Book Read Free

The Best Intentions

Page 9

by Ingmar Bergman


  The three theology students from Professor Sundelius’s examination are sitting at a corner table in the farthest room. Henrik, confused and lethargic, is staying in town instead of going back home to his mother and Söderhamn. He is camping out on a wretched sofa at Justus Bark’s lodgings, the latter keeping the wolf from the door by tending flower beds in the botanical gardens. His inadequate allowance is not due until the beginning of September. The future suicide, Baltsar, is always flush with money and is self-taught. He devotes his time between terms to the Chinese language as written in the seventh century, when the Empress Wu tse-t’ien persecuted and annihilated many of the most powerful T’ang dynasty.

  The three men are downing quantities of thickened fruit syrup with skimmed milk. Miss Märta passes and asks kindly whether the stew was good. Polite mumbles. She stops as if wanting to say something, but changes her mind. Then she says it all the same.

  Miss Märta: I’m sorry to have to tell you, but I must raise my prices. It’s the general strike. Everything has become so insanely expensive, you see, gentlemen, so my monthly rates must go up from the first of September. Twenty ore a meal, that is, thirty-five kronor a month, or thereabouts. I have no wish to reduce the quality. And then we must have it nice and warm in the winter. Perhaps I may offer you a brandy with your coffee.

  Appeased mumbling. Miss Märta fetches four glasses, unlocks the sideboard, takes out a bottle, locks the cupboard up again, and sits down. The theologians have fetched their coffee. They toast one another, after which, silence.

  Perhaps it should be mentioned that Miss Märta Lagerstam does not look as one might expect. She is a small, white-haired lady with dark eyes and a pale, fine-featured face. She has narrow shoulders, a thin body, and moves easily No one dares play hell with Miss Märta.

  She lights a cigarette in a long holder and leans back, looking at her guests through the veil of smoke, her eyes half-closed. Miss Märta’s helpers have begun clearing the tables — the big table in the middle room, and the small tables the few guests have now left. Miss Gustava is a fat, silent girl with a sorrowful gaze; Miss Petra, scarcely beautiful but friendly, is forty years old and a widow.

  “Let’s put the gramophone on,” says Miss Märta, ordering Gustava to fetch the machine and the records. Justus offers to help her. When they go into Miss Märta’s cluttered room beyond the kitchen, the theologian at once begins to lick and pinch the melancholy, passive girl, pressing her against the wall, and is just about to pull down her drawers when, without warning, Miss Petra comes in. She doesn’t take much notice of the commotion by the stove but just says, “I’ll take the records. You have to mind that they don’t fall on the floor and get broken.” Justus loses interest, and Gustava tucks her big breast back inside her blouse.

  Miss Märta has now stood them another brandy, the girls have sat down on the two chairs drawn up for them, and the theologians are smoking proffered cigars. Out of the red gullet of the gramophone comes Enrico Caruso’s beseeching voice: Principessa di morte! principessa di gelo! Dal tuo tragico cielo, scendi gin sulla terra! The lamp has been pushed forward and glows sleepily through the tobacco smoke and brandy fumes.

  Miss Märta looks at her guests with a maternal smile. “Now, isn’t this nice? Aren’t we having a nice time? This is how it should be. Such nice boys! Henrik shouldn’t bite his nails, and that Baltsar, what can we do about him? He starts crying as soon as you look at him, though young Bark looks as if he’ll be all right, now that he’s down inside Gustava’s bodice, though someone should see to it that he gets some new top teeth, poor boy.

  “Come over here and sit by me, Mr. Bergman! Why do you bite your nails? You shouldn’t do that when you’ve got such nice hands. Well, what have you got to say for yourself? How do you get on with the ladies? Spoiled, of course, and courted. Picking and choosing. Now listen to me, young man. Don’t look so terrified. I won’t eat you. That’s right!”

  Justus Bark and Miss Gustava have lost their balance and fallen to the floor with a lot of long-winded and soundless giggling. They help each other to their feet, the girl’s knot of hair now undone. Miss Marta leans across the table and changes the record. Now it is from Die Fledermaus, the party at the palace of the bored, lecherous old Prince Orlofsky. The choir sings caressingly beneath the scratching of the needle: Brüderlein, Brüdelein und Schwesterlein Du, Du, Du, immerzu. Erst ein Kuss, dann ein Du . . .

