porridge growing cold, and Mejan forgets to rake the ashes out of the stove.
“Perhaps Petrus had better stay for a few days,” says Henrik in the end. “He needs time to calm down and think.” “He’s welcome to stay a few days,” says Anna. The foster parents look helplessly at each other, perhaps humiliated, anyhow deeply embarrassed. They accept the pastor’s offer with no signs of gratitude.
The community consists of four small parishes around the much-too-large church built at the beginning of the nineteenth century. The parish office has been in the west wing of the minister’s house for many years. The actual office is a long bare room with three desks in a row along the window wall, accommodating the assistant minister, the pastor’s curate (Henrik), and the clerk, who sits nearest the entrance. Along the opposite wall are a long wooden sofa covered with worn leather, two chairs, and an oak table. On the table is a carafe of water and church magazines. On the far wall, an iron stove wages war on the drafts from the old windows, and the three gentlemen have permission to wear their overcoats, overshoes, and felt boots. There’s another door by the sofa, leading into the minister’s private room, and a short corridor that leads into the records office and a small library. Worn linoleum on the floors, a picture on the wall above the sofa in a black wooden frame of the Good Shepherd with a lamb and a lion. There is a smell of damp, mold, and thick outdoor clothes.
The office is open every weekday between eight and ten. Practical matters are dealt with: baptisms, burials, weddings, churching, certificates for moving away from, and moving into, the parish. The care of souls is confined to regular mediations between warring married couples. These are carried out by the minister in his room. Other so-called private conversations go on in the records office, in which there are two rickety wooden chairs.
This is a morning in March, 1915, icy rain pouring down the dirty windows, the light fleeting and reluctant.
The clerk, who is the organist and also works part-time in the school, is correcting writing books. Henrik is occupied with a moving certificate, a young couple standing in front of his desk, the woman heavily pregnant. The assistant minister is planning a funeral. The widow and her sister and brother-in-law are deep in murmured conversation. A chair has been put out for the weeping, black-clad widow, who is mumbling incoherently. The Reverend Gransjö has his door slightly ajar and is speaking in a loud voice on the phone, his white beard wagging, his glasses glinting.
The door to the porch opens violently, and Nordenson comes in. He is wearing a short fur coat with a belt, his trousers tucked into heavy boots, and he has snatched off his Persian lamb cap, so his irongray hair is now on end. His head is thrust forward, his nose red from the wind and a cold. His quick black eyes immediately find the person he is looking for. Right across the room, he says in irrefutable tones that he wishes to speak to Pastor Bergman — immediately. Henrik replies that perhaps he would be good enough to sit down and wait a few minutes; ‘Til soon be finished with what I’m doing,” Nordenson makes an impatient gesture and flings his gloves down on the table among the church magazines, at first remaining standing as if considering leaving the room in fury, but then sighing and sitting down on the creaking sofa. He fishes out his glasses and for a few moments studies the latest issue of Our Watchword, but at once flings the magazine down again and lights a cigarette. “I’m sorry,” says the clerk. “But smoking is not allowed in the parish office.” “Well now it is!” says Nordenson, drawing his lips up into a grin that does not get as far as his eyes, at which the clerk’s courage fails him. He gestures lamely at a printed notice on the door and returns to his exercise books.
The minister has finished his telephone call and from experience realizes that something is happening in his office. He comes out, sees Nordenson, who gets up and greets him with a hearty handshake: “I haven’t come to see you. I want to talk to your curate,” says Nordenson, pointing with a long finger. “Go right ahead,” says the minister politely. “No, he’s pretending to be busy,” says Nordenson. “Come over here, Bergman. The clerk can do that. Please come on over.”
Henrik looks up from his writing and reluctantly but obediently gets to his feet. “Mr. Nordenson wishes to speak to you. You can use my room if you like. I’m just going for my breakfast.” The minister looks at his watch: “It’s ten o’clock, so . . . do come on in! You’ll be undisturbed in here.” Nordenson sits down in the visitor’s chair and lights another cigarette. Henrik does not sit down at the desk but moves up a heavy chair with a high back. The window has stained glass in it, and a wall clock ticks.
Nordenson: I’ve spent the whole of my life up here by Storsjön and have never known such weather in February before. It’s as if the devil had got loose.
Henrik: People say the influenza comes from the weather. I don’t know what to believe.
Nordenson: It’s not the weather. It’s the war, Pastor. Millions of corpses rotting. Infections are carried on the winds. But it’ll be over soon. The Americans will find a reason, and then it’ll end. Believe you me.
Henrik: A year, two years, five years?
Nordenson: Fairly soon. I was in Cologne a few weeks ago. Nothing’s the same. Food’s running out. Trouble in the streets. No one believes in victory anymore. Which is bad for us.
Henrik: Bad?
Nordenson: Of course. As long as the war lasts, we’ve got a living. When the war ends, our living goes too.
Henrik: Is that so certain?
