The Best Intentions (13 page)

Johan Åkerblom:
Oh, yes. Did you think that out yourself, or did you read it somewhere?

Johan Åkerblom:
Well, what about all the devilment that surrounds us? How does that match up with God's agreement?

Henrik:
I don't know. Someone has said that we are satisfied with perspectives that are far too limited.

Johan Åkerblom:
I would say you have your answers down fairly pat. And when will you be qualified?

Henrik:
If all goes well, I shall be ordained in two years. Then I'll be given a chaplaincy almost immediately.

Johan Åkerblom:
Not much to start with, I suppose?

Henrik:
Not that much.

Johan Åkerblom:
Not enough to start a family, eh?

Henrik:
The church likes her young priests to marry. The pastor's wife plays an important role in the parish.

Johan Åkerblom:
And what is she paid?

Henrik:
Nothing, as far as I know. The pastor's stipend is also his wife's stipend.

Johan Åkerblom turns toward the dazzling summer light, his face gray and sunken, the gentle gaze behind the pince-nez darkened by physical pain.

Johan Åkerblom:
I suddenly feel rather tired. I think I'll go and lie down for a while.

Henrik:
I hope I haven't caused you any inconvenience.

Johan Åkerblom:
No, not in any way, my young friend. A sick man who seldom thinks of ultimates understandably may be somewhat shaken by talk of Death and ultimates.

Johan Åkerblom looks at Henrik benignly and signals to him that he would like to be helped out of his chair. As if by magic, Mrs. Karin and Anna appear and take over.

So that Johan Åkerblom does not have to bother with the stairs, the nursery, the sunniest room in the house, has been made into a bedroom for the invalid. He sinks down on the bed with a pillow under his right knee. The shade has been pulled down, coloring the air a gentle pink. The window is open; outside, the birch trees rustle, and the express train to Stockholm, which doesn't stop at the little station, signals before the railway bridge. Johan Åkerblom winds up his gold watch and checks the time. Karin is standing at the end of the bed, unlacing his boots. “No,” says Johan Åkerblom, sighing. “I wasn't able to talk to our guest. I simply couldn't bring myself to talk to him about what you wanted me to say to him.” “So I suppose I'll have to deal with it,” says Karin Åkerblom.

That evening there is reading aloud around the dining room table. The paraffin lamp shines gently on the entire assembled family. Outside the windows, the August dusk thickens into night.

They all have their prescribed places at the evening ritual, in this case Mrs. Karin enthroned at the head of the table, reading from Selma Lagerlöf's
Jerusalem
. Next to her are the girls with their handwork, the wives together down one long side, Martha painting on parchment with a fine brush, Svea with her eyes and face enclosing her grinding illness. At the other end, Anna and Ernst are leaning over a large jigsaw puzzle tipped onto a wooden tray. The traffic superintendent is in his rocking chair by the window (no one else in the family would dream of sitting in that chair). He is outside the circle of light and turns his head toward the darkening landscape and the cold moonlight making the flowers of the pelargoniums take on a pale violet color. Carl has brought in a special table and put out a lamp for himself. He is leaning and quietly wheezing over a construction of balsa wood and thin steel wires. He maintains he is constructing a machine for measuring the
humidity in the air. Oscar and Gustav are benevolently dozing in each corner of the long sofa below the wall clock, their evening drinks, bottles of mineral water and brandy, on the low table in front of them.

Henrik has finally placed himself on the very edge of the company, or perhaps outside the company, it's hard to know which. He has sat down on a narrow basket chair by the door into the kitchen and is sucking on his empty pipe, observing the family, looking from one to another, looking at Anna. Anna, apparently so absorbed by the puzzle, Anna leaning toward her brother, Anna, who has gathered her hair into a knot today Anna's smile, Anna's intimacy, Anna safely enclosed in her family. Look at me, just for a moment. No, she is absorbed, inaccessible inside the magic circle of the ceiling lamp. She is whispering to Ernst. That swift, conspiratorial smile. See me, just for a moment! No. Henrik cultivates a mild grief, an elegiac sense of being outside. At that moment, he is wallowing in something he likes to call hopeless love. At the same time he realizes with a shudder of satisfaction that he is worthless. He is wandering in the shadows, far beyond Grace. He is seen by no one, and that is true.

