The Best Intentions (19 page)

Henrik Bergman is ending Sunday evensong in the medieval church in Mittsunda. It's a quiet evening in the middle of June, the sun shining
below the clouds and coloring the squat tower and the tops of the limes. A slight coolness is rising off the brilliant smooth surface of the little lake. The church porch has recently been tarred and gives off an astringent smell. The paths are raked, graves tended, silence. The cuckoo calls from various directions.

Henrik takes off his cassock, hangs it up in the yellow varnished cupboard in the sacristy, and sits down at the table where the church-warden has just counted the evening collection. That is soon done and soon recorded. “I'll stay for a while,” says Henrik. “Don't forget to lock up,” says the churchwarden. “I'll leave the key in the usual place. Good night, Pastor.” And so Henrik is alone.

Later on, he is standing down by the water's edge, staring out over the pale stillness. Dusk is light and transparent. No one speaks, no one replies, no one prays, and no one is listening. Henrik is alone.

Later still, he is sitting in the guest room at the parish priest's in Mittsunda. The pastor's wife has put out milk and hard crispbread sandwiches for him. Henrik drinks and munches. Then he gets up and lights the paraffin lamp, stands there, and listens to his loneliness, a wound.

He can hear subdued talk and laughter from the dining room. The parish priest has some guests to supper.

Sleeplessness. Getting up at dawn, shaving, washing, dressing, and going out. Drizzle and a mild wind. Strong scents from the garden. The elms rustle. Henrik stands still. It hurts. He walks a few steps. That hurts almost as much. It's not possible to hurt so much. It's nothing physical. Wordless. Shut in. Shut out.

Suddenly he hears footsteps on the gravel path. Henrik turns around. A man is coming toward him, broad forehead, brushed-back hair, high cheekbones, snub nose, wide mouth, strong chin, broad shoulders, lively, energetic movements, walking lightly, holding his hand out to Henrik, looking at him with glowing eyes. Henrik knows him at once. It is Nathan Söderblom, professor and author of a theological encyclopedia, but more than that: admired, almost worshiped by his students, in all likelihood an archbishop within the near future, international capacity, a deadly threat to the mechanisms of academic intrigues. Musician. He is wearing baggy trousers, his waistcoat unbuttoned, no collar to his shirt, a worn cardigan.

Nathan Söderblom:
Sleepless?

Henrik:
Good morning, Professor. Yes, I'm sleepless.

Nathan Söderblom:
The light nights. Or your soul?

Henrik:
My soul, more likely.

Nathan Söderblom:
I listened to your discourse yesterday evening.

Henrik:
Were you in church? I didn't see . . .

Nathan Söderblom:
No, you didn't see me, but I saw you. I was sitting with the organist, you see. We'd been playing Bach preludes for a few hours, working the bellows and playing in turns. Old man Morén is one of our great musicians. Did you know that? Well, then I thought I might as well stay and listen to you.

Henrik:
Just as well I didn't know.

Nathan Söderblom:
Maybe so, yes.

The professor stops and neatly fills his pipe. Despite the drizzle, it seems easy to light. His hands are broad, with protruding veins. His pipe belches smoke and squeaks.

Henrik:
I've had the good fortune to have been given a temporary position over the summer. Naturally I'm not at all mature enough for the task, but the parish priest is friendly and doesn't complain. I don't think my discourse yesterday evening was anything special. I keep rewriting and
re
writing, I'm so desperately dissatisfied with my achievements. Baptisms and funerals I find easier. Then I don't have to prepare. Then I see the people right up close to me. Then the words come by themselves. I'm sorry I'm talking so much.

Nathan Söderblom:
Just keep on talking.

But no more comes. Henrik realizes he has said too much and is embarrassed. The two men walk slowly up to the gate and the narrow road to the church and churchyard. The professor is smoking his pipe. The mosquitoes dance.

Nathan Söderblom:
I'm staying temporarily in the annex over there. The parish priest is an old student friend of mine and offered me a refuge. I must finish my book. There's always so much hullabaloo going on in Upsala.

