The queen walks slowly, and slightly unsteadily, across to her waiting guests. She holds out her hand to Anna, her smile quick and shimmering. Anna curtsies nicely (she has practiced). After that, the queen greets Henrik and finally the court chaplain.
With a slight accent, she says that it was pleasant that they could meet and it was kind of them to come such a long way, and “shall we all sit down? I hope you would like a cup of tea. We actually still have some of the genuine article. I am very fond of tea made with apple blossom and chamomile.”
The livery-clad servants serve while the queen inquires about their journey, their son Dag (she has been well briefed), and whether they were considering an evening at the theater. She herself had been to a performance of Everyman a few days before, a disturbing experience, like divine worship. “We simply could not applaud.”
The pain-filled expression gives way to gentle amiability, and color comes into those pale cheeks. Her voice is low, occasionally hard to make out, but gentle. When she speaks, she looks steadily at Anna and Henrik, her face open and vulnerable.
The Queen: And now we are entertaining great expectations.
Henrik: My wife and I are still a trifle frightened. Everything has happened so quickly. Nor do we know what is required of us. I mean, what is really required of us? All we know is that we shall do our very best.
The Queen: At our last board meeting, our architect produced a report on the construction work to be done in the coming years. Professor Forsell will have the most modern X-ray institute in the world, and our chaplain and his wife will have a parsonage of their own. Where is the envelope, Countess? Ah, yes, there. Here you are. This is a pencil drawing of the proposed house. It will be situated on a small hill with extensive forest lands outside — Lill-Janskogen. It will be like living in the country, although in the middle of town. Ideal for the children.
Anna: I know exactly. It’s opposite the home for retired nurses. Solhemmet.
The Queen: Yes, of course you know, Mrs. Bergman. You were at the nursing school, a few hundred meters away from your future home. Three big rooms on the ground floor and a well-equipped kitchen. Four rooms on the first floor. The nursery in the corner, I should think. Where there’s sun all day. And naturally all conveniences. It will all be ready within a few years. Meanwhile, Hedvig Eleonora parish will provide you with living quarters.
Anna: It’s all overwhelming.
The Queen: I realize it will be difficult to leave Forsboda.
Henrik: Yes, it will be difficult.
Anna: At first we were worried and unsure. It seemed to us we were perhaps escaping from our task.
Henrik: . . . our life’s task.
Anna: I wasn’t as afraid as Henrik was.
Henrik: I thought I was leaving people in need . . .
The Queen: The need in a hospital can be just as great, Pastor Bergman.
Henrik: Yes, I know. (Smiles, shakes his head.) I know.
The Queen: Tell me something, Pastor Bergman. Do you think our suffering is sent to us by God?
Chamberlain Segerswärd cautiously sucks on his false teeth. He finds Her Majesty’s question obscene, and his face is stripped of every conceivable expression. The nice little Countess Bielke has tears in her eyes, but then she is easily moved. Pastor Primarius leans back and burdens the fragile back of his chair with his not inconsiderable bulk. He glances urgently at his younger colleague, his smile professional and adapted to the question in hand. Anna swiftly sees that this tall, tormented woman has asked a question beyond the boundaries of convention.
Henrik: I can only say what I believe myself.
The Queen: That was why I asked.
Henrik: No, I don’t think our sufferings are sent to us by God. I think that God looks on his creation with grief and horror. No, suffering does not come from God.
The Queen: But suffering is said to purify us?
Henrik: I have never seen suffering to be of any help. On the other hand, I have seen instances of suffering destroying and deforming.
The Queen (to her lady-in-waiting): Countess, would you please be so kind as to hand me my shawl?
Countess Bielke at once gets up and puts the light shawl around the queen’s shoulders. For a few minutes, she sits with her eyes closed, her right hand to her breast.
The Queen (looks at Henrik): If it is as you say, Pastor, how can it be possible to console one single person?
Henrik: All consolation is momentary.
The Queen: . . . momentary?