Mrs. Karin's reading is well articulated, subdued yet dramatic. When she comes to dialogue, she gives her performance a little character, coloring it according to her own judgment, and is fascinating in a simple way, allowing herself also to be captivated by what she is reading:

Karin:
“When the Dean's wife came into the doorway, she stopped and looked around the room. A few of them tried to speak to her, but she could hear nothing at all that day. She raised her hand and said in that dry hard voice of the kind often used by deaf people: ‘You no longer come to me, so I have come to you to tell you you must not go to Jerusalem. It's an evil city. That was where they crucified Our Saviour!' Karin tried to answer her, but she heard nothing and simply went on: ‘It's an evil city and wicked people live there. That was where they crucified Christ. I've come here,' she went on, ‘because this has been a good house. Ingmarsdotter is a good name. It has always been a good name. You must stay in our parish!' Then she turned and went out. Now she had done what she had to do, and she could die in peace. This was the last act life was demanding of her. Karin Ingmarsdotter wept when the old lady had gone. ‘Maybe it's not right for us to go,' she said. But at the same time, she was glad the old lady had said: ‘Ingmarsdotter is a good name. It has always been a good name.' That was the first and only time anyone had ever seen Karin Ingmarsdotter hesitant when confronted with the great undertaking.”

Karin Åkerblom closes the book with a little bang; the clock above the sofa strikes ten, and it's time to disperse. “Think of all those good intentions,” says Svea, opening her eyes and peering up at the ceiling lamp. ‘All that goodwill that caused so much misery. For it all came to nothing but misery.”

Karin
(
benevolently
): Have you read the Jerusalem books, Svea? I didn't know that.

Svea:
My dear Karin, I read them seven years ago. You read a lot when you can't sleep.

Karin makes a dismissive gesture and pats Svea on the arm. Like all very healthy people, she doesn't like hearing about illness.

Karin:
You'll see, Svea, that new bromide pill will do the trick. Tidy up behind you, won't you, girls. Off you go! Come on now, Johan Åkerblom, I'll help you with your shoes. Oscar, you'll have your breakfast at seven tomorrow morning, so that you can catch the Stockholm train without having to hurry. I've told Lisen you're to have breakfast at seven. Come on now, Johan, where's your cane? Anna, would you take the tray of drinks and put the brandy away in the cupboard? Anna, Ernst, and Mr. Bergman, you three wait here. I'll soon be back. We have a few things to talk about. Would you please open the door, Martha? That's right. Mind the sill, Johan! It really is unnecessarily high, in fact isn't really necessary at all.

“Good night”s and “sleep well”s crisscross the room. Martha slips out onto the veranda for a last cigarette. Mother-in-law doesn't approve of women smoking. Henrik, Anna, and Ernst put away the puzzle, which turned out to be of a castle in Normandy with a bridge and an ox-cart. Oscar hurries out to the outhouse, the lantern fading away into the night. Carl carefully carries both table and lamp up to his attic room — his boyhood room. Gustav gets something to read out of the glass-fronted bookcase. Good night, good night, and another day leaves our time and never comes back. Good night, good night.

Anna, Henrik, and Ernst remain seated at the table. Mrs. Karin comes in from the hall. She has put on a soft violet-colored peignoir (very correct, with her guest in mind). She sits down at the head of the table and runs her hand over the checkered oilcloth that is always put on after dinner. She makes the same gesture once again, her broad engagement and wedding rings glimmering on the strong hand.

Karin:
Ernst has suggested that you three young people go off on a cycling trip to the farmland at Bäsna. The idea was, as far as I have
understood it, that you should stop overnight. By chance, I heard that Elias has brought his people and cattle back unusually early this year. So the buildings are empty. Ernst tells me he has Elias's and his father's permission to use the buildings for a few nights.
(Pause.)
Naturally, I am totally against your plans.

Ernst:
But, Mama dear!

