IF THE PRIEST WERE NOT in such a howling rush, he’d be seriously nervous about his first sermon on the Örlands. He remembers it intermittently and tells himself he must take some time with it. Early in the morning. Late at night. Maybe a little while after lunch. This first time, he needs to be well prepared. Calm. Everything on paper in case he loses his way.
But how can a person get up early when he’s gone to bed so awfully late? And how can he retreat to his study after lunch when he is responsible for so many things that have to be mended and assembled and put away, and then when an unexpected visitor comes wandering up from the church dock? That means talk, and it’s nice to have such a talkative congregation. He wouldn’t dream of sending away anyone who needed to speak to him.
Two more days, then one. Then he begins, in a state of desperation, early in the morning. Slumps in his armchair like a dead fish and tells himself that if he digests the material thoroughly now, then his brain will work on it during the day and he’ll be able to shape it into a passable text in a few hours this evening. All day he leaps anxiously from one task to another so he will also have time to go through the procedures in church. The verger and the organist describe the traditions of the congregation and the signals to be used when necessary between the organist in the loft and the priest before the altar. The verger explains the ins and outs of bell ringing in great detail and when he mentions the priest bell, the pastor pricks up his ears.
“The priest bell?” he asks. “What’s that?”
The verger tells him that they observe the ancient custom of ringing the small bell when the priest arrives at the church. “Not before a quarter to and not later than ten to. I stand in the belfry and keep watch, and when I see you leave the parsonage, I start to ring the bell, and I keep ringing it until you’re through the church door. Then I climb down and come to help you get robed.”
Both the verger and the organist look at him uneasily and the organist adds, “It’s the way we’ve always done it.”
He sees that they’re afraid that because he’s young, he’ll think this custom is old-fashioned and set himself against it, but he smiles and says, “Of course. If that’s the way you do it, then that’s what we’ll do.”
They look relieved, and when they rehearse the key points in the Mass with the organist at the organ, the pumper working invisibly at the bellows, the verger in his pew, and the priest at the altar, a kind of exhilaration and good fellowship spreads through the building. For when the organist gives him his note and the pastor frees his voice and sings, “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen,” the organist and the verger can hear that this priest can truly sing the Mass. The organist’s playing acquires life and reverence, and the Mass goes brilliantly while the verger does his work smartly, turning the hymn numbers for the congregation, opening the altar rail for the priest, and following him to the sacristy when he will change from his robes into his cassock during the pre-sermon hymn.
Petter recalls that this congregation is often described as a singing congregation, and the thought makes him happy. He has already heard that the last priest’s greatest failing was that he couldn’t sing the Mass. There will be no problem in that area for Pastor Petter Kummel, who sings more readily than he preaches. The final liturgy goes swimmingly, and he feels a little chill when he remembers that when he does all this for real, tomorrow, he will already have delivered his sermon. He can only hope that he won’t be dying of shame.
“The old priest couldn’t sing, the new priest can’t preach,” is what they’ll say. And what with one thing and another, even though Mona makes an early supper and gets Sanna to bed and tries to steer him to his study, it is dreadfully late when he sits down to work.
And sits and sits, deep in self-contempt, thinking how much he needs someone to guide him through the key points here too, the verger and the organist, so that there will be a sermon. What is the matter with him? Why is he pleasant, collected, and wise when he has other people around him, and why does he feel only emptiness and panic when he sits down by himself to concentrate on writing a sermon?
And sits, in a kind of panic-stricken hubris, his need to be dazzling, brilliant, unforgettable an impediment to his preaching. As if the purpose was to show off Petter Kummel rather than the Word. Which it is his duty to administer and expound.
The Word, the Word, Pastor Kummel reminds himself over and over as the minutes pass. He looks at the texts yet again but has so little time that he can’t manage to read them carefully. There’s nothing wrong with the lessons. It’s the lead-in that’s lacking. And the payoff, the elegant conclusion. And the brilliant discourse in the middle.
Would he have become a priest had he known how nerve-racking it was to preach? Not a chance. When he wrote his practise sermons at the university, he thought they would flow automatically once he was free from all the supervisory eyes and acrid comments. Once he could “speak with his own voice”. So he’d believed. Word for word.
