The Best Intentions (40 page)

Anna:
Nothing has changed. We're going to stay here. We've decided.

Magna:
As a kind of sacrifice?

Anna:
We want to
be here
.

Magna:
That's nice of you.

Henrik:
I can't figure out why you're so angry.

Magna:
I'm not angry. I'm miserable.

Henrik:
I don't understand why you're miserable.

Magna:
No, of course not.

Tekla:
When you two carne here to Forsboda, we were pleased. I don't mean just the regular churchgoers, but most people were glad.

The door opens and Mia comes in with a basket of wood. She blows on the embers in the stove, puts in more logs, and the fire flares up.

Gertrud:
We suddenly thought there was some kind of fellowship.

Märta:
Pastor, sometimes you carne down to us at the school and held morning prayers, or took over the scripture lessons. That was a great joy, I assure you. Both for the children and for me. We always looked forward to you coming. We said to each other: The Pastor hasn't been for a long time, so he'll be coming soon.

Henrik:
Why didn't anyone say anything?

Märta
(
confused
): What should we have said?

Henrik:
You could have said, Please corne back soon.

Märta:
Should we have said that?

Henrik:
For instance.

Märta:
Excuse me, Pastor, but it wouldn't have been appropriate. It would have been obtrusive.

Henrik:
We thought we belonged.

Silence. Gertrud Tallrot smooths out her knitting on the table, shaking her head. Alva Nykvist is hemming, her needle moving quickly She bites off the thread with her short white teeth, her eyes quick and inquisitive. Magna Flink is doing nothing, her large hands in her lap, her embroidery bag beside her on the table. She is upset; her cheeks are red, and she keeps swallowing. Märta Werkelin has reached out for the book they are reading and leafs through it without looking. She sighs cautiously. Tekla Kronström turns her heavy body and looks at Anna, who is standing behind her with the coffeepot. Henrik is clutching the arms of his chair, an involuntary display of an emotion: What is it that is happening at this very moment, here in our familiar dining room, in the light of our kindly ceiling lamp, which is smoking a little, the paraffin so bad nowadays? I must go over to the table and adjust the wick so the ceiling doesn't get blackened. Henrik gets up carefully and goes over to the table, raises his arms, and turns down the reddish smoking flame.

Henrik:
It's smoking.

Gertrud:
It's the paraffin that's so bad.

Alva:
You can't get any paraffin at all in Gävle. I heard that down at the office.

Tekla:
I suppose we'll soon all be sitting in the dark, like primeval savages. Chewing on old bones.

Märta:
My father wrote to say that we're bound to get involved in the war. To help Finland. And then the Russians will come with their fleet and attack Söderhamn and Gävle and Lulea and ravage and pillage just like the last time.

Anna:
The war must come to an end soon.

Tekla:
It won't stop until the people take over and kill all the generals.

Silence falls again. Henrik sits down on his chair by the dining room table and runs his hand over his face, the sense of vertigo persisting.

Henrik:
So Anna and I have just been imagining things.

Tekla:
What do you mean, Pastor?

Henrik:
We thought that we . . . (
Falls silent
.)

Gertrud:
No one is reproaching you or your wife, Pastor. One does one's best. There's nothing wrong with your good intentions. In the end, the skein gets tangled anyhow.

Tekla:
If I'd been in your shoes, Pastor, I would have accepted that offer and gone from here as quickly as possible. There's nothing to be had from Forsboda.

Anna
(
quietly
): We thought we might be useful.

Tekla:
Sorry, what kind of useful?

Anna:
Be useful. (
Helpless
.)

Tekla:
How touching. Really touching.

Gertrud:
Now, Tekla, don't be nasty.

Tekla:
What would a nice little pastor and his lovely wife be able to do this far out in this wretched place?

Gertrud:
Now you're being a Bolshie, Tekla.

Tekla:
Oh, what nonsense! Listen. Gertrud, you don't have to defend
anyone at this moment. Least of all, you don't have to defend the pastor. He's in no need. He's got his regular income from the state.

Alva:
I've heard another explanation.

