The Best Intentions

by Ingmar Bergman

  Anna falls silent and runs her hand down her face from forehead to chin and throat.

  Ernst: Mama talked kindly about Henrik. She didn’t mention any of what you’ve just told me. She just said you were happy, and she was pleased you seemed so content.

  Anna: Yes. (Silence.) Henrik had a letter in October, in shaky, almost illegible handwriting. It was from his grandfather. (Silence.) His grandfather was asking for a reconciliation. (Silence.) The old man was ill, seriously ill. (Silence.) He wanted Henrik and me to go and see him. (Silence.) Henrik showed me the letter. I asked him what we should do. He answered quietly that he could see no reason to seek reconciliation with the man.

  Ernst: And you?

  Anna: Me? What could I do? Sometimes I can’t make head or tail of anything. Sometimes a chasm opens up. I keep away so as not fall into it.

  Ernst: Can one keep away?

  Anna: I keep away. And say nothing. A few hours later everything’s normal again, and Henrik is the kindest, happiest, sweetest — well, you’ll see.

  Ernst: Anna!

  Anna: No, no. He’s coming.

  (I write what I see and hear. Sometimes it all goes well, and I forget to listen to tones of voice, which might be more important than the words. Could there possibly be a note of sheer suppressed anxiety in Anna’s voice? Does Ernst take in her possible uneasiness? Did Anna have in mind Henrik’s carefully concealed and seldom revealed wounds, the inflamed unhealed wounds of the mind? Or is she much too occupied with the present, with all that is new and unexpected? Anna has a talent for lighthearted recklessness. Henrik is tenderhearted, loving, and mostly happy. The day runs its course. Without thinking about the course, they become concepts of each other. “I can’t tell,” says Anna apologetically. “How could I understand?” says Henrik in astonishment. “Surely one can’t always!” protests Anna. “I don’t know why I should have a guilty conscience,” mumbles Henrik.)

  Henrik comes into the hall stamping his feet. “Is Ernst here? Has he come?” He is wearing a short military sheepskin coat, a knitted cap on his head, and a wool scarf around his neck. His trousers are stuffed into sheepskin-lined boots, and in his hand he has a square leather bag containing his cassock, vestments, and a little wooden box of the sacred requisites for communion. The Lapland dog, Jack, is circling his legs.

  As Ernst appears in the doorway to the dining room, Jack goes rigid with resentment and growls. “Quiet, Jack!” cries Anna, pulling at his collar. “This is Ernst, you stupid dog. My brother. We have the same scent, if you could trouble yourself to take a sniff!”

  “Dear old Laban, how welcome you are here,” says Henrik, embracing his brother-in-law. “Dear old Luvern, let me look at you. God, you’ve filled out!” says Ernst, patting Henrik’s cheeks. “You’re beginning to look like a real pirate. Where’s that elegiac poet got to now?” “Living in the forest’s good for you,” says Henrik, pulling off his gloves, cap, scarf, coat, and boots.

  He flings his arms around Anna and Ernst and suddenly says: “This way I’m happy!” He is fiercely moved and lets his arms fall, orders Jack to say hello to Ernst, saying that Jack is his armor-bearer. “The way things are around here, you need something of Jack’s caliber to defend you.” “Jack’s church-inclined, too,” says Anna. “When Henrik’s preaching, he lies at the door of the sacristy. He’s quite familiar with altar service as well as communion. We really must have dinner now! The women are coming at seven.” “What women?” says Ernst. “We have a sewing bee on Thursdays, when womenfolk, young and old, from all over the parish come. Sometimes forty souls. Henrik reads aloud, and we have coffee, and everyone brings something to eat. You wait and see, it’s not bad at all. When we came here, they were all stuck out on their own in their homes. Now you could say there’s some sort of communication going on! Wait and see!”

  My mother told me quite a lot about her sewing bee. As soon as they took on the parish and had got the house in order, they had systematically gone around and introduced themselves. She had said that every Thursday at seven o’clock, there would be open house at the parsonage, a sewing bee, reading aloud, and evening prayers.

