The Best Intentions (24 page)

Alma:
The young people are leaving tomorrow. They're going to Forsboda to inspect the parsonage and the church. Henrik has been appointed to quite a long-term position with the possibility of a permanent post.

Freddy:
Forsboda? Beautiful countryside, wild and untouched nature, and then the estate and the manor house in the middle of the forest above the rapids. Do you like fishing, Henrik? If you do . . . (
Falls silent
.)

Freddy Paulin turns his dark, luminous eye on Henrik, who smiles politely; his smile nevertheless remaining unanswered and at once becoming fixed.

Freddy:
So you're a priest now, my dear Henrik. Yes, well, I knew your father, the one who broke away, the pharmacist. He was one of my closest friends, you know. Although he was much younger than me. In fact, I was more a contemporary of your grandfather's.

Henrik:
I never really knew my grandfather.

Freddy:
No, I know. I know. We used to sit on the same bench in Parliament. I can't really say I ever knew him. He wasn't that kind of person.

Henrik:
No.

Freddy:
But I did get to know your grandmother. She was, as they say; a charming person. We once spent a whole evening talking together, at a party.

Uncle Freddy fixes Henrik with his hideous eye, now impossible to avoid. Now the atrocity is evinced, and the word “inevitable” shines like a beacon in Henrik's egoistical darkness.

Freddy:
Your grandmother talked about you.

Henrik:
Oh, yes. (
Pause
.) Did she?

Freddy:
She thought your grandfather and the rest of the family had committed a great injustice toward your mother and you. She said she had hardly been able to live with the thought of the grandchild who had been taken away from her. She didn't know how to make up for it. She said that thinking about your mother's and your defenselessness and misery made her ill. She also tried to explain her powerlessness. For anyone who knows the Bergman family; that powerlessness was not difficult to understand.

Henrik:
No.

Freddy:
Then she died, did she, poor thing?

Henrik:
Yes, then she died.

Freddy:
Did you manage to go and see her before she passed away? She had a great need of . . .

Henrik:
She was in the Academic Hospital in Upsala. I was taking exams and put off going to see her. When I finally got around to it, she had died a few hours beforehand.

Freddy:
Did you see your grandfather?

Henrik:
We met in a hospital corridor but had nothing to say to each other.

Freddy:
I was at the funeral, but I didn't see you there.

Henrik:
I wasn't at my grandmother's funeral.

Freddy:
No, I understand.

Now there's nothing more to say. The rest of the conversation vanishes into thin air. When Freddy Paulin has finished his liqueur, he gets up briskly, as if relieved, and bids them farewell.

Alma bends over the girl, who has already crept down into bed. “Good night, my dear,” she whispers. “Good night, and don't forget to count the windowpanes. You should always do that in a new place; then your dreams come true.” “Good night, Mrs. Alma,” whispers Anna, “and thank you for letting us come. It's been a lovely evening.” She declines to throw her arms around Alma. Something stops her, but Alma strokes her cheek. “Will you put the lamp out, or do you want it left on?” “Thank you, I'll put it out in a minute.” “Just don't fall asleep over it,” warns Alma. “No, no,” smiles Anna, and Alma patters out of the room in her gray dressing gown, the thin, severe pigtail down her back. When she has taken off her corsets, her body collapses, her head protrudes, and her back bows as if she were bearing an intolerable burden.

Henrik is sitting on the made-up couch jammed up against the sideboard. He has got his nightshirt on and is winding up his pocket watch with a tiny key, a lighted candle on a chair in front of him. His mother comes toward him out of the semidarkness, moving without a sound, her face glowing chalk-white, but her eyes have vanished. She is like a huge blind fish at a great depth. Now she is there, puts the candle up on the sideboard, and sits down on the chair, her eyes visible again. She is breathing heavily: 'Anna's a sweet girl,” she whispers abruptly, her breath smelling of sour milk. 'Anna's a very nice girl and
so lovely, a real princess. You must take good care of her' Henrik shakes his head. “It's still like a dream,” he whispers, trying to avoid his mother's breath. “I don't think it has anything to do with me.” His mother leans over and kisses him on the mouth. “Good night, my darling boy. Sleep well. You mustn't feel guilty about your grandmother. No one is more guiltless than you are.” Alma looks at her son with glazed eyes, her lips moist. Henrik shakes his head, thinks of saying something but changes his mind. “Good night, then,” says Alma, kissing Henrik's hand. “Good night, and don't forget to blow the candle out.” She nods twice and disappears, wheezing faintly in the darkness, and closing her door soundlessly behind her. Henrik remains sitting there, frightened and at a loss: What's happening? he says to himself.