Tekla:
No one's interested in your explanations. And now I must go home before I start talking any more nonsense.

Tekla Kronström sighs, then starts ceremoniously gathering up her belongings. Finally she takes off her glasses and puts them into a worn case. She looks steadily at Anna for a long time.

Anna:
May I ask you something, Mrs. Kronström?

Tekla:
Please do.

Anna:
Why have you come here every Thursday? I mean, if . . . ?

Tekla:
There's no connection between us and you. You don't understand how we think, and you don't understand us. That's what it's like all the way.

Anna:
You didn't answer my question.

Tekla:
Oh. No. The answer is simple. I suppose I liked the pastor and his wife. I liked listening to him reading aloud out of those novels. I suppose I wanted to sit here for a few hours with the other women. I suppose I thought it was lovely.

She shakes hands without saying any more, then nods to the other women. Departure, taciturn and embarrassed, the words hanging in the room like wet dishcloths. Alva Nykvist makes herself useful, clears the table, brushes off the crumbs with a little silver brush, and helps to fold up the tablecloth. Suddenly, she says: “Oh, the others have all gone, and I'm the only one left.” Anna and Henrik are stunned and not looking at each other.

Alva:
Quite a bit's been talked about tonight. And then there's that
list
, of course. But I think there's another reason. A much worse one. It's all talk, of course, just like everything else.

Anna, Henrik, and Alva Nykvist remain standing. Henrik is trying to light his pipe. Anna has picked up the poker to stir the embers in the stove. Alva stands with her arms folded and head slightly back, peering through her half-closed eyes. Neither Anna nor Henrik have asked her to stay or to say anything.

Alva:
If I didn't know that what I'm going to say is just shameful,
yes, shameful slander, then I wouldn't say a word, that's for sure. You must understand that.

She is expecting some reaction, but there is none. She clears her throat and lowers her head, now looking at her shoes sticking out from beneath the hem of her skirt.

Alva:
What's
most poisonous
is probably what no one wants to say. I feel very sorry for both of you now. Especially sorry for the pastor's wife, of course.

She waits for a few moments, but no one says anything. The dog Jack gets up and goes and stands by Anna's knee.

Alva:
It's probably that many people think this
secret
mixing with Nordenson is the worst of all. They mean most of all mixing with Mrs. Nordenson. A lot of people are upset. A lot say they understand why Nordenson is so hateful toward the pastor. I mean all that business with the daughters. It probably had nothing to do with the daughters. A lot of people say it's hard on Nordenson. A pity and a shame. I'm not spreading gossip. It's generally known that Mrs. Nordenson, that Elin, is quite flighty. She's so lovely and smooth, is Mrs. Nordenson. And she smiles in such a friendly way, but there's a stench, yes, a stench of lechery about her. And then that list, if it exists at all, is probably not the real reason why people don't go to church or come to the Thursdays.

All this is said in courteous, matter-of-fact tones. Mrs. Alva Nykvist is not agitated, nor is she in any hurry. Her dark eyes go from Anna to Henrik and back again; sometimes she smiles quickly and apologetically. When she has finally come to the end of her information, she makes a helpless gesture with her hand: “Now I've said everything. It was painful but necessary, forgive me, we don't believe all this terrible . . .”

Henrik nods in confirmation and holds out his hand.

Henrik:
Thank you for that information. It has been very valuable. Anna and I are extremely grateful. What an
evening,
Mrs. Nykvist! I'm overwhelmed.
We
are overwhelmed. And grateful. (
Smiles
.)

Alva Nykvist finally leaves. The hall door closes. Henrik locks up and turns to Anna. His face is pale, but he laughs.

Henrik:
Now, Anna! Now I know for certain. Now I know how important it is that we do not let these people down, Anna!

He embraces her with much emotion, so does not see her face. Suddenly someone scratches on the glass pane of the porch door, then there's a discreet knock. Anna extracts herself from the embrace and opens the door.

