The Best Intentions (36 page)

Petrus has stopped reading and started listening. He is crouching down by the bench, and his pale, strangely blind face is turned toward Anna.

Petrus:
Are you leaving?

Anna:
No, on the contrary, Petrus.

Petrus:
I thought you said you were going to leave.

Anna:
You weren't listening carefully. We've just decided to stay.

Petrus:
Then you won't be leaving?

Anna:
Don't be so silly; Petrus. We're staying.

Petrus's ancient seven-year-old face is distrustfully sorrowful: “I thought it sounded as if you were going to leave,” he says almost inaudibly and pretends to go back to his book. Tears corne, and he sniffs as quietly as possible.

Henrik:
Apropos that! You had a letter from your mother, didn't you?

Anna:
Yes, I forgot to tell you. She wrote to ask whether we were coming to the summer place for your holiday. Ernst and Maria are going to Lofoten with some friends. Oscar and Gustav have rented a place in the archipelago. There would be only us and brother Carl.

Henrik:
What do you think?

Anna:
What do you think? Marna will be rather lonely.

Henrik:
I thought she liked being on her own.

Anna:
Well, then.

Henrik:
What do you mean, well, then?

Anna:
That was answer enough.

Henrik:
It's better here. (
Pause
.)

Anna:
Only for a week?

Henrik:
Do we have to?

Anna:
No, no. Mama didn't think we'd come. She mostly asked for form's sake.

Henrik:
Weren't we going to have another child, by the way?

Anna:
Yes, we were.

Henrik:
You don't sound like you want to any longer. It was your idea!

Anna
(
laughs
): There's been so much to think about. My poor little head becomes so confused.

Henrik:
Shall we go in? It's getting chilly.

Anna lifts up her son, who wakes up and starts whimpering. Henrik gathers up the rest of the things, rattle, rug, pipe, and Bible, calls Jack, and sets off toward the parsonage. Halfway there, he turns around.

Henrik:
Come on, Petrus.

Petrus:
I'm just finishing.

Henrik:
It's getting chilly.

Petrus:
I'm not cold.

Henrik:
Don't forget to bring the book in.

Petrus:
No.

Henrik:
Come on, now. We'll have a game of chess.

Petrus:
I'll just finish reading.

Henrik:
All right, do as you like.

Anna has gone up the steps to the veranda. She stops and smiles at Henrik. Petrus is staring steadily at her. The veranda door closes. Petrus rolls over on his back and stretches his hands upward — spreading his fingers out wide.

One warm early summer's day in the middle of June, 1917, Anna and Henrik Bergman are waiting in the Green Salon in the queen's private
apartment. It is in the left wing of the palace, with a view out over the waters of Strömmen, the National Museum, and Skeppsholmen. Pastor Primarius Anders Alopéus, a handsome, ruddy churchman of considerable proportions, is also present. They are standing at one of the big windows and talking in low voices about the striking view. “But it's drafty,” says Alopéus. “You can feel the drafts. Even the curtains are swaying, but then the wind always blows in this direction. Lucky it's not winter.”

In the background, two liveried court servants in white gloves are busy at the tea table, moving soundlessly and communicating with each other with subdued gestures.

The room is well proportioned, almost square. It is furnished elegantly but far too richly in the style of the eighties: bulging sofas and chairs covered in shimmering materials, hand-painted silk wallpaper, a wealth of stucco on the ceiling and the lintels above the tall doors, gilded mirrors facing each other and making the room seem endless. High crystal chandeliers, elaborately draped floor lamps, thick carpets muffling footsteps on the creaking parquet floor. Dark pictures with ornamental frames, palm trees and pallid sculptures, spindly tables crowded with ornaments, a piano covered with an oriental shawl and laden with photographs of various lesser or grander nobility.