Nordenson: I presume you’re not very familiar with the situation, Pastor?
Henrik: No, indeed.
Nordenson: I thought as much.
Henrik: You wished to speak to me, Mr. Nordenson?
Nordenson: It was more of an impulse. I was just passing the office and thought I’d look in and have a chat with young Bergman. How are things going for the girls?
Henrik: Well, thank you.
Nordenson: I hear you’ve abolished homework for your co
nfirmation classes.
Henrik: More or less, yes.
Nordenson: Are you allowed to do that?
Henrik: There aren’t any specific rules about how the teaching shall be done. It just says “confirmands shall be prepared in an appropriate manner for their first communion.”
Nordenson: I see, and now you’re preparing my daughters? I suppose you know that this is happening against my express wishes? No, no, for God’s sake. Don’t misunderstand me! There’s never been any trouble over this. Susanna and Helena and their mother decided. I just pointed out that I’m against all that hysterical nonsense about the blood of Jesus. But my little Susanna persisted, and then my meek little Helena was not to be outdone, so the girls persuaded their mother, who is a little — how shall I put it? — romantic, and that was that. What has a scruffy old heathen to say with three young women assailing him? Not a damn thing, Pastor!
Henrik: Susanna and Helena are making great progress.
Nordenson: How the hell one makes progress without doing any homework, I can’t imagine!
Henrik: Some of the pupils make discoveries, which they can then make use of in their everyday life. We talk.
Nordenson: Talk?
Henrik: About how one lives. About what one does and doesn’t do. About conscience. About death and spiritual life . . .
Nordenson: Spiritual life?
Henrik: The life that has nothing to do with the body.
Nordenson: Oh, so there is such a thing, is there?
Henrik: Yes, there is such a thing.
Nordenson: My wife has started saying evening prayers with her daughters. Is that an expression of what you call “spiritual life”?
Henrik: I think so.
Nordenson: When the girls have gone to bed, my wife goes into their room, closes the door, and they kneel down and say the prayers you have taught them.
Henrik: They don’t use my words. They are St. Augustine’s.
Nordenson: I don’t care whose words they are. I’m only concerned that I’m left out.
Henrik: You can always join in on the prayers, Mr. Nordenson.
Nordenson: What the hell would that look like? Nordenson on his knees with his females?
Henrik: You could say, Maybe I don’t believe this, but I want to be with you. I will do what you do, because I love you.
Nordenson: I promise you, Pastor, the ladies would be even more disturbed at their prayers.
Henrik: You could try.
Nordenson: No, I couldn’t.
Henrik: Welt in that case . . .
Nordenson: . . . in that case it’s hopeless?
Henrik: I think Susanna and Helena understand the difficulty. Just as their mother does.
Nordenson: Just as their mother does? Have you talked to my wife about me, Pastor?
Henrik: Your wife came to see me at the parsonage and asked for a private talk.
Nordenson: Did she now? Elin went to see you, Pastor? Couldn’t she be satisfied with the minister, the old goat? Who lives in walking distance? Eh?
Henrik: Anyone seeking a spiritual adviser has a perfect right to choose whoever he or she wishes and is in no way bound by geographical considerations.
Nordenson: Isn’t she in any way bound by consideration for her nearest and dearest, either?
Henrik: I don’t really understand what you . . .
Nordenson: Forget it. So you talked about me. And what was the conversation about? If I may ask.
Henrik: You may certainly ask, but I cannot possibly answer. Priests and doctors are, as you know, bound by an oath of silence.
Nordenson: I’m sorry, Pastor. I forgot about that oath of silence. (Laughs.) Yes, it’s comical.
Henrik: What is it that’s comical?
Nordenson: I could also say a thing or two. But I’ll keep quiet. I’m not going to sit here blackening my wife.
Henrik: I don’t think I am breaking my oath if I say that your wife talked about her husband with the greatest tenderness.
Nordenson: She talked to you about me with “the greatest tenderness.” Oh, really. With tenderness. Good God!
Henrik: I’m sorry I even mentioned that conversation.
Nordenson: Oh, that’s all right. Don’t worry, Pastor. Slip of the tongue. That’s only human.
Henrik: I hope that Mrs. Nordenson will not suffer . . .
Nordenson (smiles): What? You can rest assured, Pastor. Of all the complications between my wife and me over the years, this is one of the minor ones.
Henrik: That’s good to hear.
Nordenson: Then you know our secret, Pastor.
Henrik: I know nothing of any secret.
Nordenson: But you know, of course, that my wife left me? Twice, to be more precise.
Henrik: No, I didn’t know.
Nordenson: Oh, really? (Pause.) How did the meeting go on Sunday, by the way?
Henrik: I presume you sent your own reporters, Mr. Nordenson. Anyhow, I noticed at least one of the men from the Works office there.
Nordenson: It was splendid of you to give the Sawmill workers a roof over their heads, Pastor.