Märta Werkelin is standing on the steps. She is upset and has tears in her eyes. “Excuse me for troubling you, excuse me, but I must say something important.” Anna lets her in. She stops inside the door beneath the ceiling lamp, leans against the wall, and bursts into tears as she takes off her thick gloves and large fur cap, the ash-blonde hair tumbling out and falling over her shoulders. Anna and Henrik stand there, astounded and reluctant. “Shall we go in and sit down?” says Anna lamely.

Märta Werkelin energetically shakes her head and blows her nose. “No, no, I must go at once. There's just something I must say first.” They all remain standing, Märta propped against the wall, Henrik with his hand on the banister rail, Anna by the door into the dining room. Märta tugs at her long shawl.

Märta:
It's all so terrible, and I'm so miserable. Why do things have to be like this evening? It's . . . it's grotesque. It's . . . it's sick. And I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed because I didn't dare come out with what I was thinking all the time. I was thinking that what is going on now, at this moment, is
exactly
like the story of my blouse.

She blows her nose again and is surprisingly beautiful in her agitation, tears in her slightly protruding eyes, her lips swollen with crying, and the shiny hair over her shoulders.

Märta:
It's like my blouse. One day I put on a lovely blouse. It was in the spring, and the weather was beautiful. I wanted the schoolchildren to see that their teacher could be well dressed. They were to be allowed to see something beautiful. The blouse is of genuine lace with a high collar and Russian buttoning, if you know what I mean, and widens over the sleeves, and the cuffs are of another material. The lace is openwork, and there's red silk under the lace. Then I put on the gold brooch I've inherited. I pinned it at the neck and then braided my hair into one thick plait that hung down my back. Then I went down to the children, and we went out onto the bank below the school, and we sat there and had our lessons, which was nothing special. Then came the talk. About the blouse. Never directly. And I was so terribly ashamed. It was almost as if I'd done something indecent. But no one ever came to me and said anything directly (
pause
), and tonight, it was
exactly
like that blouse. I don't know how I can explain what I mean, but it's the
same thing. What kind of hatred is it? What kind of animosity? Things are difficult enough anyhow out here in the darkness. And now the pastor'll leave, I can see that. You don't have to tolerate this vileness, either of you, or this darkness. But I have to stay. I don't have any offers to be a teacher at the palace. (
Laughs
.) That sounded like envy, but I'm not envious, forgive me! I don't begrudge you leaving. I must go now. You poor things, you must be dreadfully sad after all that nastiness this evening, and then I come here bawling on top of everything else. Good night and forgive me. No, please don't say anything. I'm grateful to you both for listening to me so patiently. Good night.

Märta Werkelin holds out a delicate hand and says good night once again. Then she vanishes into the arctic night, half-running down the slope to the gate, and is gone.

Anna turns out the lamps in the dining room and closes the stove doors. A heavy, wordless fury is slowly moving inside her. Henrik turns out the lamp in the hall. The nightlight is burning flutteringly on the upstairs landing outside the bedrooms and the workroom, moonlight coming through the window to the right of the stairs. There are toys and building bricks on the rug on the floor. Petrus and Dag have been using the landing as a playroom, which has actually been forbidden since the day Dag fell down the steep stairs. Henrik goes into their bedroom and lights the candles by the beds. He quickly pulls off his clothes and washes in the basin, then cleans his teeth. The stove is still warm after the evening fire, the curtains carefully drawn across.

Anna picks up the toys and bricks. She goes back and forth across the rag rug on the landing. She is not systematic or quick. She flings something into the big wooden box, and he can hear it. Then she leaves it all and opens the door of the room where Dag and Petrus are asleep. (This is really Anna's room, which had been turned into a nursery while Alma had been staying with them. After her death, no one had got around to converting it back again.) The boys are sound asleep and undisturbable. Dag is in Petrus's bed. Anna lifts her son up and tucks him in his own bed, letting her hand rest on his head, on his hair, his cheek. An anger without words. Petrus is breathing soundlessly, his face smooth, his mouth half-open, his eyelids twitching, a pulse beating in the stretched neck. Could he possibly be awake? Is he pretending to be asleep? No, he is almost certainly asleep.