Anna is wearing a new tailored gray-blue costume and a hat with a turned-up brim and a little white feather. Both gentlemen are in clerical suits. Henrik's shoes are far too new, far too shiny, and far too tight. He is staring in terror at Anna and fumbling for her hand. “My stomach keeps rumbling. It'll be disastrous.” “You shouldn't have had that game soup,” whispers Anna. “Try breathing deeply.” Henrik breathes deeply, his face pale and gray. “I should never have agreed to this, I ought . . . ”

A door opens and Chamberlain Segerswärd appears. He is in uniform, and his radiant smile reveals a row of teeth of marvelous whiteness. He smells of fine pomade and condescending amiability. His little hand is pale and flabby: “So this is the pastor's little wife. Welcome to you, and to you, Pastor Berglund, welcome. The court chaplain and I met earlier today. We serve on the same charity committee. There are just one or two small things I should like to point out. Her Majesty should be addressed as ‘Your Majesty' if that should arise. One ought to avoid direct address if possible. Her Majesty will ask the questions and guide the conversation. It is inappropriate to make your own digressions. I would also like to say that Her Majesty is not well and is very tired. I suggested with all humility that this
meeting should be postponed until another and more suitable occasion, but Her Majesty is extremely dutiful and very much concerned about everything to do with Sophiahemmet. So Her Majesty rejected my suggestion. On the other hand, this means the meeting will be very brief. Matters of a practical nature should be discussed with our friend Pastor Primarius here, who is intimately
au fait
with the situation. Do you have any questions? No questions. Her Majesty will come through that door. I suggest — it is customary — that her guests place themselves here. Her Majesty will first greet the court chaplain, then the pastor's wife, which entails as deep and elegant a curtsy as can be achieved. Finally, Her Majesty will greet Pastor Berglund.”

Alopéus:
Bergman. Henrik Bergman.

Chamberlain:
Have I really . . . ? It's not possible! It must have been a misprint in my list! I do apologize, my dear Pastor Bergman. Please excuse an old man!

A dazzling smile, wide-open gray eyes, the pudgy, flabby hand touching Henrik's arm, the pendulum clock on the mantelpiece above the marble fireplace striking three. The door opens, and Queen Victoria makes her entrance. She is tall, thin, and broad shouldered, her graying hair gathered into an elaborate knot on the top of her head. Her face is pale, and there are lines of pain around the dark blue eyes. Her thin lips are pressed together with self-restraint and infinite weariness. She is wearing a draped, soft gray silk dress with lace at the neckline and breast, the only jewelry a single strand of pearls around her neck, small pendant diamond earrings, and a diamond ring between her engagement and wedding rings. She is accompanied by a lady-in-waiting, who silently closes the door. Countess Bielke is small, plump, white-haired, and pink-cheeked, her eyes radiating childish and genuine cheerfulness. She is wearing a long, dark green skirt and a shantung blouse with a cameo brooch at her throat, and is carrying a light cashmere shawl over her arm.

The queen walks slowly, and slightly unsteadily, across to her waiting guests. She holds out her hand to Anna, her smile quick and shimmering. Anna curtsies nicely (she has practiced). After that, the queen greets Henrik and finally the court chaplain.

With a slight accent, she says that it was pleasant that they could meet and it was kind of them to come such a long way, and “shall we all sit down? I hope you would like a cup of tea. We actually still have some of the genuine article. I am very fond of tea made with apple blossom and chamomile.”

The livery-clad servants serve while the queen inquires about their journey, their son Dag (she has been well briefed), and whether they were considering an evening at the theater. She herself had been to a performance of
Everyman
a few days before, a disturbing experience, like divine worship. “We simply could not applaud.”

The pain-filled expression gives way to gentle amiability, and color comes into those pale cheeks. Her voice is low, occasionally hard to make out, but gentle. When she speaks, she looks steadily at Anna and Henrik, her face open and vulnerable.

The Queen:
And now we are entertaining great expectations.

Henrik:
My wife and I are still a trifle frightened. Everything has happened so quickly. Nor do we know what is required of us. I mean, what is
really
required of us? All we know is that we shall do our very best.

