The Best Intentions (14 page)

The cottage consists of a single room that serves as both kitchen and sleeping quarters. The people who usually live there have just gone back to the village for the harvest and threshing, so it's clean and scrubbed, but full of dead flies. It smells of sour milk and smoky stove. A tangle of wild raspberries leans on the corner of the cottage. The old well with its lever is built over a spring. The water is cold and tastes of iron. Two felled and withered young birches are wilting by the porch.

After they have moved in, Ernst says he is going into the forest to fish for trout and politely asks whether anyone wants to go with him. Neither Anna nor Henrik seem inclined to. Ernst says he understands perfectly well, but adds that he will be back for dinner, and they are to have fresh fish. Then he says good-bye, puts his long fishing rod over his shoulder, and disappears on the path to the mountain.

Anna and Henrik are left to themselves and each other. The tension in the silence crashes all around them, deafening and confusing and, despite everything, unplanned. They start kissing on their way to the pool, where they are going to look at the water lilies. They turn back to the cottage and lock themselves in and go on kissing. “No,” says Anna. “We can't be together. It's impossible, Henrik. I'm bleeding.”

So they go on kissing and take off some of their clothes. They land on a bed with a bedspread as coarse as a bed of nails, but that is no real obstacle. Then suddenly there is quite a lot of blood, pretty much everywhere. Anna says it hurts, be careful, it hurts. Then she forgets it hurts, and it doesn't hurt any longer. She no longer cares that blood is all over the place and that the pulse in Henrik's neck is beating against her lips. She sobs and laughs and holds him tightly. For a few moments this is a pastime — but a decisive one.

So much becomes decisive when one tries to examine an event
after the fact and knows what happens later. An event that also consists of a few loose odds and ends. It means filling in the account with understanding and possible inspiration. Occasionally I can hear their voices, but very faintly. They encourage me, or say dismissively: It wasn't like that
at all.
It
really
didn't happen like that.

As far as this episode is concerned, I have heard no comments, either one way or the other. I remember Mother once saying: “Oh, yes, we often went on cycling trips to the farmlands at Bäsna. When we got there, Ernst went off to catch trout. When he came back, he produced a fat eel. I refused to kill it, so we released it into the Duvtjärn and then we fried pork and potatoes for dinner. I remember that.”

They are now sitting on the jetty, much damaged by the ice, with a scrubbing brush and green soft soap, scrubbing away at the old bedspread, which only reluctantly relinquishes the blood.

Anna:
This spring, we were doing our practical at Sabbatsberg Hospital. My roommate and I ended up in a ward for old men in the last stages of consumption. It was terrible, terrible. So much horror and misery. At first I had to go out and vomit several times a day, and Paula fainted when the doctor showed some poor wretch who had suppurating sores all over his body It was a strange time, you see, almost like a dream. We had to wash the patients when they messed themselves, and we learned to put in catheters both here and there. They were dying like flies all the time. A screen was just pulled round, and sometimes at night you had to sit and hold someone's hand and just watch while his life simply ran out. I thought I'd never again be the same Anna as I had been, and I was pleased about that. Then I thought about you, Henrik. Do you think the stains have all gone now? No, there's another one. I thought about you, Henrik. And I thought about us, when we get married. Do you understand what an
unbeatable combination
you and I will be? You a priest and me a nurse! It's as if you could see
a plan
for our life. We've come together to accomplish something for other people. You bandage the soul and I the body Isn't that magnificent! If it weren't so impossible, I could believe that God had thought it up. What do you think?

Henrik covers his face with his hands and sits like that for a few moments, far too dazzled by the enthusiastic and loving look in Anna's eyes.

Anna:
What's the matter, Henrik?

Henrik:
I don't think it's allowed.

Anna:
I don't understand at all what you mean.

Henrik:
This much joy just cannot be allowed. Some punishment must be on its way.

Anna:
The sun shines after rain. (
She stretches out a hand, throws back her head, and is silent for a moment.)
A mild wind is blowing. We love each other, and we're going to live together. We'll . . .
(She takes down the hand and puts it against Henrik's cheek.)
We shall live
for each other and be useful to other people.
And our children shall be as clear-minded as we are.

