Henrik: Haven’t you offered the minister anything?
Gransjö: Thank you, but I won’t have anything, thank you. I’m disturbing you quite enough as it is.
Henrik: And to what do we owe this honor?
Gransjö: I’ve had a letter.
He opens his rather worn black briefcase and searches among the papers, then pulls out a envelope with the Church Commission’s emblem on it.
Gransjö: Yes, I’ve had a letter. (Long-winded and quite cheerful.) It’s from my old friend Pastor Primarius Anders Alopéus of the Church Commission in Stockholm. Pastor Primarius is also senior court chaplain in the parish of the court. It is in the latter capacity that my old friend and colleague has written to me.
The minister pauses deliberately and looks at Henrik and Anna though his thick spectacles.
Henrik: Oh, yes?
Gransjö: I considered the contents of the letter so important that it should at once and with no unnecessary delay be brought over. (Holds up the letter.)
Henrik: That was very good of you.
Gransjö: Exactly, Pastor Bergman.
Anna: And it concerns us?
Gransjö: Please let me read it aloud to you. (Adjusts his glasses.) Well, the beginning is all personal matters, that’s to say, more personal. Here! We can start here. Listen carefully now. “As you probably know, the Sophiahemmet was founded by Queen Sophia. She took a lively interest in Swedish health care and wished to found a model hospital adhering to the highest European standards. Her Majesty succeeded in setting up an institution that, by dint of her own considerable efforts, is today famous and much renowned for its great contributions to medical science. During her lifetime, she was chairman of the board, a position which on her passing was taken over by Her Majesty Queen Victoria.” Yes, well . . . and so on. But to the point now! “Her Majesty, in consultation with the board, has now decided to create a permanent part-time chaplaincy. The assignment will be to lead and organize the spiritual work within the hospital and — as time permits — to teach in the college of nursing and thus provide for the spiritual education of the pupils. It has been agreed with the Reverend Källander, the minister in Hedvig Eleonora parish in Stockholm, that the projected chaplaincy at the hospital shall be complemented and supplemented by a suitable post in the aforementioned parish, so that the stipend corresponds to conditions and circumstances of a minister. The board is also planning to build a parsonage with all modern conveniences on the grounds of Sophiahemmet.” Yes, well. Yes. Now — here comes the very nub — the nub itself — if I may put it that way. (Pause.) “Owing to her delicate state of health, Her Majesty the Queen lives largely abroad, and a few weeks ago paid a visit to her country on urgent family business, in which the undersigned participated in a humble capacity. At a meeting, Her Majesty happened to mention Sophiahemmet, whose problems have always been close to her heart. Her Majesty was particularly concerned about the proposed chaplaincy and emphasized how important it was to find the right man. Our archbishop, who was present on this occasion, immediately exclaimed: ‘I think I have the right man!’ On closer questioning, the archbishop named a young priest by the name of Henrik Bergman.”
The Reverend Gransjö, now playing his role of dramatic reader to the hilt, pauses triumphantly, then repeats the name with feigned surprise, nodding in confirmation. “Yes, it really does say Henrik Bergman, and that must be the same person sitting opposite me with the sun in his eyes.” Anna has grasped Henrik’s arm, her delight more evident than Henrik’s.
Henrik: Good gracious!
Gransjö: To be brief, the archbishop happened to remember that Henrik Bergman was now a curate in Forsboda parish. Pastor Primarius remembered that he was an old friend and fellow student of the parish priest’s and at once wrote this letter. I should perhaps point out that farther on in this eight-page missive, Pastor Primarius points out that if I consider Henrik Bergman unsuitable for this extremely distinguished assignment, then I ought to disregard this letter. After which he calls down God’s blessing on me and my house.
Henrik: Good gracious!
Anna: It’s not true. It’s not true.
Gransjö: Yes, young Mrs. Anna, it certainly is true. Since I received, read, and digested this missive, I have taken the liberty, at my own expense, of making an expensive and adventurous telephone call to my friend Pastor Primarius. He confirmed what he had written and told me, to make doubly sure, that the archbishop had met Henrik Bergman early one morning many years ago in the minister’s garden in Mittsunda. They had had a conversation that had made an impression. In addition to that, the archbishop had heard the young Bergman preaching and from that had been singularly convinced.