So now here’s your chance, Pastor Kummel. Your own voice. But there is silence. He can picture himself climbing up into the pulpit, praying a little prayer and looking out over the congregation, people who are five times as critical as the theology faculty, people who have spent so much time in church that they know at once that he’s on thin ice. He opens his mouth and hopes that something will come out, but nothing does. Then he reads the day’s lesson, and when he’s done he closes his mouth. He opens it again, but nothing comes out. Then he reads the notices and gives a signal to the organist for the collection hymn. It starts up a little sloppily. There is a great agitation in the church. His first sermon—silence.
Mona looks in. “How’s it going?”
“It’s not.”
“You’re too tired. We have to start going to bed in the evenings. We’re running ourselves ragged.”
“It’s not just that I’m tired. I can’t do it. I’ve got no talent for it. I’ll have to resign the post.”
“When we just got here? Don’t talk nonsense! Use your sermon from last autumn. Nobody here has heard it.”
“That’s real bankruptcy, a priest recycling his sermons.”
“It will give you an idea. It’s here in this box somewhere. Read through it calmly. Then go to bed, and during the night it will all come together. Tomorrow morning you’ll know what you’re going to say.”
“What would I do without you?”
“Don’t be silly. Thank heaven you keep your papers in order. Here it is.”
“Thanks, I’ll look at it. Go to bed now. I’ll be in soon.”
He hopes she’ll fall asleep quickly, tired as she is. She’s been cleaning furiously, and baking. The whole house smells good. They’re going to have the parish council and the vestry for coffee after High Mass. How is he going to be able to look these intelligent people in the eye after his fiasco? His fiasco—there he goes again, thinking only of himself and the impression he’ll make. Instead of what he was put here to proclaim: the Word of God.
It’s not about his own brilliance. It’s about conveying the Word, which is without blemish, the support and bulwark of every second-rate preacher. But the introduction, the personal touch that puts the text in a new light? Something to make them listen? Something from their own world, which they understand and take an interest in?
In this specific instance, it’s the new pastor they’re interested in, however much he tries to convince himself that his own person is of no importance. Is it then wrong, is it simply ingratiating to say things they want to hear, to talk about his first impressions of the parish?
This thought fills him with strong, clear pictures and he knows what he will say. And he is calm, not deceptively calm, but calm enough to sleep. He looks at last year’s sermon with new eyes, sees that he can use bits of it after his new introduction. It’s going to work.
Almost unconscious, he staggers into bed. Mona is already asleep, clearly not as nervous as he. It is soothing that she seems to think he’ll manage. It’s far too late for him to get up early, but he’ll still have time to think through the text and get it under control.
Or so he thinks, the simpleton. Because in the morning, Papa has to mind Sanna while Mama does the milking, and Sanna is not the kind of person you can just dump in a crib and close the door. On top of which, Sanna is irresistible when she has Papa to herself. She smiles and chirps and puts her cheek against his, and he thinks that he must be allowed to spend a few minutes every day with his daughter. What does it say about his Christianity if he won’t let his own child come to him?
Then Mona comes back in a rush, changes clothes and bangs about setting the table. No miracle occurs in his study. He gathers up his prayer book, the parish announcements, his old sermon, his new ideas jotted down as notes. He’ll have time to glance through them before it’s time to go, he thinks, but then there’s a commotion in the passage where someone has wrenched open the swollen door. Because the church handles all vital statistics and the parish record-keeping, people bring their administrative business to him right before the Sunday service, since Church Isle is a bit out of the way and now here they are anyway.
Perfectly understandable, and once you’re aware of it, you can make allowances, but this first time it’s unexpected. He hurries to his study door and meets the man with a smile, because he can hear that Mona is not very welcoming. “Come right in!” he says warmly, although she’s in the act of saying this isn’t a good time. And when the matter has been dealt with—and the good cheer and the high hopes—it appears that the clock has taken a jump and it’s time to put on his cassock and collar. Mona helps him, proudly. The cassock was tailored at considerable cost and fits him very well! He’s told her about the priest bell, and she keeps a close eye on the clock so she can send him off at a quarter to. She’ll follow along with Sanna a bit later. Of course she wants to be there for his first High Mass and to see the congregation. She’s more nervous than he knows. It’s important that he should see her calm and without misgivings. If only he could organize his time so he was better prepared!