  The suspicion they met with was unmistakable: Oh, yes, indeed, new brooms! Pentecostalists and Mission Society members all declined. This was seduction of the devil. The communists were unfriendly. Were their womenfolk to have coffee with the church, the moneybags, and the military? Inconceivable! The unemployed shook their heads. What? Bring something to eat? Who could do that when you didn’t know how to get from one day to the next? So at first the number of people who came to the meeting was fairly minimal. A few church people from the bigger farms came, and three older women from the workers’ quarters, possibly in defiance of views held in the kitchen at home. Gradually (but very slowly) curiosity got the upper hand. And it should not be forgotten that my mother was a trained nurse and it was twelve kilometers of bad roads to the provincial doctor, the midwife nearly always out on her rounds. Mother had a good hand with people’s ailments, children, animals, and flowers. She consulted with the doctor and was able to acquire a set of instruments and administer some harmless medicines. There were plenty of ailments, and Mother felt needed and energetically active. Father, according to Mother’s testimony, made modest but effective progress.

  It all began with an accident in the forge. A worker had his arm torn off and died from loss of blood before the doctor and ambulance could get to the place. The men wanted to stop work and go home, as was traditional when a death occurred. The management refused to allow it, citing delivery dates and the pressure of time (it was wartime, and important goods were being manufactured). Suddenly the men’s anger exploded. There was still much antagonism below the surface after the humiliations of 1909 and the local conflicts that followed. The main switches were turned off, the machines stopped, and an irongray dusk descended over both workshops and men.

  When Nordenson finally made his way down to the office, the pastor was already there, sitting on a bench by the wall with some of the older men. People were standing, sitting, or lying on the floor — it was warm, at the end of August. Nordenson spoke calmly and politely, one knee shaking violently No one replied. He appealed to the pastor, who remained as silent as the others: dusk, silence, heat. Nordenson left the foundry and telephoned to the minister himself. The minister then summoned the pastor and severely reprimanded him, referring to the Master’s rather obscure words, render therefore unto God the things that are God’s and unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.

  This episode was much discussed at the Works and on the farms, and possibly overvalued. The pastor was regarded as “one of us.” He also got on well with people, had a good memory for faces and names, visited the old and the sick, talked to them in a way they understood, and sometimes sang a verse from a hymn or something equally appropriate. Without telling anyone, he reformed the confirmation classes and told his pupils both what would be asked and what the answers should be at confirmation. He abolished their homework and talked to them about things that interested both them and him. He held parish evenings once a month, often at the parsonage, for the chapel was difficult to heat. He ordered lantern slides and printed lectures from the diocesan publishers. He sought out the chairman of the Mission Society and suggested working together. That was an inappropriate step. The minister forbade such contacts, and the pastor of the Mission Society declined with harsh words.

  Steadily, modest spiritual activity began to grow in the parish, a fact that was good for both the Mission Society and the Pentecostalist movement, for competition increased and the battle for souls intensified. Once the early curiosity had waned, the pastor had preached to a fairly empty chapel, and in the big church the desolation was even more evident. Slowly, extremely slowly, people began to come to morning service and evensong.

  Mother and Father were also a handsome couple living in obvious harmony on the brightly lit stage of the parsonage, its doors all open. No one doubted their good intentions.
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br />   The sewing bee, particularly in the winter, is a lengthy but functional procedure. On this evening, at seven o’clock, twenty-nine women assemble at the parsonage. They are all well wrapped up and have brought with them handwork bags and food (everyone brings a basket, in the basket a thermos of coffee, cream, sugar, cup, spoon, plate, and buns and cakes of varying richness and quality). Mia, Mejan, and some confirmands see to the baskets. The dining room table quickly becomes a coffee table, the coffee all poured into the big household copper pot (because it is the third winter of the war, the coffee is mostly chicory). Then they unwrap themselves, and outdoor clothes pile up on the chairs in the hall and on the stairs. They blow their noses politely, smooth down their hair in front of the mirror, and there is a quiet mumbling and buzz of talk. Anna and Henrik stand in the doorway greeting them. There are paraffin lamps, candles, fires in the tiled stoves, tables moved in, and all the chairs in the house assembled or borrowed from neighbors. “Good evening, good evening, how nice, Mrs. Palm (Gustavsson, Aimers, Flink, Danielsson, Berger, Ahlqvist, Nykvist, Johansson, Tallrot, Gertud, Kama, Alma, Ingrid, Tekla, Magna, Alva, Mrs. Dreber, Gullheden, Ander, Marta, Mrs. Flink, Werkelin, Kronstrom) that you could come. We’re going to be quite a crowd tonight despite the cold. This is my brother, Ernst Åkerblom. He’s just come from Norway, where it’s even colder at the moment. A cup of coffee would be really good now, wouldn’t it? I’ve got a packet of real Java coffee from my mother. We’ve put it in the pot. I’ll come and see you tomorrow, if that suits you, Mrs. Werkelin, then I can take a look at your mother-in-law.”