Henrik:
You must stop now. I think there's a secret cosmic envy that punishes people who talk like that.

Anna:
Then I challenge that cosmic envy to a duel, and I promise you I know who'll win! Now let's hang up this bedspread and let it dry in the sun. Then our sin will be obliterated.

It has been said and decided from the start that Henrik's visit would end on Thursday the twenty-second of August. On Wednesday afternoon, Henrik is sitting in Ernst's room at the brown escritoire, trying to go through his examination sermon. The house is silent and empty, the family gone to the hill with the grand view with some guests who had arrived from the capital in their own automobile. The superintendent of traffic is slumbering in his chair on the veranda. Siri and Lisen are sitting on the bench overlooking the sunset, preparing chanterelles from a basket between them.

As if by chance, Karin Åkerblom has stayed behind and not gone on the outing, pleading a slight cold. As if by chance, she knocks on her youngest son's door and, without waiting for an answer, looks in. Henrik at once rises to his feet. Mrs. Karin apologizes and says she has no wish to disturb him, but just wants to know whether Ernst has left his cardigan at home, so that she can mend it, for there is a large hole in the elbow. As if by chance, she comes into the room and looks around with two swift glances. She has her ingeniously fitted-out mending bag over her arm. She smiles benevolently at Henrik and asks if she is by any chance disturbing him. Henrik bows and tells her that she is not disturbing him in the slightest.

“Then may I ask your assistance, Mr. Bergman?” she says, swiftly digging out a skein of thick wool and threading it over Henrik's outstretched hands. She suggests that they sit down opposite each other by the open window. The creeper climbing all the way up to the
eaves has begun to turn red, and a faintly acrid scent of autumn is coming from the marigolds in the beds below. But it is still summer weather, and a summer wind is blowing across the river, which is glittering in the bright afternoon light.

If Henrik had known anything about Mrs. Karin Åkerblom, that knowledge would have warned him. He now tumbles headlong into all the pitfalls and walks innocently into all the traps. Her ability to get people to confess has been testified to. She is now sitting there with a quiet smile and has tied Henrik's hands together with blue wool. The ball is being nimbly wound up.

Karin:
Are you going back home to Söderhamn and your mother tomorrow, Mr.Bergman?

Henrik:
I'll probably be going straight to Upsala.

Karin:
But the term doesn't start for a while, does it?

Henrik:
I have to find a room and get myself settled. I'm also retaking church history.

Karin:
Oh, so you've had your exam in church history, have you? That's Professor Sundelius, isn't it?

Henrik:
Yes. It didn't go too well.

Karin:
Professor Sundelius is a real tormentor of students. I remember him as a young man. He used to come to our home. He was a handsome youth, but terribly self-important. Then he married into money and a big stone house and made a career in liberal politics. People say he'll be a cabinet minister, from what I can make out.

Karin Åkerblom looks out the window and seems to be thinking. Then there's a tangle in the wool, and she leans forward to separate the threads.

Karin:
Have you enjoyed your stay here with us, Mr. Bergman?

Henrik:
Very much, thank you. Ernst is a very good friend.

Karin:
Ernst is a fine boy. Johan and I are immensely proud of him. We try to keep our enthusiasm in check. The danger is that we might otherwise inhibit him with our expectations.

Henrik:
I don't think Ernst seems oppressed. He's an unusually free person. In fact, he's the only truly free person I know.

Karin:
I'm glad to hear you say so, Mr. Bergman.

Henrik:
I'm very fond of him. He's like a brother to me.

Karin:
I think Ernst is also happy that you're friends. He's said that many a time.

Henrik:
You were kind enough to ask me, Mrs. Åkerblom, whether I had enjoyed my stay. Naturally I replied that I had, very much so. But that's not entirely true. I have been frightened and tense.

Karin:
Frightened? But my dear boy, why frightened?

Henrik:
The Åkerblom family is an alien world to me. Although my mother took great trouble with my upbringing.