Henrik: Not in the slightest splendid, just logical.
Nordenson: Has the minister said anything about it?
Henrik: Yes, indeed.
Nordenson: May I ask what?
Henrik: The Reverend Gransjö was very definite. He said that if I ever again allow church premises to be used for socialist or revolutionary meetings, he would have to report me to the cathedral chapter. He went on to say that he had no intention of agreeing to the House of God being a refuge for anarchists and murderers.
Nordenson: (amused): Really, is that what the old goat said?
Henrik: Unfortunately the meeting was pointless. Arvid Fredin got after all.
Nordenson: I know.
Henrik: I should have spoken up, but I said nothing.
Nordenson: Never mind, Pastor. Next time you’ll be at the barricades.
Henrik: I’ll never be at any barricades.
Nordenson: Was it perhaps the case that your little wife didn’t like rash decision to lend the chapel?
Henrik: Roughly that, yes.
Nordenson: (amused): You see, you see!
Henrik: What do you see?
Nordenson: I won’t say. What would you say to some kind of cooperation, Pastor?
Henrik: Cooperation with whom?
Nordenson: With me. Next time there’s any trouble, you get up in the pulpit or on a soapbox or a machine and speak to “the masses.”
Henrik: And what should I say?
Nordenson: You could, for instance, say that what was most important was not to try killing one another.
Henrik: The people at the Works are badly treated and humiliated. Are you saying I should advise them to let themselves be badly treated humiliated?
Nordenson: It’s not that simple.
Henrik: Really? How is it then?
Nordenson: I don’t think you and I should continue this conversation, Pastor.
Henrik: I have plenty of time.
Nordenson: It hasn’t been particularly profitable.
Henrik: I’ve mostly been frightened.
Nordenson: Really?
Henrik: Some people frighten me.
Nordenson: Has it ever occurred to you, Pastor, that I might be just as frightened. But in another way?
Henrik: No.
Nordenson: Maybe you’l1 learn, Pastor.
Mr. Nordenson gets up and shakes hands without saying anything. Henrik goes with him to the door and holds it open. Sleet is falling outside, the road gray and icy. Henrik remains standing by the door, watching the black figure going toward the gate. He suddenly realizes that he has met a person who intends to kill him.
IV
Spring-cleaning at the parsonage, the inner double windows taken out, rugs beaten, wardrobes aired, floors scrubbed, books dusted, paraffin lamps polished, summer curtains put up. Sun and mild winds, blue shadows under the trees, the birches coming
out day by day. The rapids thundering and the river below the slope running high, white clouds rushing hurriedly by. Jack at the bottom of the steps, lying stretched out in the sun, guarding and keeping watch, the carriage with Dag-Erik sleeping in it nearby. In a large apron and with her hair in disorder, Anna is beating sofa cushions, Mia and Mejan shaking out blankets, the dust flying. A neighbor’s wife and her daughter are scrubbing floors and stairs. The pastor keeps out of the way.
The Reverend Gransjö appears in the middle of Anna’s well-organized tumult. He has with him a bunch of spring flowers and keeps apologizing, but his errand is important, yes, it concerns Anna just as much. He wants to speak to Anna and Henrik immediately. He won’t be long. No, nothing unpleasant; on the contrary, really. No, the buggy can wait by the gate. He has borrowed it from Nordenson. Anna says that Henrik is probably fishing down by the river. She tells Petrus to go and ask him to come at once. Then she asks the minister to come in, takes him up to the first floor, offers him coffee, which he declines, takes off her big blue striped apron, and sits down.
Gransjö: The Farg boy is still with you. Is he any trouble?
Anna: I don’t know what to say. He refuses to go back home and seems to like it here with us. He’s good and obedient and attentive. He’s very patient with Dag-Erik and likes playing with him.
Gransjö: No difficulties of the kind that . . .
Anna: He’s sometimes very preoccupied. His eyes wander, and he doesn’t hear what you’re saying. But not all that often. He’s moving into the little room above the shed for the summer. He likes it there.
Gransjö: I suppose the problem will be solved eventually?
Anna: Yes, yes, if only one knew how.
Gransjö: You look well, Anna.
Anna: Yes, I am, thank you.
Gransjö: Liking it?
Anna: Why shouldn’t I? We’ve everything we could wish for. And at last the summer’s coming!
Gransjö: After an unusually rough winter.
Anna: We’ll forget that. (Laughs.)
Gransjö: . . . we’ll forget that. (Smiles.)
Anna: I can hear Henrik coming.
She goes to the door and calls down, “We’re up here. In your room. But take your boots off because the floors have all just been scrubbed. Where on earth did you find that old jersey? I thought I’d hidden it away well enough.” Henrik is wearing a long, shabby old jersey; baggy working trousers, and is in his stockinged feet. He is sunburned. The minister and his curate greet each other warmly, if somewhat formally. They all sit down.
The Best Intentions Page 25
