The Best Intentions (43 page)

Congregation:
Hallelujah! The Grace of God! The Love of Jesus!

Levander:
You who have gone astray, may you be taken by the hand of the Father. You who are lonely and think yourself spurned, may you already this night see the great light in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.

Congregation:
Amen, amen, amen.

Henrik tries to make his way out, almost suffocated by the heat and the crush. The congregation is now rising, and a trumpeter is on the platform. It is Tor Axelin from the village store. He is a member of the band of the Volunteer Defense Corps.

Congregation
(roaring):
The blood of Jesus my guilt doth take away. Jesus hast all reconciled. Jesus all good for me doth exhort. That I was mercifully spared. I a certain refuge find, in the deep wounds of Jesus. Jesus helps us out of need. Out into life and into death.

Henrik has reached the door and squeezes his way out. He sees surprised faces, a smile, someone whispers. Then at last he is away from that huge mysterious crush of human bodies. Icy nails in his face, the pain a release.

Mrs. Karin Åkerblom is waiting for the train, which is late because of the snowstorms in North Uppland. The two women meet on the
platform, but there is no time for emotions. The grandchild is whimpering, and overseeing things now assumes vital importance, so a porter, arranged for in advance, takes the luggage tags, and a hired cab sits waiting.

Lisen is standing at the front door. She has never seen the son. Light everywhere, warmth. Supper is on the table, which is laid with the hand-painted English cups and saucers. Anna and Mrs. Karin make a hurried tour of the apartment, which is unrecognizable. The dining room has been halved and turned into a study with desk and bookcases, and, at the moment, with a sofa bed made up for the night. “I'm sleeping in here,” says Mrs. Karin. “Then you and the boy can have my room. Have you ever seen such a nice room! I took away a third of the drawing room and got a pleasant bedroom. We've managed to get a cot for the boy. I hope he'll like it here.”

After they have eaten, Dag is to go to bed. He falls asleep before he has time to say his prayers. Lisen is puttering around in her room (the only room that remains unchanged). Mrs. Karin and Anna have closed the door. “Now at last, I really must take a look at you,” says the mother, her arm around Anna's waist. “Now I really must have a good look at you.”

The two women are standing on the green carpet in the drawing room, the light in the chandelier out and the mirrors behind the wall brackets reflecting the gentle candlelight. “I've so longed to be back,” says Anna. Her mother shakes her head and strokes her daughter's forehead and cheek. “Now you are.”

Anna:
I got so exhausted, you see.

Karin:
That's natural, you're in the third month.

Anna:
They were all ill. I was frightened.

Karin:
When is it due?

Anna:
The doctor thought July.

Karin:
You must go to Fürstenberg. I've spoken to him. He'll see you on Monday.

Anna:
Mama?

Karin:
Yes.

Anna:
I'd better . . .

Karin:
(
after a pause, carefully
): What is it?

Anna:
I'm confused and just want to cry.

Karin:
You've been traveling all day.

Anna:
I'm not going to break up my marriage. I'm not going to leave Henrik. Perhaps you got the wrong impression from my letters.

Karin
(
quietly
): Come, Anna, let's sit down here on the sofa. Just like in the old days. Would you like a little glass of sherry or a brandy? I'm going to have a stiff brandy — you too, won't you? After all these emotional upheavals.

Her mother pours out their drinks and puts the glasses on small, round silver platters, after which they sit down on the indulgently bulging green sofa. Mrs. Karin puts her feet up on a stool, Anna kicks off her slippers. She tucks her feet under her. A small lamp with a painted shade is on the low table, the small doors of the tiled stove open, the embers winking and flickering, crystal flowers of ice just visible behind the embroidered screens on the double windows. Anna closes her eyes. Mrs. Karin waits. A sleigh jingles down on the street below. The cathedral clock strikes the three quarters of the hour, distantly

On the twentieth of December 1917, the Iron Works goes bankrupt and all payments are suspended. That same morning, Nordenson is found dead in his study. He has shot himself through the mouth with his hunting rifle. Half the back of his head is spattered all over the bookcase.