Henrik: Yes. The only possibility is to persuade people, those seeking help, to make peace with themselves. To forgive themselves must have the right to say what I think. And now I’m crying, and if you think I’m crying because I’m miserable, you’re mistaken, as usual. My tears are because it hurts when you trample on me. You trample on your most faithful friend, and I’m crying because I’m so angry! I am furious and raging and would like to slap your face right here in front of your church, you . . . you camel!
Henrik: Don’t shout. People can hear. You’ve lost your mind! We can reason calmly, can’t we? (Starts laughing.) You really are so sweet when you’re angry like that.
Anna: Stop that stupid superiority! Stop grinning! If you say one more word, I’ll leave you and go back to Trädgårdsgatan and won’t speak to you again even if you crawl on your hands and knees all the way to Upsala.
Henrik (suddenly kind): Anna, forgive me.
Anna (more graciously): Frightened, were you?
Henrik: God in heaven, how angry you were!
Anna: I have a furious temper, I’ll have you know. And in the future, if there is any future, I’m going to make a habit of being angrier than ever.
Henrik: In all humility, I have a suggestion.
Anna: So you have a suggestion.
Henrik: I suggest we go and buy a strawberry ice-cream cone and then take the ferry over to Djurgården.
Anna: You mean, not discuss this?
Henrik: Anna, my dearest dearest. This is so serious for you, and so serious for me, and we are so close to each other. We must, for God’s sake, find a solution.
Anna: Of course, an ice cream might be calming as well as cooling.
The Djurgård ferry is fussily steaming along, rumbling faintly and trembling gently, the water glossy and oily with reflections of the sun in the swell. Anna and Henrik have a whole bench to themselves right up at the front, a kindly wind fanning their cheeks. Anna has taken off her hat and put it down beside her on the bench. They are eating their ice-cream cones.
Anna: Take your hat off.
(Henrik takes his hat off.)
Anna: May I have a taste of your ice cream?
Henrik: Let’s exchange. (They switch cones.)
Anna: You start.
Henrik: I have nothing to say.
Anna: Ten minutes ago, you had quite a lot to say.
Henrik: I can repeat what I said.
Anna: But in a more friendly tone.
Henrik: In a more friendly tone.
Anna: I’m listening.
Henrik: As usual with me, it’s a feeling. This time I saw it in capital letters, gigantic letters, NO. Nothing else. And I was miserable and angry with myself and that fat slob of a Primarius. (Falls silent.)
Anna: And then?
Henrik: I don’t know. Nothing.
Anna (quietly): What shall we do?
Henrik: What do you want?
Anna: I don’t know any longer. It’s such a responsibility. Why can’t one take life a little lightheartedly?
Henrik: We aren’t that sort.
Anna: You aren’t that sort.
Henrik: I can’t force you to live in Forsboda all your life. If you sacrificed your ideas of a good life, you’d just be miserable and angry. And vengeful.
Anna: So would you, Henrik.
Henrik: Yes, yes, I probably would.
Anna: Yes.
Henrik: I can’t tell you how much this conversation pains me.
&nb
sp; Anna: Someone has to give in. Oh, I know it’ll be me. I don’t even understand why we’re arguing. You follow your vocation, and your vocation is to live and die in the wilderness among heathens and cannibals. That’s the vocation you have to follow — and I follow you.
Perhaps that’s my vocation. But I’m not as certain as you are. I thought life was to be colorful and brilliant. Great sacrifices and great feelings. Not being buried alive. Do you remember how we fantasized about the priest and the nurse and suffering humanity?
Henrik: It has turned out as we had dreamed.
Anna: No, Henrik. We did not dream about Forsboda.
Henrik: Is it so terrible?
Anna: Not until a few weeks ago. Then there was no alternative. (Sighs a little.) Oh, Henrik, I thought it was going to be so marvelous. (Smiles.)
Henrik: Poor Anna. Your stupid priest turned out not to be a particularly enchanting dream prince. You should have taken Torsten.
Anna: But it is strange, isn’t it? I didn’t want Torsten in the slightest. I just wanted you.