Alma has taken off her dressing gown and is puttering around her room, silently moving hither and thither. The dining room clock strikes eleven, and the church clock replies; the wind whistles down the street making a signboard screech, then silence returns. Alma has pulled the covers up over her stomach and is sitting upright, looking at the little ivory cross hanging on the wall of the alcove, her hands clasped. “Dear Lord,” she says. “Forgive me my sins today, and on all days. Dear Lord, keep and bless my little boy! Dear Lord, forgive me that I cannot love that girl. Dear Lord, take her out of Henrik's life. If I am wrong, if my thoughts are simply dark with malice, punish
me
, Lord! Punish
mel
Not him, or her!”

She turns out the paraffin lamp but lies awake for a long time, staring out into the darkness, listening intently. Something's moving there in the dining room. Sure to be Henrik on his way to that unknown woman. Alma has to sit up, her heart running riot and she almost suffocating. Of course Henrik is on his way to that unknown woman!

Anna is exhilarated when the pale figure appears in the gray rectangle of the door. She flings the covers aside and moves over to the wall. He is at once in her arms. They whisper and laugh. This is a very dignified mutual rebellion against parents.

Anna:
Your feet are cold.

Henrik:
But they'll warm up now.

Anna:
My feet are always warm. I have to stick them outside the covers. Then it's wonderful pulling them back in.

Henrik:
You and all your pleasures.

Anna:
Yes, I'm pleasure-loving, boundlessly. I'll soon teach you, you'll see.

Henrik:
What will you teach me?

Anna:
Lie down, so I can kiss you. (
Kisses his mouth
.) Well?

Henrik:
Yes, please.

Anna:
Supposing your mother hears us?

Henrik:
. . . is that also?

Anna:
Of course.

Henrik:
You're quite ruthless. (
Delighted
.) Are you?

Anna:
You're
mine
. I'm quite ruthless.

Henrik:
Poor Mama.

Anna:
“When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up. Teach me thy way, O Lord, and lead me into a land the Lord shall give me.” Isn't that what it says?

Henrik:
Not quite, but it sounded good.

Anna:
Poor Henrik!

Henrik:
Just imagine, here I am, in my old childhood bed, snuggled up with you. I can't believe it.

Anna:
But you have to go back to your own bed. We mustn't fall asleep together.

Henrik:
I'm not sure Mama would serve us coffee in bed!

Anna:
Good night.

Henrik:
Good night. Please don't forget me.

Anna:
I shall at once begin to think about you.

Henrik closes the door and pads back to his bed in the dining room. He doesn't hear his mother weeping into her pillow.

The remarks made at early breakfast the next day are almost impossible to register. Alma appears in her dressing gown, her hair untidy and face swollen with tears, her mouth trembling and pitiful. Anna and Henrik are cheerful but diffident, politely curbing their delight at departing, their delight in their love, their joy in touching, their joy in belonging.

Alma:
Would you like some more coffee, Anna?

Anna:
No, thank you. Please, do sit down. I'll get it myself. More Coffee, Henrik?

Henrik:
Yes, please. Are we in a hurry?

Alma:
The train to Sundsvall leaves at quarter past seven.

Henrik:
Then I've time for another sandwich.

Alma:
Cheese or salami, Henrik?

Henrik:
Both, please.

Anna:
We have to change trains twice. We won't arrive until this afternoon.

Alma:
I've put together a little basket of food for you. It's in the hall.

Anna:
How thoughtful of you, Mrs. Alma!

Alma:
Oh, my dear child!