Henrik: I don’t know what to say.
Gransjö: You don’t have to say anything. You must now think it over and discuss it with Mrs. Anna.
Henrik: When do we have to decide by?
Gransjö: As soon as possible. If your decision is positive, Her Majesty has requested a meeting before she departs for her annual stay in Borgholm. In other words, you will fairly shortly have to put on your best clothes and go to Stockholm to take afternoon tea at the palace. The palace administration will pay your fares and sojourn. (Points to the letter.) There’s a postscript here. (Reads.) “It is particularly emphasized that Her Majesty wishes to meet both the pastor and his young wife.” Well, now look at this, he’s written along the side. I didn’t see that. “The young wife Anna, née Åkerblom, received her training and excellent testimonials at Sophiahemmet’s school of nursing in the spring of 1909.” It says that here. I hadn’t noticed that.
Anna: But I fell ill.
Gransjö: It says nothing about illness here. It just says “excellent testimonials.” Well, that’s the lot, and quite a lot it is, too, so now I’ll leave you two young people in what I hope is more joy than confusion. At the same time, I would like to be the first to congratulate you, despite the fact that I myself am by no means to be congratulated, for I shall lose a young colleague whom I have come to like and a young wife whom I also like and who makes a delightful addition to the work of our parish.
The Reverend Gransjö holds out his old hand and pats Anna on the cheek. Then he pats Henrik on the cheek, though harder.
Henrik: I suppose it not forbidden to refuse.
Gransjö: It is not forbidden, but almost impossible. Such distinguished offers are not made often and are of vital importance.
Henrik: Yes. No doubt it’s of vital importance.
Gransjö: Now I must be off.
Anna: Then we must really thank you for coming. (Curtsies.)
Gransjö: Good-bye, Mrs. Anna. My regards to your son.
Henrik: Good-bye, sir.
Gransjö: Good-bye, Henrik Bergman, and God be with you both in your important decision.
The blossom on some of the fruit trees in the garden is out. Anna and Henrik are sitting on a white, somewhat scratched bench; Dag is slumbering on a rug. Petrus is lying on his stomach with his hands over his ears, reading a book. Jack the dog has placed himself strategically so that with a minimum of effort he can watch over his wards. It is Saturday (the decisive day), and the chapel bell is ringing in the Sabbath. Below the grassy slope, the river flows silently along, glittering in the sun, and the rumble of the waterfall can be heard in the distance. Mild scents, mild wind, the insects industrious. Henrik is smoking his pipe, Anna crocheting a jacket for her son. The silence is peaceful, but charged with spoken questions and unspoken answers.
(Henrik laughs silently.)
Anna: What are you laughing at?
Henrik: I was thinking about great-grandfather, who was a great preacher and regarded as almost a saint. Whenever he had to make a difficult decision, he opened the Bible and always seemed to find the right answer.
Anna: And that’s what you’ve just done?
Henrik: For fun. (Leafs through a pocket Bible.)
Anna: Well?
Henrik: Listen now. I landed on the Revelation of St. John th
e Divine, chapter three, and it says: “Be watchful, and strengthen the things which remain, that are already to die: for I have not found thy works perfect before God. Remember therefore how thou hast received and heard, and hold fast, and repent!”
Anna: I’m sure you cheated!
Henrik: I promise I didn’t.
Anna: And what is the message?
Henrik: I can only interpret it in one way.
Anna: That we shall stay in Forsboda?
Henrik: No doubt about it.
Stillness. Bees buzz, the chapel bell falls silent, a newly arrived song thrush tries out a few notes. Henrik closes the book and relights his pipe. Anna smooths out her crochet work and examines it carefully.
Anna: You don’t ask what I want.
Henrik: I don’t ask because I know.
Anna: Are you sure?
Henrik: Absolutely sure.
Stillness again. Anna puts her work aside and peers up at the sun and the swaying branch of blossom above her head. Henrik leans forward and calls to Jack, who at once comes over, sits down at his master’s knee, and has his neck scratched under his collar.
Anna: In this, my wishes are subordinate. You must follow your conscience.