  Baltsar postpones his suicide for a few more hours and rests his narrow white forehead on Miss Petra’s curvaceous shoulder and expertly caressing hand. Miss Märta turns her lips, her well-formed sensual lips with their two small transverse wrinkles, toward Henrik’s lips and kisses him fleetingly at least three times. “Christ Almighty,” says Justus Bark suddenly. “I’ve got a letter for Henrik! It came this afternoon when I was at home freshening up. Sorry about the delay, but we were so occupied.”

  Justus pulls a crumpled envelope out of his top pocket and hands it over to Henrik, who focuses on it: the handwriting is unquestionably Anna’s. It is undoubtedly a letter from Anna! Anna has written a letter to him! Anna has written!

  He takes the letter very carefully, excusing himself with more confusion than courtesy, and tumbles out onto Dragarbrunnsgatan, now deserted in the rosy light of the setting sun. From the nearby shunting yards he can hear a puffing shunting engine and the clanging of train cars striking the buffers. He trots up Bävern Alley toward the river, then sinks down on a bench and reads the short and affectionately formal letter, in which, in a few lines at the end, Anna’s mother has invited him to visit the family.

  Ernst has been given a camera with a delayed action release as a birthday present, and a family photograph is to be arranged. (The photograph actually exists, though it is from a somewhat later period, probably the summer of 1912, but it fits better into this context, and anyhow this isn’t a documentary.) After breakfast, the clan reassembles in the little meadow at the edge of the forest. It is a warm, sunny day, and everyone is in light clothes. Well, then . . . two chairs have been taken out. On one sits the traffic superintendent with his cane and breakfast cigar. If you look carefully with a magnifying glass, you can see that his calm, handsome face is distorted with pain and sleeplessness. Next to her husband sits Karin Åkerblom. There is no doubt whatsoever which of the two is the head of the household. The plump little person radiates authority and possibly smiling sarcasm. She has a stately summer hat on her well-tended hair, a kind of seal on her authority, clear eyes looking straight at the camera, and a small double chin. She has got herself into position to be photographed, but a few seconds later, she gets up full of vitality to issue orders. The older sons with their wives are grouped around the parents. Carl is standing alone, in profile, looking to the right, pretending he isn’t there. Gustav and Martha’s girls are laughing, and so are blurred. They have hunched up their shoulders and are holding each other around the waist, wearing blouses with sailor collars and calflength skirts. Nearer the camera, on the left in the photograph, Anna is sitting on the grass. For some reason, not hard to guess, she is looking very grave, her gaze open and ingenuous, her lips slightly parted — so many stolen, passionate kisses. Behind Karin, kneeling, are Ernst and Henrik, both in student caps, neat jackets, collars, and ties. It is quite clear that Henrik has been invited to the traffic superintendent’s summer residence as a friend of their son’s and not as a possible fiance for their daughter. Slightly in the background, but quite visible, are Miss Lisen and Miss Siri, a dignified pair in dazzling white aprons and serious expressions.

  Fourteen people, summer, August 1909. No more than a second. Go into the photograph and recreate the following seconds and minutes! Go into the photograph as you want to so badly! Why you want to so badly is hard to make out. Perhaps it’s to provide some somewhat tardy redress to that gangling young man at Ernst’s side. The one with the handsome, naked, uncertain face.

  When the family portrait has been taken, the traffic superintendent, with the aid of a cane
and gently supporting hands, is guided to the open loggia facing the sun and the view. The old gentleman is put into a special chair with an adjustable back and armrest and a green check rug. He is given a cushion behind his back, a stool under his feet; a wicker table is brought forward for the day’s mail, yesterday’s newspaper, a glass of mineral water with a few drops of brandy in it, and a pair of field binoculars. With her own fair hands, Mrs. Karin spreads a rug over his knees, kisses him on the forehead just as she does every other morning, before she herself sets about her day’s multifarious exercising of power.

  “You wanted to speak to young Bergman? He’s waiting in the dining room. Shall I ask him to come here, or do you want to read your mail and your newspaper first?” says Mrs. Karin urgently. “No, no, let him come,” mumbles Johan Åkerblom. “It was actually you who wanted to speak to the boy. I don’t know what to say.” “Of course you do,” retorts Mrs. Karin, without smiling, and goes to fetch Henrik.