The Queen:
At our last board meeting, our architect produced a report on the construction work to be done in the coming years. Professor Forsell will have the most modern X-ray institute in the world, and our chaplain and his wife will have a parsonage of their own. Where is the envelope, Countess? Ah, yes, there. Here you are. This is a pencil drawing of the proposed house. It will be situated on a small hill with extensive forest lands outside — Lill-Janskogen. It will be like living in the country, although in the middle of town. Ideal for the children.

Anna:
I know exactly. It's opposite the home for retired nurses. Solhemmet.

The Queen:
Yes, of course you know, Mrs. Bergman. You were at the nursing school, a few hundred meters away from your future home. Three big rooms on the ground floor and a well-equipped kitchen. Four rooms on the first floor. The nursery in the corner, I should think. Where there's sun all day. And naturally all conveniences. It will all be ready within a few years. Meanwhile, Hedvig Eleonora parish will provide you with living quarters.

Anna:
It's all overwhelming.

The Queen:
I realize it will be difficult to leave Forsboda.

Henrik:
Yes, it will be difficult.

Anna:
At first we were worried and unsure. It seemed to us we were perhaps escaping from our task.

Henrik:
. . . our life's task.

Anna:
I wasn't as afraid as Henrik was.

Henrik:
I thought I was leaving people in need . . .

The Queen:
The need in a hospital can be just as great, Pastor Bergman.

Henrik:
Yes, I know. (
Smiles, shakes his head
.) I know.

The Queen:
Tell me something, Pastor Bergman. Do you think our suffering is sent to us by God?

Chamberlain Segerswärd cautiously sucks on his false teeth. He finds Her Majesty's question obscene, and his face is stripped of every conceivable expression. The nice little Countess Bielke has tears in her eyes, but then she is easily moved. Pastor Primarius leans back and burdens the fragile back of his chair with his not inconsiderable bulk. He glances urgently at his younger colleague, his smile professional and adapted to the question in hand. Anna swiftly sees that this tall, tormented woman has asked a question beyond the boundaries of convention.

Henrik:
I can only say what I believe myself.

The Queen:
That was why I asked.

Henrik:
No, I don't think our sufferings are sent to us by God. I think that God looks on his creation with grief and horror. No, suffering does not come from God.

The Queen:
But suffering is said to purify us?

Henrik:
I have never seen suffering to be of any help. On the other hand, I have seen instances of suffering destroying and deforming.

The Queen
(
to her lady-in-waiting
): Countess, would you please be so kind as to hand me my shawl?

Countess Bielke at once gets up and puts the light shawl around the queen's shoulders. For a few minutes, she sits with her eyes closed, her right hand to her breast.

The Queen
(
looks at Henrik
): If it is as you say, Pastor, how can it be possible to console one single person?

Henrik:
All consolation is momentary.

The Queen:
. . . momentary?

Henrik:
Yes. The only possibility is to persuade people, those seeking help, to make peace with themselves. To forgive themselves
must have the right to say what I think. And now I'm crying, and if you think I'm crying because I'm miserable, you're mistaken, as usual. My tears are because it hurts when you
trample
on me. You trample on your most faithful friend, and I'm crying because I'm so angry! I am furious and raging and would like to slap your face right here in front of your church, you . . . you camel!

Henrik:
Don't shout. People can hear. You've lost your mind! We can reason calmly, can't we? (
Starts laughing
.) You really are so sweet when you're angry like that.

Anna:
Stop that stupid superiority! Stop grinning! If you say one more word, I'll leave you and go back to Trädgårdsgatan and won't speak to you again even if you crawl on your hands and knees all the way to Upsala.

Henrik
(
suddenly kind
): Anna, forgive me.

Anna
(
more graciously
): Frightened, were you?

Henrik:
God in heaven, how angry you were!

Anna:
I have a furious temper, I'll have you know. And in the future, if there is any future, I'm going to make a habit of being angrier than ever.

Henrik:
In all humility, I have a suggestion.

Anna:
So you have a suggestion.

Henrik:
I suggest we go and buy a strawberry ice-cream cone and then take the ferry over to Djurgården.