Henrik: Are you really sure?
Anna: Yes, I’m sure, Henrik.
Henrik: You won’t regret it?
Anna: Of course I’ll regret it a thousand times, but then it’ll be too late. You needn’t . . .
Henrik (interrupts): . . . at the moment, it’s like paradise. In a few months, it’ll be thirty degrees below zero and impassable and pitch dark almost all day and red noses and hacking coughs.
Anna: . . . and the church will be empty, and there’ll be trouble at the Works, and Nordenson will be going on about anarchy and strife. And ice on the water in the jug.
Henrik: . . . and we’ll forget we’ve got each other.
Anna: No, we’ll never forget that.
Anna takes Henrik’s hand between hers. He puts down his pipe, which has gone out, and closes his eyes tightly.
Anna: But I must admit it would have been fun to have tea at the Royal Palace with Her Majesty the Queen.
Henrik: Most of all it would have been one in the eye for our friends in Trädgårdsgatan.
Anna: And fun suddenly to say to each other, let’s go to the Royal Theater tonight and see Anders de Wahl.
Henrik: . . . or to a concert and listen to Beethoven.
Anna: Or buy a silk blouse at Leja’s.
Henrik: Well, we can fantasize like that.
Anna: Dangerous fantasies, Henrik! (Smiles.)
Henrik: Dangerous? Why dangerous? (Smiles.)
Anna: No, of course not. We’ve decided, haven’t we, or rather that book has decided.
Henrik (lightly): Are you perhaps being slightly ironic?
Anna: No, not in the slightest! I’m as serious as any woman in Selma Lagerlöf’s books. The decision has been made. And it’s a mutual decision.
Petrus has stopped reading and started listening. He is crouching down by the bench, and his pale, strangely blind face is turned toward Anna.
Petrus: Are you leaving?
Anna: No, on the contrary, Petrus.
Petrus: I thought you said you were going to leave.
Anna: You weren’t listening carefully. We’ve just decided to stay.
Petrus: Then you won’t be leaving?
Anna: Don’t be so silly; Petrus. We’re staying.
Petrus’s ancient seven-year-old face is distrustfully sorrowful: “I thought it sounded as if you were going to leave,” he says almost inaudibly and pretends to go back to his book. Tears corne, and he sniffs as quietly as possible.
Henrik: Apropos that! You had a letter from your mother, didn’t you?
Anna: Yes, I forgot to tell you. She wrote to ask whether we were coming to the summer place for your holiday. Ernst and Maria are going to Lofoten with some friends. Oscar and Gustav have rented a place in the archipelago. There would be only us and brother Carl.
Henrik: What do you think?
Anna: What do you think? Marna will be rather lonely.
Henrik: I thought she liked being on her own.
Anna: Well, then.
Henrik: What do you mean, well, then?
Anna: That was answer enough.
Henrik: It’s better here. (Pause.)
Anna: Only for a week?
Henrik: Do we have to?
Anna: No, no. Mama didn’t think we’d come. She mostly asked for form’s sake.
Henrik: Weren’t we going to have another child, by the way?
Anna: Yes, we were.
Henrik: You don’t sound like you want to any longer. It was your idea!
Anna (laughs): There’s been so much to think about. My poor little head becomes so confused.
Henrik: Shall we go in? It’s getting chilly.
Anna lifts up her son, who wakes up and starts whimpering. Henrik gathers up the rest of the things, rattle, rug, pipe, and Bible, calls Jack, and sets off toward the parsonage. Halfway there, he turns around.
Henrik: Come on, Petrus.
Petrus: I’m just finishing.
Henrik: It’s getting chilly.
Petrus: I’m not cold.
Henrik: Don’t forget to bring the book in.
Petrus: No.
Henrik: Come on, now. We’ll have a game of chess.
Petrus: I’ll just finish reading.
Henrik: All right, do as you like.
Anna has gone up the steps to the veranda. She stops and smiles at Henrik. Petrus is staring steadily at her. The veranda door closes. Petrus rolls over on his back and stretches his hands upward — spreading his fingers out wide.