In the unsettled icy morning light, more than a hundred men gather outside the Works office, the doors of which are locked, a neatly written notice on the board outside — No Payments. Two policemen from the Valbo force are posted outside the manor gates. The local policeman and his colleague are in the drawing room trying to speak to Mrs. Elin. Her face is expressionless except for a small polite smile, and her head is turned away as she answers yes and no and I don't know. He didn't tell me anything about his difficulties. He didn't talk at all recently. My husband did not want to worry me. I know nothing.

At the pastor's office, it is bitterly cold, and in order to share fraternally the insignificant warmth warring with the freezing drafts from the badly fitting windows, the Reverend Gransjö has left the door of his private room ajar. At the moment his assistant is busy on some errand in the course of duty, and the organist is on his way to the church to repair, if possible, one of the keys. As soon as air reaches the organ, it lets out a high-pitched sound, which must be silenced.

The Reverend Gransjö calls to his curate and asks Henrik to please come in and close the door. “Do sit down. Where is the new organist? He can't just go out like that without saying where he is going. But he's new, of course, and sings well. He's got a good voice, that boy.”

Henrik:
He went to the church to repair the organ. Some key in the top manual has fallen down. He thought he could silence it.

Gransjö:
Henrik, please go up to the Works and see if you can be of some help, outside or inside. I'll stay here and hold the fort. When it's this cold, my hip aches and I can hardly move. I'd only be a nuisance over there.

Henrik:
I'll go at once. (
Gets up
.)

Gransjö:
Do you know whether the Nordenson girls are at home, or whether they've gone to their grandmother's?

Henrik:
They've gone.

Gransjö:
Sit down for a moment.

Henrik:
Yes.

Gransjö:
How are things with you?

Henrik:
Excellent.

Gransjö:
I hear that Anna has gone to Upsala.

Henrik:
Yes, that's right.

Gransjö:
With the boy?

Henrik:
Anna's mother will at last see her grandson.

Gransjö:
Is she coming home for Christmas?

Henrik:
I don't know.

Gransjö:
Henrik, do you know
in general
when she's coming back?

Henrik:
No.

Gransjö:
What has happened?

Henrik: I
'm sorry, but I'm not prepared to make any kind of confession. May I go now?

Gransjö:
Of course.

Henrik:
I have no wish to be unfriendly, and I am grateful for your
interest, but I consider the occasion ill chosen to discuss my private griefs when the whole Works is faced with disaster.

Gransjö:
The disaster at the Works is a fact. Your disaster might possibly be avoided.

Henrik:
Was there anything else?

Gransjö:
I just want to point out that the offer still stands.

Henrik:
The offer? As far as I am concerned, it doesn't exist.

Gransjö:
So may I write to those concerned and tell them that whatever the circumstances you are not interested? Is that what you want?

Henrik:
I would be singularly grateful.

Gransjö:
Singularly grateful. I have noted that.

Henrik:
I know where I belong.

Gransjö:
And your wife?

Henrik:
She has also decided.

Gransjö:
Go now, Henrik Bergman. And make yourself useful.

Henrik bows politely to the old gentleman and goes through the pastor's office. He buttons up his short coat and pulls on his gloves, picking up his fur cap in the porch. His eyes are dry and smarting from lack of sleep. As he turns off toward the Works, he meets Magda Säll, who greets him kindly.

Magda:
Are you on your way to the Works?

Henrik:
Your uncle sent me.

Magda:
There's a lot of talk about sending for the army.

Henrik:
Is it that bad?

Magda:
I don't know. It was just something I heard. When's Anna coming back?

Henrik:
I don't know exactly.

Magda:
We have to discuss the bazaar. I suppose it'll have to be postponed now.

Henrik:
Your uncle is still at the office.

Magda:
I was just going to fetch him. He finds walking so difficult when it's cold. And he's in pain all the time, poor thing.

Henrik:
I'll let you know.

Magda says something, but Henrik has already started off along the hilly road toward the Works. An engine and some empty goods wagons are standing at the railway station. No one in sight. The daylight has gone, and the light is leaden.