The church bells have already rung at ten-thirty, a lovely racket in the clear air. At a quarter to eleven, they see the verger climb into the bell tower again, and so he takes his Bible, his prayer book, papers, and notes and gets ready to go. Faint-heartedly, he prays a silent prayer that all will go well, a schoolboy’s timorous prayer for help in a fix for which he can blame no one but himself. Sanna whines and wants to go with him, and Mama is angry. “Hush, Sanna! You can’t come to church at all if you can’t be quiet!”
It feels like when the first Christians were driven out into the arena, except they were heartened by confidence and faith. He is fearful and timid, a poor servant of Our Lord. Unworthy of his calling, he opens the door and walks out onto the steps.
Such a lot of people already gathered in the churchyard! He stands for a moment on the steps and sees a steady stream of people walking up from the boats past the parsonage. When they see him on the steps, they leave a space for him, and he moves out into it. The priest bell starts to ring.
Only the small bell, as the verger said, and it tolls more sparely than the rich sound of the two bells swinging together. As the pastor walks and the bell rings, he becomes another person. He lays aside Sanna’s screaming and Mona’s scolding. Mona’s nervous silence, her hopes that it will all go well. He sets aside his ego, his fear of inadequacy, of making a fool of himself, of being criticized and mocked. He is no longer his own imperfect self, he is the congregation’s shepherd, who unravels mysteries for them and provides them with the means of grace. He walks towards the church the way priests on this island have been doing since the Reformation, maybe even in the days of the cloister.
He reaches the gate and walks up the gravel path, and although there is a great crowd of people, he is always surrounded by open space. As long as the bell rings, no one speaks to him, and he stops to speak to no one, smiles just slightly, and bows his head. The church door is open, and as he steps across the threshold, the bell tolls for the last time.
The church seems larger now that it begins to fill with people, the ceiling higher, the choir loft farther away. The air inside is so thick that he feels he must push his way through. The verger has left the door to the sacristy ajar. The priest puts his books down on the table and sees that his robes are ready—a white alb, a purple chasuble with a cross embroidered in gold. The verger hurries in followed by the organist with fresh sea air in his clothes. They greet him and speak to him differently than on Saturday. They look at his collar rather than make eye contact. Today they treat him like a priest.
“It’s going to be full today,” the organist says and rubs his hands, perhaps with delight, but maybe just because they’re cold and he has to play the organ. In low voices, they exchange words about the different parts of the service— that they’ll have to start the collection hymn over from the beginning if the verger can’t finish in time, and that they’ll have to be prepared for at least two settings of the Communion table. The priest asks the Lord to bless their devotions, and the organist goes to his loft, very nervous, as the priest notes to his surprise. He is so young that he thinks that he alone is tormented and uncertain, whereas all the others must surely be calm, confident in themselves and in their duties.
The verger really is calm, always ready to offer support and to explain how things are done in this parish. The priest puts the wide alb on over his head and the chasuble on top. Silently, the verger hands him a comb so he can smooth his hair. They look at the clock and the verger peeks out—full. And more coming up the hill. He notes that the ones who live closest to the church have the most trouble arriving on time.
It’s almost time, and the verger goes off to ring the congregation to the service. Now both bells are working together beautifully, and the sound is powerful and seductively bright. He must remember to tell the verger he rings the bells well. And when the bells have been tolling for several minutes, the organ starts to play. He can hear the bellows pumping all the way into the sacristy, the hissing and wheezing before the machinery has warmed up and the organist has laid his hands on the keyboard. He begins with arabesques on the processional theme, variations from the hymnal, soothing, enveloping, while the coughing and rustling continue down in the church. But when the verger starts to sing “Praise, My Soul, the King of Heaven”, everyone joins in.
Never has the priest heard such song. Suddenly he understands why churches have vaulted ceilings—to make room for the singing that lives in a congregation’s breast. They sing in full voice, with good support from well-trained diaphragms, they sing from expanded chests and open windpipes. They sing powerfully, and they sing slowly, and there is a wonderful tension between the men’s sonorous rumble and the women’s voices, so dangerously high they fling defiance in the face of death.
The priest can hardly stand still, but the hymn has only three verses so he can go in at once. He tries not to bounce but to walk with dignity, in through the altar rail, catching sight of Mona and Sanna in the first row—Sanna’s face lighting up, both arms in the air, her mouth forming the word Papa!—but he can’t hear a thing for the singing. He places the chalice on the altar and genuflects. Tries to pray, but the singing fills his world. And when you sing, you become a different person, more certain, happier. They finish reluctantly, as if they wanted a fourth and a fifth and a sixth verse, and he turns around. Prayer book in hand, he sees the organist’s attentive back, hears the note the organ gives him. Responds, a resonant trombone, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”
It’s clear that the congregation likes his voice. They respond with a lingering and wholehearted “Amen”.