Henrik: You didn’t want Torsten because your family was crazy about him.
Anna: Do you think so? You may be right.
Henrik: So you took me because your mother detested me.
Anna (smiles): That sounds possible.
What follows is an extract of a letter from Pastor Primarius Alopéus to his dear friend and colleague, Samuel Gransjö, parish priest of Forsboda.
When I received your worthy missive of the thirteenth of this month and had thoroughly taken in its message, I hurried to request an audience with Her Majesty the Queen. I must confess that Her Majesty professed profound disappointment over young Bergman’s refusal, which was as surprising as it was unwise. I nevertheless ventured at this painful moment of perplexity to suggest a slight retardation of our plans. In all humility, I put it that it might be possible that we had acted all too precipitately and possibly ought to give our young friend and his fair wife a period of time to think it over, let us say, a year. Her Majesty was pleased to find my idea worth considering, and so I am suggesting to My Highly Honored Brother that on some appropriate occasion he return to Her Majesty’s offer. I am convinced that My Honored Brother, with all conceivable wisdom, will turn our young friend’s thoughts in the desired direction, thus not forgetting the delightful Mrs. Anna’s quite certainly decisive influence on her husband’s feelings and thoughts. It is indeed possible that I am mistaken, but the young wife seemed to me quite enthusiastic about the possibility of a brilliant and honorable Advancement. Her Majesty the Queen particularly requested me to send her regards to My Honored Brother and say that with confidence she entrusted this delicate task into the experienced hands of My Respected Brother. Finally, I call down on you, My Beloved Brother in Jesus Christ, and the whole of Your House, the Grace and Blessings of God. Tuus Anders Alopéus.
The Reverend Gransjö read the letter through twice, then went to rest on his couch, pondering in his heart on what he had read and deciding to bide his time until the right moment. After which, he fell asleep and slept until dinnertime, when, with gentle taps on the door, Mrs. Säll woke him to new potatoes and salmon. Although it was wartime, neither the potato fields nor the river were showing the slightest signs of crisis.
On the Saturday before Midsummer, the pastor assembles his confirmands to decorate the chapel with flowers and budding birch twigs. Anna and Henrik have already set off from home early in the afternoon, followed by Mia and Mejan, Petrus, their son Dag, and the dog Jack. All except Jack have great armfuls of blue and white lilacs they have gathered from the arbor, which is giving out bountiful scents and colors. The master of the house and his whole family are on their way toward the chapel. Suddenly Anna puts her left arm around her husband’s waist, presses her forehead against his shoulder, and says she’s happy. “I’m happy now, Henrik. I feel I’m really happy again now. You were probably right, the way you felt about that offer. I was dazzled by the brilliance, you see. Now I feel I’ve got over all that, those childish things. You were the wise one — which doesn’t mean you’re always wise. But on that particular occasion, you were wise and I was stupid.”
Anna says all this in a whisper as she clasps her husband around the waist and adjusts her steps to his. Now they’re walking with quick, even strides, she in a white summer dress with a high waist and wide skirt. She has unlaced her boots and taken off her stockings, and so is barefoot and bareheaded, her thick brown hair in a braid down her back. Henrik says without thinking that he has often wondered what paradise might look like, and there’s presumably no such thing as paradise, but if there is a paradise then it exists here on earth in June on Saturday afternoon in the parish of Valbo. “Here I am, Henrik Bergman, wandering in the Garden of Eden in utter bliss. I would never have believed it. I never believed it could happen to me. Never. And angels! And the paradise dog! It’s not possible! It’s unfathomable!”
They number fifteen, the confirmands, seven boys and eight girls, some from the workers’ quarters around the Sawmill, some from the Works, the doctor’s youngest son, and Nordenson’s two daughters, Susanna and Helena. The last two are the oldest of the bunch, Susanna seventeen and Helena sixteen. All of them are busy decorating and cleaning under the supervision of Magda, who is wearing a dark blue apron over her light summer dress, and a wide-brimmed straw hat.