  Anna finds that Mrs. Johansson is holding her left hand behind her back, two fingers bandaged with linen cloth and string. “I burned myself badly on the stove ring.” “We’ll see to that. I have some ointment the doctor gave me. We’ll do that when the reading starts. I’ve also got some pills for the pain.” “Yes, it hurts something awful,” mumbles Mrs. Johansson.

  They all bustle around together with ceremonial politeness. At last the big copper pot is on the table. The intensity of the talk rises by a few decibels; there’s a rattle of spoons and porcelain. This is the prelude to long notes and controlled tempo.

  Henrik takes his place by the window table, sharing a paraffin lamp with Miss Nykvist, Mrs. Flink, and the good-tempered Alva, who is simpleminded but good at all kinds of handwork. He opens the book and asks for silence. Then he recaps what happened in the last chapter. His choice of literature is unconventional, not to say bold. Anna Karenina by Tolstoy.

  Henrik (reading): “The same day that they came, Vronskey went to his brother’s, where he also met his mother, who had just arrived from Moscow on certain errands. His mother and sister-in-law received him as usual. They asked him where he had been abroad and talked to him about mutual old acquaintances, but they said not a word about his relationship with Anna. His brother, on the other hand, who came to see Vronskey on the following day, asked him about her, and Alexey told him that he regarded his connection with Anna as if it were a marriage, and that he hoped to effect a formal divorce so that he could then marry her, but that even before that, he regarded her as his wife.”

  While the reading was going on, Anna had retreated into the kitchen with Mrs. Johansson, fair-skinned, plump, blue-eyed, her usual red cheeks pale from the pain in her hand, her lips trembling when Anna exposed the burn, now already infected. The skin is already gone from the inside of her middle and third finger. They have to get her rings off. Anna and Mrs. Johansson are alone in the kitchen, except for Jack, who is asleep under the sink. ‘T1I fetch my brother and a sharp pair of pincers,” says Anna decisively “This can’t wait until morning. Gangrene might set in.” Ernst turns pale, but arranges the pincers and cuts the rings, which are then forced apart. Then Anna spreads ointment on the burns, bandages the hand, and makes a sling. Ernst fetches brandy and pours it out. Mrs. Johansson nods gravely, and Anna and Ernst nod back. They empty their glasses in one draft, almost to the bottom.

  Anna: You’ll have to keep your left hand still. How can you do that?

  Mrs. Johansson: I suppose I’ll manage.

  Anna: Then I’ll phone the doctor and ask him if he wants to see your hand. I wouldn’t dare take the responsibility myself.

  Mrs. Johansson: Yes, please.

  Anna: Take some of these painkillers at night; then you’ll get some sleep, Mrs. Johansson. But try to put up with it in the daytime.

  Mrs. Johansson: Thank you, thank you, I expect it’ll be all right.

  Anna: Shall we go back to the reading?

  Mrs. Johansson: I suppose we should.

  Anna: What’s the matter, Mrs. Johansson?

  Mrs. Johansson: I don’t know. I don’t know whether it’s worth mentioning.

  Anna sits down. Ernst has withdrawn from the circle of light round the kitchen table and sat down by the sink, smoking a cigarette and cautiously making Jack’s acquaintance, with some success.

  Anna: We can stay awhile.

  Mrs. Johansson (after a silence): Maybe it’s nothing. The children have grown up now. The girl’s a nursery-school teacher in Hudiksvall and the boy’s in the Navy and called up forever. He wants to be an officer, so he’ll probably be all right. Johannes — my husband, that is — and I have been on our own for two years, and that’s fine. Just fine. Johannes has had a lighter job since his lungs went bad on him — he’s got a job in the Works office, and that’s all right. (Silence.)