Outside the office and outside the yard walls, it is black with people. The policeman has climbed onto a ladder leaning against the warehouse wall and is speaking in a loud voice, saying it is pointless to stay there. Everyone should go home and wait for information that might come the next day or at the earliest the day after tomorrow. A special delegation from the Unemployment Commission is on its way, and starting up the Works again in the new year is being discussed. The Works has outstanding orders, and the creditors are meeting in Gävle at this moment planning to continue production. “So please go home. I am asking you to go home. Go home, please. There's no real reason to worry. Most of all, we don't want any trouble.”

A hard snowball hits the wall. The policeman looks with astonishment at where it landed, then back at the silent crowd. Perhaps he is wondering whether to say something, but he doesn't, and gets down from the ladder. People make way for him. Henrik is dispirited and stays where he is. He recognizes his parishioners but doesn't dare go any nearer. He walks through the silent groups, occasionally greeting someone, and they greet him back.

Nordenson is lying on his leather sofa in his study His head is bandaged, his face protruding from the bandages, that great nose standing out more than ever, the thin lips half-open, exposing his top teeth, his skin discolored, the stubble dark and eyelids red. He is still wearing his stained dressing gown, a shirt with no collar, baggy trousers, and slippers. The overhead electric light is on, but otherwise the corners of the room are in darkness.

Elin:
This is his farewell letter. Perhaps you would like to hear what he says, Pastor Bergman
(doesn't wait for an answer and starts reading in a calm voice)
.

In recent years, anyhow for the last two years, almost every evening I have gone into my study, locked the door, and put the barrel of my gun into my mouth. I can't say that I have been particularly desperate. I have just had a desire to train my will for the inevitable. It will be a great relief to go into final, and as I see it total, loneliness. I have made provision for my nearest, for Elin and the
girls. They will not be affected by the financial situation. I have no reason to apologize for my death, even if it will cause some practical and hygienic problems. Neither have I any reason to apologize for my life. As is well known, I was attracted by all kinds of gambling. I won occasionally and that was fun, but on the whole I was indifferent to it. Life itself was one of the more banal gambles, a gamble I mostly had to take on someone else's conditions. It wasn't a question of chance. Perhaps I was occasionally my own opponent. In that case, that would be the only really comical point. Now I am drunk, sufficiently drunk, and so put a full stop.

Mrs. Elin lowers the letter and breathes jerkily, a kind of dry sob. She smiles in embarrassment.

Elin:
Do you wish to say a prayer, Pastor?

Henrik:
No, I don't think so.

Elin:
You don't think . . .?

Henrik:
I don't think Mr. Nordenson would like it if I stood here and read a prayer.
(Pause.)
Have you spoken to the girls, Mrs. Nordenson?

Elin:
They're staying with my mother over Christmas.

Henrik:
Is there anything I can do? (
Helpless
.)

Elin:
No. No, thank you. Please give my regards to the Reverend Gransjö and say I will come to the office early tomorrow morning, so we can discuss the funeral.

Henrik:
I'll tell him that.

Elin:
I must thank you, Pastor Bergman, for taking all this trouble.

Henrik does not reply, but simply shakes hands and bows. On his way home, he goes past the Works office. It is still closed, but lights are on in the windows and strangers in hats and overcoats are moving about inside, talking to one another, looking in files, sitting at tables, and leafing through papers. The wind has got up, and snow comes drifting in thick chunks from the dark icy wastes of Storsjön. A greenish uncertain strip of light is hovering above the edge of the forest. The harbor area and the road are deserted. People have gone home. There had been no trouble. Someone had just thrown a snowball, which hit nothing.

Anna has put on a high-waisted, ankle-length, dove-gray silk dress with a broad belt under her breast, wide sleeves, oval neckline, high-heeled
shoes with straps, lacy stockings, necklace, and earrings. She has done her thick hair into one braid that comes down to her waist. She has put on perfume and blackened her eyelashes. For the first time, her son is wearing a sailor suit, white knee-stockings, and shiny new low shoes. Mrs. Karin has put on a gray dress of thin wool with a lace collar and high cuffs. She has gathered her white hair into a graceful knot on her head. In honor of the day, Miss Lisen has put on her black dress and a brooch, small gold rings in her ears, a genuine tortoiseshell comb in her hair, and her best boots, which creak.