Henrik:
What are you writing?

Nathan Söderblom:
Well, that's not easy to say. I'm writing about Mozart evincing God. That artists demonstrate God's presence. Roughly that.

Henrik:
Is that true?

Nathan Söderblom:
You certainly may not ask me that.

Henrik:
For me it's absence, silence. I speak, and God says nothing.

Nathan Söderblom:
That's unimportant.

Henrik:
Is it unimportant?

Nathan Söderblom:
You're here on earth to serve people, not God. If you decide to forget all that about God's presence and God's absence and direct all your strength toward people, then your deeds will be God's deeds. Don't demean yourself by constantly flirting with your faith and your doubts. You can't
demand
clarity, security, insight. Try to understand that God is part of his creation, just as Bach lives in his B-minor mass. You're interpreting a composition. Sometimes it's puzzling, but that's unavoidable. When you let the music sound — then you evince Bach. Read the notes! And play them as best you can. But don't doubt the existence of Bach and the Creator.

The pipe has gone out, and the professor stops. He stands still to relight it once, several times, and at last succeeds. Henrik is trembling, but not from the morning chill or the gentle rain.

Nathan Söderblom:
On the other hand, you cannot demand perfection. There's no point in raging over the cruelty of Creation. It's pointless to demand responsibility. Your task is to be concrete. Don't put God on trial. A great many of the best minds in the world have failed on that score. I think it's really beginning to rain now.

They turn off toward the church and go in through the porch. Henrik leans against the rough wall.

Henrik:
I'm imprisoned. And I'm frightened it's a life sentence, although no one had said anything.

Nathan Söderblom:
That's also unimportant.

Henrik:
Unimportant?

Nathan Söderblom:
Yes, my son. It's unimportant. I think you're capable of great devotion. I can see that you bear within you a profound desire to sacrifice yourself, but you don't know how. Your sense of being worthless stands in the way. You are your own worst enemy and jailer. Get up out of your prison. To your surprise, you will find that no one will stop you. Don't be afraid. The reality outside your cell is never as terrible as your terror inside your imprisoning darkroom.

Henrik
(
hardly audible
): How can I do that?

Nathan Söderblom:
Next week I have to go to London to a conference. When I get back at the end of June, you must get in touch with me. Maybe I am mistaken, but if things are as I think, there's a faint sign of a quick solution to your difficulty.

Henrik:
Bless me!

Nathan Söderblom:
No. Not like that. Get up!

Henrik
(
grasping his hand and kissing it
): Bless me!

Nathan Söderblom:
Get up. You've taken the first step toward freedom. Stay here for a while after I've gone. Weep if you feel like it. I'm leaving you now.

Henrik:
Professor, you don't even know what my name is or who I am.

Nathan Söderblom
(
at a distance, turning around
): I know your name. God be with you.

Karin Åkerblom makes up her mind, carries out her plans, and takes responsibility for her actions. Despite a grinding sense of approaching doom, at the end of May she sets off for Switzerland and fetches her daughter for a trip to Florence, Venice, and Rome. In Amalfi, they are to rest for a few weeks with their friends the Egermans. Then it's time to return to the family and the summer residence.

Mrs. Karin finds Anna well, and round cheeked, but quiet, assuring her with a polite smile that she is pleased to see her mother, that she has recovered, and that summer will soon be here. She also energetically maintains that she is pleased about the trip to Italy. She asks with interest after the family, and says she is looking forward to seeing her brother Ernst again. Yet despite this amiable young woman's amiable efforts to please her mother, one can sense an underlying stillness and an inaccessible melancholy.

One Thursday in the first week of June, mother and daughter are standing in the ancient enclosed courtyard of the Museo Nazionale. Mrs. Karin has her glasses on her nose and is lecturing from a thick little book. Anna is propped up against the well, listening politely. They are sensibly and elegantly dressed in lightweight, tailored summer suits, Karin in a hat, Anna with light headgear of thin lace.