Henrik:
It's begun to rain.

Anna:
Real autumn rain.

Alma:
I've got a big umbrella you cam barrow. Put it in the baggage room when you get to the station; then I'll pick it up later on.

Henrik:
Thank you, Mamma dear.

Alma:
Oh, that's all right.

Anna:
It's fun going by train when it's raining. You can curl up together and eat chocolate and sandwiches — and oranges, of course.

Alma:
I have something for Anna.

Alma hurries into her room and stays there. They can hear her blowing her nose and opening a drawer.

Anna
(
whispers
): Your mother's been crying.

Henrik:
Has she?

Anna:
Didn't you see her eyes were red-rimmed and her face swollen? She's been crying.

Henrik
(
lightly
): Mama's face is always swollen. And she is also always crying. I think she likes crying.

Anna:
She knows.

Henrik:
Knows what?

Anna:
Don't act stupid.

Henrik:
Do you mean she heard . . . ?

Anna
(
nods
): Yes, I do. And now she thinks a fallen woman is taking away her little boy.

Henrik:
Ah, you're imagining things.

Anna:
Ssh! Here she comes.

Alma opens the door. She has put on her little lace cap and done her hair. She has also exchanged her down-at-the-heel slippers for shoes. In her hand she has a slim wrought gold chain with a little medallion with A engraved on it, surrounded by some very small rubies. Alma holds it out and Anna gets up, almost frightened. There is no friendliness in Alma's gesture.

Alma
(
matter-of-factly
): I was given this medallion on the day I got engaged. Henrik's father gave it to me. Of course, it cost far too much, but he wasn't bothered about money. As you see, Anna, there's a big A engraved on it. So I think you should have it now as a gift from Henrik's father, as if he were here. There. May I put it around your neck?

Anna:
It's much too grand. You really shouldn't . . .

Alma:
Hush now, silly girl. It's a simple present. I'm sure you're used to better things.

Anna
(
tonelessly
): Thank you.

Alma:
You'd better be off now. I won't come with you. I hope you don't mind. I find walking difficult. My asthma. (
Kisses her son
.) Good-bye, Anna. I hope I shall be well enough to come to the wedding. Hurry now! Here's the umbrella. (
Kisses Anna on the cheeks
.) Thank you for taking the trouble to come here.

Anna
(
panic-stricken
): We'll be back soon.

Alma:
I hope so.

Henrik:
Good-bye, Mama.

They race down the stairs and out into the rain. They carry the large suitcase between them, Henrik holding the umbrella over Anna
as they dash along the empty wet pavement. They run as if escaping from some danger. Suddenly Henrik laughs.

Henrik:
That woman! That woman!

Anna:
What is it, Henrik?

Henrik:
That woman is my mother!

Anna:
Come on, now.

Henrik:
Yes, we must hurry.

Is Alma standing behind the curtain? In my grandmother's diary, which is somewhat sporadic, there is a note on the fourteenth of September 1912: Henrik came with his fiancée. She is surprisingly beautiful and he seems happy. Fredrik Paulin called in the evening. He talked about tedious things from the past. That was inappropriate and made Henrik sad.

The guard dashes by in the aisle and says “Forsboda nextf” Anna and Henrik are sitting side by side, holding hands, tense but solemn. The rain has followed them inland, but sunlight suddenly pours into the dusty compartment and draws sharp contours and rushing shadows over faces and paneling. It is afternoon and the sun is already low. Henrik leans his face against Anna's cheek and says, “Anna, whatever happens, whatever surprises we come across, whatever peculiar people we have to look after, we'll be together.” “Yes, now we'll always be together,” whispers Anna through the clatter and squealing brakes, the wheels thundering over a small bridge, the engine making one last effort with an extra chug and billowing smoke. Then the train is standing at the shining wet stone platform of Forsboda station. The guard's door slams, the gate's bell rings, the signal is dropped, the stationmaster makes a sign with his arm, and the engine pulls out with its cylinders chugging. This is only a small local train and at once disappears around the curve by the lake. Anna and Henrik are left looking around on the platform, two suitcases between them, one large, the other smaller.