Karin:
But my dear boy! Has it been so difficult?

Henrik:
Most of it would have been bearable, if only I hadn't been so aware of the criticism.

Henrik:
The family is critical.I am weighed on the scales and found wanting.

Karin
(
laughs
): Now, listen, Mr. Bergman! All families are like that. We're certainly no worse than any other. And you know, Mr. Bergman, you have two very competent and devoted defenders.

If this were a conventional novel, now would be the time to describe what Mrs. Karin is thinking and perhaps most of all Henrik's fluttering emotions when faced with Mrs. Karin's clear looks. Far too late, Henrik has realized that the trap door has slammed behind him. His chances of making a case for himself are extremely limited.

Henrik:
Perhaps it is worse than that, Mrs. Åkerblom. I have felt unwelcome.

Mrs. Karin smiles a little and goes on winding. She waits a while before saying anything, and that makes him uncertain. He thinks perhaps he has gone too far, that he has overstepped the boundaries of courtesy.

Karin:
And you think that?

Henrik:
I do apologize. I didn't mean to be discourteous. Nevertheless, I can't shake off the feeling that I am not tolerated. Particularly by the mother of Ernst and Anna.

Another silence. Mrs. Karin nods as if in confirmation. I have received your message, Mr. Bergman, and I am mulling it over.

Karin:
I'll try to be honest with you, Mr. Bergman, although I may well have to hurt your feelings. In that case, it will be unintentional. My antipathy, or whatever I should call it, is nothing personal. I even think I would be able to entertain friendly and motherly feelings toward Ernst's young friend. I see that you are a sensitive and vulnerable person, who has in many ways already been afflicted by harsh reality. My antipathy, if that is what we are to call my combined attitude, is entirely to do with Anna. I like to think I know my daughter fairly well, and I believe a liaison with you, Mr. Bergman, would lead to a catastrophe. That is a strong word and I know it may seem exaggerated, but nonetheless, I must use the word.
A major catastrophe.
I cannot think of a more impossible and fateful combination than between our Anna and Henrik Bergman. Anna is a spoiled girl, willful, strong-willed, emotional, tenderhearted, extremely intelligent, impatient, melancholy and cheerful at the same time. What she needs is a
mature man
who can nurture her with love, firmness, and unselfish patience. You are a very young man, Mr. Bergman, with little insight into life, with, I fear, early and deep wounds beyond remedy or consolation. Anna will despair in her helpless attempts to heal and cure. So I am asking you . . .

Mrs. Karin looks at the blue ball of wool that is growing in her hands. She bites her lip, and red patches appear on her cheeks.

Henrik:
May I say something?

Karin:
Yes. (
Absently
.) Of course.

Henrik:
I refuse to accept this conversation. As Anna's mother, Mrs. Åkerblom, you may well have good reason to poison me with accounts of my appalling spiritual life. I can assure you that most of your arrows have struck home. The poison will no doubt have the intended effect. And yet your attack is unforgivable, Mrs. Åkerblom. An outsider, even if she happens to be the Holy Mother, can never interpret what happens in two people's minds. The family reads Selma Lagerlöf in the evenings. Has it never occurred to you from what you read that the author speaks of Love as the only earthly miracle? A miracle that transforms. The only real salvation. Does the family perhaps believe the author has invented that to make her dark sagas slightly more attractive?

Karin:
I have lived quite a long time, but I have never even caught a glimpse of any miracles, either earthly or heavenly.

Henrik:
Exactly, Mrs. Åkerblom. Australia does not exist because you have never seen Australia.

Mrs. Karin gives Henrik Bergman a sharp but appreciative look, then smiles quickly.

Karin:
I fear our conversation is beginning to be far too theoretical. The facts are that with all my power and
all my means
, I will put a stop to any further dealings in love on the part of my daughter.

Henrik:
I think that is an unrealistic decision.

Karin:
What is unrealistic about it?

Henrik:
You can't possibly stop Anna. I think any such attempt would simply result in hatred and conflicts.