One warm early summer’s day in the middle of June, 1917, Anna and Henrik Bergman are waiting in the Green Salon in the queen’s private apartment. It is in the left wing of the palace, with a view out over the waters of Strömmen, the National Museum, and Skeppsholmen. Pastor Primarius Anders Alopéus, a handsome, ruddy churchman of considerable proportions, is also present. They are standing at one of the big windows and talking in low voices about the striking view. “But it’s drafty,” says Alopéus. “You can feel the drafts. Even the curtains are swaying, but then the wind always blows in this direction. Lucky it’s not winter.”
In the background, two liveried court servants in white gloves are busy at the tea table, moving soundlessly and communicating with each other with subdued gestures.
The room is well proportioned, almost square. It is furnished elegantly but far too richly in the style of the eighties: bulging sofas and chairs covered in shimmering materials, hand-painted silk wallpaper, a wealth of stucco on the ceiling and the lintels above the tall doors, gilded mirrors facing each other and making the room seem endless. High crystal chandeliers, elaborately draped floor lamps, thick carpets muffling footsteps on the creaking parquet floor. Dark pictures with ornamental frames, palm trees and pallid sculptures, spindly tables crowded with ornaments, a piano covered with an oriental shawl and laden with photographs of various lesser or grander nobility.
Anna is wearing a new tailored gray-blue costume and a hat with a turned-up brim and a little white feather. Both gentlemen are in clerical suits. Henrik’s shoes are far too new, far too shiny, and far too tight. He is staring in terror at Anna and fumbling for her hand. “My stomach keeps rumbling. It’ll be disastrous.” “You shouldn’t have had that game soup,” whispers Anna. “Try breathing deeply.” Henrik breathes deeply, his face pale and gray. “I should never have agreed to this, I ought . . . ”
A door opens and Chamberlain Segerswärd appears. He is in uniform, and his radiant smile reveals a row of teeth of marvelous whiteness. He smells of fine pomade and condescending amiability. His little hand is pale and flabby: “So this is the pastor’s little wife. Welcome to you, and to you, Pastor Berglund, welcome. The court chaplain and I met earlier today. We serve on the same charity committee. There are just one or two small things I should l
ike to point out. Her Majesty should be addressed as ‘Your Majesty’ if that should arise. One ought to avoid direct address if possible. Her Majesty will ask the questions and guide the conversation. It is inappropriate to make your own digressions. I would also like to say that Her Majesty is not well and is very tired. I suggested with all humility that this meeting should be postponed until another and more suitable occasion, but Her Majesty is extremely dutiful and very much concerned about everything to do with Sophiahemmet. So Her Majesty rejected my suggestion. On the other hand, this means the meeting will be very brief. Matters of a practical nature should be discussed with our friend Pastor Primarius here, who is intimately au fait with the situation. Do you have any questions? No questions. Her Majesty will come through that door. I suggest — it is customary — that her guests place themselves here. Her Majesty will first greet the court chaplain, then the pastor’s wife, which entails as deep and elegant a curtsy as can be achieved. Finally, Her Majesty will greet Pastor Berglund.”
Alopéus: Bergman. Henrik Bergman.
Chamberlain: Have I really . . . ? It’s not possible! It must have been a misprint in my list! I do apologize, my dear Pastor Bergman. Please excuse an old man!
A dazzling smile, wide-open gray eyes, the pudgy, flabby hand touching Henrik’s arm, the pendulum clock on the mantelpiece above the marble fireplace striking three. The door opens, and Queen Victoria makes her entrance. She is tall, thin, and broad shouldered, her graying hair gathered into an elaborate knot on the top of her head. Her face is pale, and there are lines of pain around the dark blue eyes. Her thin lips are pressed together with self-restraint and infinite weariness. She is wearing a draped, soft gray silk dress with lace at the neckline and breast, the only jewelry a single strand of pearls around her neck, small pendant diamond earrings, and a diamond ring between her engagement and wedding rings. She is accompanied by a lady-in-waiting, who silently closes the door. Countess Bielke is small, plump, white-haired, and pink-cheeked, her eyes radiating childish and genuine cheerfulness. She is wearing a long, dark green skirt and a shantung blouse with a cameo brooch at her throat, and is carrying a light cashmere shawl over her arm.
The Best Intentions Page 26