The liturgy is the product of difficult schisms and agonizing committee meetings, but now it lies there polished and shiny like a gift from God. It has been formulated for him so that a priest need never fall short and be faced with his own imperfections as he works to establish a direct relationship between the parishioners and the Divine. He leads them through the service, singing, reading, and they answer him with song. He is not vain, merely relieved to see that he has won their affection because he can sing. Thank you, God! He sounds happy, certain that he’s made contact when he reads the General Confession with its “I call unto Thee from the depths, O Lord” and then the Absolution, from his heart. He sings “Lord have mercy upon us” with the congregation, which roars and drags and forces him to take it slower despite the organist’s attempt at compromise up in the loft. And then pure joy when they stand and sing Laudamus: “We praise Thee, we beseech Thee, we laud and honour Thee”, a difficult medieval melody that they sing with the utmost confidence. Their voices carry through even the extreme registers, so grandly that he, singing along at the altar, feels chills run down his spine. He adapts to their singing and drags out the ornamentations the way he realizes they’ve been dragged out since the days of the early church.
He no longer holds the service in his hand, the service has instead gripped him and has him firmly in its grasp. The congregation creates the service, and he feels himself in its keeping, without responsibility, like a child, and then in a flash he remembers his sermon. It will simply have to do, because now he is reading the Epistle, and, after the next hymn comes the Creed. Hardly a murmur is heard from the congregation, and he realizes that when they sing they are completely involved, but that when they speak they hold something back. Like their shepherd, alas. He turns towards the altar and the organist begins the sermon hymn. It’s long—“O that I Had a Thousand Voices”—and he is glad for the respite as he walks to the sacristy, followed by the verger, who will help him remove his chasuble and surplice and put on his cassock. Arms into the sleeves and buttons buttoned while they sing inside. The Bible open to the text, sermon underneath, announcements at the bottom. All set, and he’s ready to go, but the verger shakes his head. One more verse, and only then does he send him out.
A straight line from the sacristy to the pulpit. No sidelong glance at Mona’s anxious, encouraging face, straight up the little staircase. Bows his head in prayer, which is nothing but black terror. Help me! While the congregation sings a convincing “Should earth and heaven cease to be, Yet shall I find my joy in Thee.” Simultaneously a creaking from the number board, which the verger sets swinging to signal them to stop.
The church grows quiet, and the priest stands alone in the pulpit, no longer protected by his prayer book. He raises his head from his simulated prayer and looks out over the congregation. Nothing but friendly, solemn, interested faces. Now he knows what to say.
“Dear friends, brothers and sisters in Jesus Christ. We are gathered for worship in our own church. For me, it is the first time, and I will never forget my first meeting with this church on the bay. As you know, the journey out here is a long one, and during the night a person can almost lose his courage and regret coming. But the journey’s end comes into view with the morning light. All of you know the joy you feel when you see the church and the bell tower begin to take shape in the distance, and you know you are almost here. It was so beautiful, I was so delighted, and so happy. And I thought, in the words of the Bible, This is none other but the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.”
The church is silent, but he hears a slight, friendly murmur, as if his words were being well received. He goes on, as if speaking in confidence to good friends. “Let us pray. Dear Lord. You look deep into our hearts and see us as we are, imperfect and inconstant. But you also see our hope and our toil. Thank you for your mercy towards us, your compassion and your forgiveness. Thank you for allowing us to turn to you today and all other days. Amen.” And then he reads the text from the Gospel of John, “ask, and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full.” And the wonderful final verse, “In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.”
The priest is moved and inspired and he thinks that last year’s sermon on this theme is not so terribly dreadful after all. With certain embellishments and additions it will be like new, which in truth it is for this audience, and, carefully, he moves into his text, which does have its moments. His voice is cheerful, and he allows himself to look out over the congregation and feels he has made contact. They are with him, even the ones who are asleep, old people who have heard all the sermons they need to hear and now take a blessed pause in the heavy air of a full church.
Yes, they’re going to say that he sings better than he speaks, but on the other hand, he sings better than many others! As the sermon of a young priest at the beginning of his career, it isn’t half bad, and, exhilarated, he rounds it off and turns to the announcements: a thanksgiving for the life of an old man who has died and a reminder of next week’s service.