Karin
(
raises her hand
): Let me finish. I am utterly against your plans, but I am not going to forbid them.
(Smiles sarcastically at Henrik.)
My children maintain quite forcefully that they are grown up and must take responsibility for themselves. Their parents will have to be satisfied with awaiting the consequences. The alternatives are not that wonderful. The threads between young and old are fragile. We old feel strongly about the link and guard it with constant compromises. The young, on the other hand, find it easy to cut through anything that doesn't suit them. I am not blaming you, for that is what it's like. You profit from your boldness and youthful ruthlessness. Our task is to look on. To make a long story short, I intend to be passive up to a certain point. One more thing: I shall always tell you where I stand. But you must always be quite clear about what I think. Any questions?

Anna:
How do you know that you're always right, Mama? We might just as well be right. Isn't that so?

Karin:
To some extent you've misunderstood my argument. I have experience; you haven't. I have learned to see our actions in a wider perspective. You go by your own desires. That's what you do when you're young. I did, too, when I was your age.

Anna:
Of course, you spoil some of the enjoyment, Mama, by talking in this obscure and threatening way. Actually, it's rather sophisticated.

Karin:
If you could read my thoughts, if you could see into my heart, as they say, then you would see neither threats nor whatever you called it — sophistication. You would probably find a mindless love for you and your brother. That's what you would see.

Anna at once goes over to her mother and embraces her. Karin Åkerblom allows herself to be embraced and pats her daughter lightly on the backside. The young men have been sitting speechless during this conversation, which indeed has been in their mother tongue, but which nevertheless has been incomprehensible to them.

Ernst:
Mama, you really are a game old thing. Don't you think so, too, Henrik?

Henrik:
To be honest, I don't really know what's going on. You'll have to explain to me.

Karin
(
energetically
): Exactly. Now let's all go to bed. I mean,
I'm
going to bed. I suppose you want to stay up for a little while longer? There's an opened bottle of red wine in the sideboard. Good night, Ernst, give your mother a kiss. Good night, Anna, make sure you don't talk too loudly and remember Papa is right next door. He'll be reading for an hour or two more. Then it must be quiet. Good night, Henrik Bergman. My husband tells me that your conversation this morning made quite an impression.

Henrik
(
bows
): Good night, Mrs. Åkerblom.

Karin:
Anna, don't forget to put out the lamp and make sure the veranda doors are locked.

They set off at about five in the morning. A few hours later, the day has become stifling and windless, a gray mist hiding the sun and the light strong but with no shadows. There is a lot of uphill work, and backpedal braking puts a fierce strain on backs and necks. Things get better after the old ferry crossing. The wind gets up over the heath, and they swim in the cold waters of the deep, swiftly running Boda River. They eat sandwiches and drink fruit juice, feeling better. Ernst starts laughing and complaining bitterly that no one can understand how grown people with their senses intact can, every summer, every year, be so self-destructive as to pack themselves together into the traffic superintendent's summer residence and, in addition, declare that everything is delightful. “Between ourselves, I have to tell you, my dear Henrik, that the situation has grown worse as my father's fatigue has increased. Mama feels she has to take on the whole responsibility, and she's developing a dreadful talent for manipulation and oppression. Now, however, we are about eighteen kilometers away from that dreadful accumulation of misunderstandings, confusions, and surrenders. Here's to freedom, my children! And then we toast in red currant juice.”

“It's easy to be ungrateful,” says Anna. “Mama makes efforts far beyond her strength. Then she doesn't sleep and is restless. And the more tired she becomes, the more she feels she has to handle the most minute details in the household. Then she complains, and we get angry and unfair.” “Yes, yes,” says Ernst, complementing his sister. “Anna and I keep up a perpetual conversation about Mama. We are
most unjust toward her. But we have to take care of our safety valves. Think about Papa in his heyday, and Mama and her consuming efficiency. No wonder the brothers have become what they are. Anna and I have got off lightly.” “I shall certainly keep Henrik away from our family,” says Anna suddenly, then turns scarlet.

By midday, they have reached their destination and quickly make themselves at home. There is a huddle of smallish buildings on the edge of the forest below the mountain. The grassy slope runs down to a circular pool called Duvtjärn, where there are water lilies along the opposite bank, their stalks disappearing into the brownish black water.