Karin
(
reads aloud
): “The trend of realism in the fifteenth century brought with it a newly awakened study of nature. Interest in man and tangible reality predominated in sculpture. The true creator of Renaissance
sculpture was Donatello, the greatest artist of the century, whose profound study of Antiquity inspired his inherent talent for original creation.”

The white light draws sharp contours across the stone flags of the courtyard. Tourists move around in leisurely groups, and a fat cat with a malicious expression watches little birds bathing in a small puddle left from the night's rain.

Karin:
Are you tired?

Anna:
No, no. A little perhaps.

Karin:
We didn't get much sleep. Thunder and rain almost all night.

Anna:
It was the subject of conversation at breakfast.

Karin:
You should ask to have your breakfast taken up to your room, as I do. It's much nicer.

Anna: I like the chatter in the breakfast room. Mr. Sellmér is particularly attentive.

Karin:
Shall we go back for lunch, or shall we eat out? I know an excellent place quite near here.

Anna:
You decide, Mama.

Karin:
Then I suggest we eat at the hotel, so we can have a long siesta afterward.

The hotel's justifiably famous view is over Ponte Vecchio and the river. Inside, it is all English courtesy, shadowy public rooms with dusky red walls, expensive, somewhat faded tapestries and upholstery, huge paintings in shimmering gold frames, wide marble staircases, thick carpets muffling footsteps, and dazzlingly polished brass. The building surrounds an inner courtyard with lush greenery, two fountains, and afternoon music.

Karin Åkerblom and her daughter have rooms on the third floor with a connecting door between them, the windows facing the river. The ceilings are high, the lintels over the doors ornamental, and the beds spacious. Their common bathroom has recently been installed. All the pipes are outside the walls and play their own tunes. There is good reason to listen to the conversation at lunch, which runs like this:

Karin:
By the way, did you know that Count Snoilsky used to stay at this hotel? My mother knew him and met him several times. I mean, she was really better acquainted with Countess Piper, Ebba Piper. It
was a notorious scandal. Almost thirty years ago. And now Count Snoilsky is almost forgotten — a fine man, but sad.

(
Anna smiles politely, but doesn't answer
.)

Karin:
I had a letter from your brother Oscar. Did I tell you that this morning? Goodness. Well, so like him, but so thoughtful, the nicest of you all. Well, he says everything's fine at TrädgÅrdsgatan and he and Papa even went for a little walk! It's nice of Oscar to take care of Papa when we're away. Otherwise he'd probably be so lonely. Though Papa does say that he likes being on his own, and Einar Hedin goes to play chess with him on Friday evenings, but now that Ernst is in Christiania — I don't know. Papa writes to say he is looking forward to us coming home, and of course he's particularly looking forward to seeing you, but he never complains.

(
Anna doesn't answer, empties her glass of wine.
)

Karin:
. . . I mean, Papa also thought this trip of ours was a good thing. We ought to try telephoning home someday. Just think how surprised they would be, though you never know, they might be terrified something had happened to us.

(
Anna doesn't reply, is served.
)

Karin:
The main thing is that you're better. I say that to myself every day.

Anna:
I wonder why we've heard nothing from Ernst.

Karin:
Ernst! You know where he is, don't you?

Anna: I
wrote to him seven weeks ago.

Karin:
He knows you'll soon be home.

Anna:
Yes.

Karin:
You mustn't worry.

Anna
(
impatiently
): I'm not worrying.

Karin:
He knows Papa and I write to each other nearly every day.

Anna
(
impatiently
): That has nothing to do with it, has it?

Karin:
What do you mean? No, of course not.

Anna:
I want to go home.

Karin:
Of course, my heart. We're on our way.

Anna:
Can't we go home tomorrow? Straight home?

Karin:
But our plans are all set!

Anna:
Can't one ever change things?

Karin:
What do you think the Egermans would say?

Anna:
I don't care what the Egermans say. They're friends of yours, not mine.

Karin:
Elna's actually a childhood friend of yours, Anna.

Anna:
Elna doesn't interest me. Damn Elna!