Finally the collection, which this day will go to the Evangelical Society. Lord bless our offering. The organist’s baritone takes up “Jesus, lead my steps, I pray” and the parishioners shift in their pews, dig into pockets and purses, snap open or shut their pocketbooks, and begin to sing “To follow in Thy blessed way”. The verger emerges from the sacristy and begins making his rounds with his collection bag. The priest comes down from the pulpit and pulls off his own cassock and puts on his robes and surplice for Communion and the closing liturgy.
They sing and sing, and the verger moves solemnly from pew to pew. The collection bag is passed along to those sitting closer to the wall, and it all takes time. They sing slowly, and the hymn is long enough. During the eighth verse, the verger comes in and checks to see that the priest is presentable. Prayer book and Bible in hand, he goes out into the church, which has gone so quiet that he can hear Sanna whining and whimpering. He knows Mona is holding her arm hard and hissing at her to be quiet. It’s been a long service for such a small person, and there’s a lot more to come—some lovely antiphonal song, the Invocation to Holy Communion, the Our Father, a trembling “O Lamb of God”. The invitation, “Draw near with faith.”
But no one comes. They look sullen, stare at the floor or glance at one another, need to be urged as if they were at a party. Wasn’t it the organist who tried to hint that they didn’t like Communion? If only the Sunday service could consist entirely of singing! Then they’d be the most Christian people in the world, but now it’s apparent that they shrink from an individual commitment, from surrender, from the requirement to seem pious.
What if no one comes? The organist has to play, and the verger has his duties. Mona is sitting with Sanna, they agreed on that. It’s unpleasantly quiet. No one looks up, but then he hears someone stand up in the middle of a row. It’s Adele Bergman. She looks negative and distant, but someone has to. She crowds her way past those sitting closer to the aisle, who shift out of her way reluctantly, certainly not about to follow her example. Adele’s gentle husband follows her, and then things start to loosen up in the rest of the church, the vestry and the parish council perhaps. But all of them hesitant and shame-faced, unwilling to meet anyone’s gaze.
They curtsey and bow before the altar, and genuflect. So few come, and there is no second setting of the table. The priest himself is trying to get used to Communion, which he would like to see as a symbolic act. The problem is that wherever he goes there is someone who will argue with him and insist that he, as a priest of the church, must believe that the wine is actually transformed into the blood of Christ. When he explains that we drink from the chalice in memory of the blood shed for us, the person in question grows indignant and accuses the
priest of lack of faith and heresy. He still likes best the Sundays that have a service without Communion. Here on the Örlands, that means three Sundays of four, and that suits him fine.
The organist plays beautifully and the priest passes out Communion wafers and follows up with the chalice, drying the cup with a linen cloth after every sip. “Shed for thee.” And then, bowing and curtseying, relieved, a little happier because it’s over, they walk back to their pews. The priest takes Communion himself, and when he drinks he notes how thirsty he is, and he still has the closing liturgy ahead of him.
The organist plays, and the priest sings the Anthem of Praise with the congregation and reads the blessing. And now the congregation kicks into life, forgets its ill humour and sings the closing hymn, “Like Shining Sunrise in the Spring”, with such a will that he realizes that in future he needs to pick longer hymns. When the three verses have been sung, they would like to go on, but the verger has scurried away on tiptoe to ring the bells, and the organist sets to work on his postlude, which the priest recognizes as Cappelen’s “Prayer” (adagio). The organ has a lovely, bright sound, which breaks down once or twice when the pumper pauses at his work.
It is over, and he is back in the sacristy. Off with his gown, the alb over his head, and back into his cassock. People are on their way out of the church, coughing and talking quietly as their feet move towards the door, leaving behind them a cloud of cough drops and naphthalene. The bells are still ringing, but soon they stop and the verger returns, along with the organist, who comes nimbly down the steps from the organ loft, warding off with his hand a corner of the upper floor that seems designed to knock an intruder senseless. They all look pleased, and the priest thanks them warmly. “And how they sing!” he adds. “I’m going to be really happy here.”