  He is invited to sit in a basket chair of indefinite form, neither stool, nor chair, nor armchair. The traffic superintendent smiles slightly apologetically as if to say: Don’t look so terrified, my young friend, things aren’t that bad. Instead he asks if Henrik would like to smoke, a cigar, a cigarillo, or perhaps a cigar-cigarette? Oh, he wouldn’t? Of course. Of course you can smoke your pipe. Is that English tobacco? Yes, of course. English pipe tobacco is the best. The French is so harsh. Johan Åkerblom takes a sip of his brandy-colored mineral water and puffs at his cigar.

  Johan Åkerblom: If you use the binoculars, you can see the station building down there just beyond the curve of the tracks. If you look carefully, you can see the siding. I usually amuse myself by checking arrivals and departures, you see, Mr. Bergman. I have a timetable here for express trains, passenger trains, and freight trains. I can watch and compare. It’s an old man’s little amusement for someone who’s spent his whole professional life with railway lines and locomotives. I remember when I was a little boy, I kept insisting until I was allowed to go and watch the trains at the railway station — we lived in Hedemora at the time. There’s nothing more beautiful than those new engines the Germans have started making: “F 17,” or whatever they’re called. Well (clears his throat), perhaps you’re not particularly interested in locomotives, Mr. Bergman?

  Henrik (disoriented): I’ve never thought about railroad engines in that way.

  Johan Åkerblom: No, no, of course not. How are your studies going, by the way?

  Henrik: I can manage what I’m interested in. What I don’t understand is less easy.

  Johan Åkerblom: Yes, yes. Fancy there being so much to learn to become a priest. One wouldn’t have thought so.

  Henrik: What do you mean, sir?

  Johan Åkerblom: Well, what do I mean? One thinks perhaps, seen from a noninvolved, lay point of view, that being a priest is more of a matter of talent. One has to be — what is it called now? — a fisher of men, a fisher of souls.

  Henrik: One has to have convictions first and foremost.

  Johan Åkerblom: What kind of convictions?

  Henrik: One has to be convinced that God exists and that Jesus Christ is His son.

  Johan Åkerblom: And that is your conviction, Mr. Bergman?

  Henrik: If I were equipped with a sharper mind, then perhaps I would call my convictions into question. The really brilliant religious talents always have their periods of terrible doubt. I sometimes wish I could be a doubter, but that’s not so. I’m fairly childish. I have a childish view of faith.

  Johan Åkerblom: Then you’re not afraid of death, Mr. Bergman? For instance?

  Henrik: No, I’m not afraid, but I prefer to shy away from it.

  Johan Åkerblom: Then do you believe man is resurrected into eternal life?

  Henrik: Yes, I’m quite convinced of that.

  Johan Åkerblom: Well I’ll be damned! And the forgiveness of sins? And the Sacrament? The blood of Jesus to thee given? And punishments? Hell? You believe in some kind of hell, whatever it’ll look like?

  Henrik: One can’t say I believe in this and this, but I don’t believe in that.

  Johan Åkerblom: No, no, naturally not.

  Henrik: Archimedes said, give me a fixed point and I shall move the earth. For me the Sacrament is the fixed point. That’s how, through Christ, God came to an agreement with Man. That was how the world was changed. From its very foundations and through and through.

  Johan Åkerblom: Oh, yes. Did you think that out yourself, or did you read it somewhere?

  Johan Åkerblom: Well, what about all the devilment that surrounds us? How does that match up with God’s agreement?

  Henrik: I don’t know. Someone has said that we are satisfied with perspectives that are far too limited.

  Johan Åkerblom: I would say you have your answers down fairly pat. And when will you be qualified?

  Henrik: If all goes well, I shall be ordained in two years. Then I’ll be given a chaplaincy almost immediately.

  Johan Åkerblom: Not much to start with, I suppose?

  Henrik: Not that much.

  Johan Åkerblom: Not enough to start a family, eh?

  Henrik: The church likes her young priests to marry. The pastor’s wife plays an important role in the parish.

  Johan Åkerblom: And what is she paid?

  Henrik: Nothing, as far as I know. The pastor’s stipend is also his wife’s stipend.

  Johan Åkerblom turns toward the dazzling summer light, his face gray and sunken, the gentle gaze behind the pince-nez darkened by physical pain.

  Johan Åkerblom: I suddenly feel rather tired. I think I’ll go and lie down for a while.

  Henrik: I hope I haven’t caused you any inconvenience.