Then the pastor and his household arrive, so now there are twenty-one people in the little chapel, plus one dog. Work stops for greetings and chat. Anna sits down at the organ, Petrus tramps on the bellows, and von Duben’s summer hymn is sung:
In this pleasing summer time,
Go out my soul,
Rejoice in all the Almighty’s gifts!
See the earth in all its glory!
See for us its beauteous bounties.
No one notices Nordenson coming into the chapel and stopping by the door. He is wearing an elegant summer coat, a light suit, and a neatly tied necktie. He has his hat in his left hand. His face is pale, and he is thinner. The right-hand corner of his mouth is twitching, his eyes veiled, and the thin gray hair is neatly brushed, smooth, and pomaded.
Henrik is the first to notice the visitor, but he is saying the blessing after the hymn. Then he takes a few steps toward Nordenson, and everyone sees him, looks at him, the chapel now quiet.
Henrik: You are welcome, Mr. Nordenson. Would you care to sit down? Or perhaps you would like to help? There’s still a great deal to be done.
Nordenson: I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’ve come to fetch my daughters.
Henrik: That was very thoughtful of you, Mr. Nordenson, but Susanna and Helena will be busy for another hour at least. We are to go through the questions and answers before tomorrow.
Nordenson: I realize it’ll complicate matters, but I’m afraid my daughters must decline.
Henrik: I’m sure Mrs. Säll will be willing to take the girls home as soon as we’ve finished. You needn’t wait for them, Mr. Nordenson.
Nordenson: I’ve come to fetch my daughters. My daughters. Susanna and Helena.
Henrik: I realize you’ve come to fetch your daughters. But unfortunately, that can’t be done for another hour. The girls are occupied with other things.
Nordenson: Really. They are occupied. With other things. Helena and Susanna are occupied.
Henrik: So they’ll not be ready to be fetched for another hour, you see, Mr. Nordenson.
Nordenson: Susanna! Come over here!
(Susanna does not move.)
Nordenson: Helena! Come over here!
(Helena does not move.)
Nordenson (calmly): Come now, my girls. I can’t wait forever.
Henrik: I suggest we two go out into the churchyard and sort this problem out. There must be some kind of misunderstanding.
Nordenson: I can reassure the pastor on that point. There isn’t the slightest misunderstanding. Regardless of the time of day and the locality, it is Susanna’s and Helena’s imperative duty to obey the
ir father.
Henrik: There must be some solution.
Nordenson (calmly): Absolutely, Pastor Bergman. The solution is that my daughters come with me. This moment!
Henrik: And if they don’t obey?
Nordenson: I know they’ll obey.
Henrik: What will happen if I ask you to leave the church?
Nordenson (quietly): Then I’ll use force.
Henrik: Force against whom?
Nordenson: Against anyone.
Henrik: It’s not possible.
Nordenson (conciliatory): Stop playing this game now, Pastor Bergman. I am asking you politely to tell my daughters to come with their father.
Henrik: You’re intoxicated.
Nordenson: So are you, Pastor Bergman. But in a much more dangerous way. You are intoxicated with your power over my daughters. You have consciously humiliated me in front of the children. In that way you are thwarting Susanna’s and Helena’s chance of participating in confirmation and communion.
Henrik (short pause): Susanna and Helena, go to your father.
The girls stop what they are doing. Without looking around, they go to their father, come to a halt in front of him with their arms at their sides, faces turned away.
Nordenson: Your order came exactly half a minute too late, Pastor Bergman. Fifteen seconds ago I decided to stop their participation in your blood rituals. One day they will thank me for that.
Henrik: You may not do this.
Nordenson: What may I not do? May I not stop my children from being exposed to emotional rape, a vile idiotic game, a stinking orgy of tears and blood? What is it I may not do, Pastor Bergman?
Henrik breaks the choreographic pattern and takes the few steps up to Nordenson. He is very pale; blue shadows have appeared under his eyes; his mouth is trembling.
The Best Intentions Page 27