He can hardly wait to go out and speak to those who are still in the churchyard, but the verger reminds him that the collection must be counted in the presence of witnesses and entered in the account book. There are a great many small coins, and it takes time, but finally it’s all locked in the chest and at last they can go outside. The sun is shining the way it can in May. Many are on their way to the church dock, but many remain, in contrast with other parishes where people hurry away when the pastor appears. These people stand still and smile warmly, and when he greets them and shakes their hands, they wish him welcome. None of them give their names, and in the end he starts to ask, for he wants so very much to get to know them by name as well as by face. A little group gathers around him, people who want to say hello, and they’re all in such a good mood after all their singing that it’s a joy to be with them.
He almost forgets to look for Mona and Sanna, but then he catches sight of them at one side of the churchyard, isolated in a struggle, with Sanna twisting and screaming and Mona holding her tight and looking angry. They’re fighting bitterly, and big tears are rolling down Sanna’s cheeks. The pastor is still standing there talking and smiling but he feels a pang of depression. Must she always? Sanna has been angelically quiet and good during the service and slept a little during the sermon. It’s only natural that someone so little is now worn out and cries and squirms. But he and his wife have sworn each other a solemn oath that they will be consistent in raising their children. Whatever one of them says will be supported by the other, and no child will get a no from one parent and a yes from the other. Because where would that lead? To a tyranny of the children, Mona has declared, and he has wholeheartedly agreed—they will show firmness, unity, and cooperation.
But he feels sorry for Sanna, who ought to be getting praise, not reproach. “Excuse me a moment,” he says. “I see Mona, who would also like to say hello.” He rushes off. “Now, now, Sanna! You’ve been such a good girl. Come to Papa!”
Sanna raises her arms to him pathetically, her face streaked with tears, her mouth contorted, but Mona pulls her back. “Careful of the cassock,” she hisses. “She’s wet!” As if that were a terrible disgrace in a fourteen-month-old child. Mona is very proud of the fact that Sanna is already almost completely potty trained at home and can be plunked down as soon as she wakes up and after every meal. Now it’s been too long, and after her nap in church it happened. So Mona is angry and scandalized and Sanna is inconsolable. Petter is on edge, but he has no choice.
“I realize you want to go home, but come over anyway and say hello. I promised to come and fetch you.”
Mona bristles. “Did you have to drag me into it? Couldn’t you see what was going on?” But she follows him as she promised, for better or for worse, and manages a smile when she arrives with the wet, whimpering Sanna on her arm.
“And this is my family,” he introduces them. “Mona and Alexandra, but we call her Sanna.” The little group greet them warmly and bid Mona welcome, and they all remark on how incredibly quiet and well-behaved their little girl was in church. They all pretend not to notice that she’s wet, but Mona mentions the chilly breeze and says she needs to get home and change her before she catches cold. “And then too, we’re having the vestry and the parish council for coffee.”
She’s just leaving when a tall, angular person steps forward from the group. She doesn’t smile but stretches out her hand towards Mona and says, with an odd accent, that she would like to introduce herself. Her name is Irina Gyllen, and she is the midwife on the Örlands.
Mona almost curtseys, and Sanna is quiet. The priest collects himself and presses her hand warmly. “So nice to meet you! Thank you for coming! I’ve heard so many good things about you from my predecessor, and I’m looking forward to working with you on health care.”
“Thank you,” says this brown person. “I wish you good comfort on the island. Now I should go, there are so many who want to speak to you.” As she turns away, she glances at Sanna and Mona, who is ill at ease. “Sweet little girl,” she says. “Maybe we will see you at the surgery? Goodbye.”
She heads off for the gate and the Hindriks family follows. They very pleasantly fall in with Mona as they walk and chat, and when they reach the parsonage, Mona says goodbye and the rest of them stroll on towards the dock. Doctor Gyllen lives with the Hindrikses, they have explained to Mona, and she’s an excellent woman in every way.
The only people left in the churchyard are now the members of the vestry and the parish council. The priest shakes all their hands and learns their names and which villages they come from. Fortunately, the organist and Adele Bergman are among them, for he already views them as old friends. He looks with interest at a tall, slender woman wearing a long black velvet skirt, a tailored jacket and a hair net—Lydia Manström, teacher, married to a farmer fisherman in one of the eastern villages. She radiates … well, what is it she radiates? Great self-control and originality, perhaps? Not easy to say what she’ll be like. She has a teacher’s authority, of course, and he hopes that Mona will get along well with her and make a friend.