  Anna: But there’s something that’s not quite all right?

  Mrs. Johansson: I don’t know. I don’t know how to put it.

  Anna: Would you like my brother . . . ?

  Mrs. Johansson: No, no, heavens no. I’m probably making things more complicated than they are. (Takes a deep breath.) It’s like this. My niece who’s married in Valbo has a little boy of seven. His father went off a few months ago. The marriage probably wasn’t all that great. But you never know who’s to blame when you’re on the outside, so I’m not making judgments. Anyhow, Johannes and I thought the boy could live with us. His name’s Petrus. My niece has gone to the father’s parents in Gäavle, where she’s got work in the kitchen at the big hotel there. The father’s vanished without a trace, but otherwise things are fairly good. Now Petrus is to start at the school here in Forsboda, of course. That’ll be in the autumn, won’t it?

  Anna: He’s seven, is he?

  Mrs. Johansson: He’ll be a little old for the class, but I’ve talked to the teacher and she says there shouldn’t be any problems. There are children who’re even older when they start . . . (Silence.)

  Anna: Is there something about Petrus?

  Mrs. Johansson: I don’t know.

  Anna: Does he have difficulties? Is he . . . ?

  Mrs. Johansson: Oh, no. He can read and write and do sums. He’s more . . . what shall I say? . . . forward, advanced. He’s mostly good and helpful and obedient. And he seems to be fond of Johannes and me. My husband has a little workshop on the farm and likes . . . when Johannes is free, he and Petrus are always together in the workshop.

  Anna: But something’s wrong, all the same?

  Mrs. Johansson: The teacher is nice, but she’s retiring next year. So I can’t talk to her. I tried, but I didn’t get very far and hardly even got started.

  Anna: Is Petrus sick?

  Mrs. Johansson: No, no. (Uncertainly, quietly.) He’s tormented. My husband doesn’t notice, but I . . .

  Anna: Tormented?

  Mrs. Johansson: His eyes look confused. Not always, but if you look, so to speak. Runs and runs until he . . .

  Anna: Perhaps you’d like to bring Petrus here, so we could talk to him.

  Mrs. Johansson (nonplussed): Yes.

  Anna: It may be his age.

  Mrs. Johansson: Yes.

  Anna: Or that he thinks his mother has . . .

  Mrs. Johansson: Maybe.

  Anna: Bring him here one day next week, Mrs. Johansson. We have the bazaar on Saturday, so at the moment there’s . . .

  Mrs.
Johansson: Of course, of course. At the moment there’s lots to . . .

  Anna: Shall we go in to the others?

  Mrs. Johansson: Don’t say anything about this.

  Anna: I must talk to Henrik.

  Mrs. Johansson: Yes, of course.

  Anna: Come now. The pastor will be wondering whether we don’t like his reading.

  An hour or so later, Henrik closes the book and gets up. The fires have gone out; the homemade candles, which burn down so quickly, are almost down to the candlesticks; the paraffin lamps have grown sleepy and are smoking slightly. It’s nice and warm, and one or two people are dozing. Henrik claps his hands and reads the blessing. Then he suggests that they sing Jesper Svedberg’s hymn, “Now the Day Is Over” ... We know that one, don’t we? Anna sits down at the piano. Henrik and Ernst sing first, and the assembled company follows in the heartfelt assurance that the streets of heavenly Jerusalem are paved with gold:

  Now the day is over,

  Night is drawing nigh.

  Shadows of the evening

  Steal across the sky.

  Jesus, give the weary

  Calm and sweet repose.

  With thy tend’rest blessing,

  May our eyelids close.

  At half past ten the last guest has wrapped herself up and tumbled out into the night with her handwork bag and emptied basket. Mejan and Mia have cleared everything away, together with Ernst and Henrik. Anna wakes her slumbering son and changes him. As she sits down on the low chair in the bedroom to feed him, the dog lies panting at her feet. His field of responsibility has increased. Previously, two gods had to be defended and attended to, but now they have become three, and that’s difficult. Yawning and slobbering, Jack is working on his jealousy.