  Johan Åkerblom: No, not in any way, my young friend. A sick man who seldom thinks of ultimates understandably may be somewhat shaken by talk of Death and ultimates.

  Johan Åkerblom looks at Henrik benignly and signals to him that he would like to be helped out of his chair. As if by magic, Mrs. Karin and Anna appear and take over.

  So that Johan Åkerblom does not have to bother with the stairs, the nursery, the sunniest room in the house, has been made into a bedroom for the invalid. He sinks down on the bed with a pillow under his right knee. The shade has been pulled down, coloring the air a gentle pink. The window is open; outside, the birch trees rustle, and the express train to Stockholm, which doesn’t stop at the little station, signals before the railway bridge. Johan Åkerblom winds up his gold watch and checks the time. Karin is standing at the end of the bed, unlacing his boots. “No,” says Johan Åkerblom, sighing. “I wasn’t able to talk to our guest. I simply couldn’t bring myself to talk to him about what you wanted me to say to him.” “So I suppose I’ll have to deal with it,” says Karin Åkerblom.

  That evening there is reading aloud around the dining room table. The paraffin lamp shines gently on the entire assembled family. Outside the windows, the August dusk thickens into night.

  They all have their prescribed places at the evening ritual, in this case Mrs. Karin enthroned at the head of the table, reading from Selma Lagerlöf’s Jerusalem. Next to her are the girls with their handwork, the wives together down one long side, Martha painting on parchment with a fine brush, Svea with her eyes and face enclosing her grinding illness. At the other end, Anna and Ernst are leaning over a large jigsaw puzzle tipped onto a wooden tray. The traffic superintendent is in his rocking chair by the window (no one else in the family would dream of sitting in that chair). He is outside the circle of light and turns his head toward the darkening landscape and the cold moonlight making the flowers of the pelargoniums take on a pale violet color. Carl has brought in a special table and put out a lamp for himself. He is leaning and quietly wheezing over a construction of balsa wood and thin steel wires. He maintains he is constructing a machine for measuring the humidity in the air. Oscar and Gustav are benevolently dozing in each corner of the long sofa below the wall clock, their evening drinks, bottles of mineral
water and brandy, on the low table in front of them.

  Henrik has finally placed himself on the very edge of the company, or perhaps outside the company, it’s hard to know which. He has sat down on a narrow basket chair by the door into the kitchen and is sucking on his empty pipe, observing the family, looking from one to another, looking at Anna. Anna, apparently so absorbed by the puzzle, Anna leaning toward her brother, Anna, who has gathered her hair into a knot today Anna’s smile, Anna’s intimacy, Anna safely enclosed in her family. Look at me, just for a moment. No, she is absorbed, inaccessible inside the magic circle of the ceiling lamp. She is whispering to Ernst. That swift, conspiratorial smile. See me, just for a moment! No. Henrik cultivates a mild grief, an elegiac sense of being outside. At that moment, he is wallowing in something he likes to call hopeless love. At the same time he realizes with a shudder of satisfaction that he is worthless. He is wandering in the shadows, far beyond Grace. He is seen by no one, and that is true.

  Mrs. Karin’s reading is well articulated, subdued yet dramatic. When she comes to dialogue, she gives her performance a little character, coloring it according to her own judgment, and is fascinating in a simple way, allowing herself also to be captivated by what she is reading:

  Karin: “When the Dean’s wife came into the doorway, she stopped and looked around the room. A few of them tried to speak to her, but she could hear nothing at all that day. She raised her hand and said in that dry hard voice of the kind often used by deaf people: ‘You no longer come to me, so I have come to you to tell you you must not go to Jerusalem. It’s an evil city. That was where they crucified Our Saviour!’ Karin tried to answer her, but she heard nothing and simply went on: ‘It’s an evil city and wicked people live there. That was where they crucified Christ. I’ve come here,’ she went on, ‘because this has been a good house. Ingmarsdotter is a good name. It has always been a good name. You must stay in our parish!’ Then she turned and went out. Now she had done what she had to do, and she could die in peace. This was the last act life was demanding of her. Karin Ingmarsdotter wept when the old lady had gone. ‘Maybe it’s not right for us to go,’ she said. But at the same time, she was glad the old lady had said: ‘Ingmarsdotter is a good name. It has always been a good name.’ That was the first and only time anyone had ever seen Karin Ingmarsdotter hesitant when confronted with the great undertaking.”

 

‹ Prev