They begin to drift towards the parsonage, and he notices that Adele Bergman and Lydia Manström hang back. They’re trying to give Mona as much time as possible, whereas the men are thinking of coffee and sandwiches and push ahead. When they come into the passage, Mona, warm and red, meets them and welcomes them and asks them to come in. She ground the coffee, buttered the bread, and set the table before they went to church, and when she came back she quickly lit the fire in the stove before changing Sanna and putting her in her crib. Now she has also brought out her freshly baked rolls, and the coffee water is simmering on the stove. The pastor needn’t have worried. She may have a hasty temper, but she also has an admirable haste when it comes to practical activities.
Adele Bergman looks around appreciatively. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a maid, Mrs Kummel, who prepared all this while we were in church,” she says, warmly, and Mona is happy to get praise from such a capable woman. “Please do sit down,” she repeats. “The coffee will be ready in a minute.”
She goes into the kitchen, but the vestry and the council are still on their feet and need more encouragement before they’ll sit down at the table. They inspect the furnishings, which they’ve already heard described by the people who were on the boat, and the priest looks embarrassed and says that Mona received a small inheritance from an aunt, without which they would have nothing but a kitchen table and some spindle chairs. He nods towards the table and says, “We got our china the same way. And now we’re going to use it. Please do sit down!”
But they are still standing, shifting their weight from one foot to the other when the pastor’s wife comes in with the coffeepot, and they let her fill their cups before they’ll approach the table. They only sit when she commands, “Please! If you don’t sit down your coffee will get cold!” Then at last they take their places and begin to relax and grow cheerful, pass around the sugar bowl and carefully pour big dollops of thick, yellow cream from the pitcher. The sandwiches look delicious. The pastor’s wife has baked bread like they have on the mainland, churned butter from cream she’s saved up all week, sliced cheese from the Co-op on half the sandwiches and put sausage on the rest and garnished all of them with parsley from the kitchen garden that has survived the winter. The food is good and plentiful, and the rolls she serves with the third cup of coffee do her credit. They are all appreciative, and the conversation runs freely and smoothly. The pastor has many questions to ask and they are happy to answer them. It will be some time before he realizes that there are two factions, equal in strength, and that they have seated themselves by village groups. The two blocks communicate only amongst themselves, but he doesn’t know this yet. He sees them only as incomparably friendly, easy to talk to, altogether excellent people.
“I’m absolutely overwhelmed by such a warm reception,” he says yet again. “To think that so many wanted to come to church today. And such singing!”
“Well of course everyone wanted to come and see the new priest,” Lydia Manström points out. “And they were pleased with what they saw. We can hope it will mean an upswing in church attendance.”
It’s almost like a little meeting of the vestry as they go through items that the next real meeting should take up. They also enlighten him about the customs of the parish. It’s good that he doesn’t want to change everything, the way certain previous priests have done. They do not raise any immediate problems. That will wait until they all know each other better.
This is only a first courtesy visit, but they take so much time that the pastor’s wife begins to wonder if they’re expecting further refreshments. They must realize that almost all food is still rationed, and that the two of them have already used way too much of their allowance. If they’re to go on at this rate, they won’t make it. Adele Bergman at least must understand, she thinks, and looks at her in desperation. Adele Bergman gets the message and understands, has already calculated the approximate expenditure of coupons and wonders how they’re going to manage. Although they’ve got cows in the pasture and fish in the sea. She gives the pastor’s wife a friendly look and hears the little girl complaining in the bedroom.
“May I come say hello to the pastor’s daughter?” she asks, following Mona into the bedroom. Mona lifts Sanna from her baby bed, feels her backside and determines that she’s dry. “But now I’m going to the kitchen to put her on the potty before she has another accident.”
Exactly as Mona had thought, Adele Bergman has used Sanna as an excuse to get a look at the bedroom. But be my guest. It too is very proper. Two beds with light brown bedspreads, each with a chair as a nightstand, and a bureau. Still a bit bare, but they’ll have time to acquire a variety of things. A little crucifix hangs above the bureau, and that pleases Adele Bergman. This young priest seems thoroughly Christian every day of the week, and God knows that such a priest is what this parish needs.
She helps to get the vestry and the council up and out, and just as she’d calculated, the organist offers her a ride in his boat and promises to put her ashore at the Co-op dock, since of course Elis took their boat home much earlier. “It’s been a good day,” she says confidentially, both to the organist as they sit talking pleasantly above the clatter of the engine, and to Elis when she gets home.