The Best Intentions

by Ingmar Bergman

  Mrs. Johansson: I think we’d better go.

  She gets up heavily and takes Anna’s proffered hand. “Thank you very much for all your patience and care.” Anna looks away “It was a pity it had to end like this.” Mrs. Johansson is embarrassed. ‘Anyhow, you and the pastor couldn’t have looked after the boy forever.”

  They all stand around. Finally, Mrs. Johansson puts her hand on the back of Petrus’s neck and pushes him toward the door. Henrik reaches for the suitcase, and they leave in silence. Jack follows. He likes riding on the sleigh. Henrik helps Mrs. Johansson and Petrus up, tucks the fur rugs around them, and gets up on the driver’s seat, urges the horse on, the bells jingling. The sleigh disappears up the slope toward the gate.

  Anna watches them go. Her darkness is great. Gradually, she forces herself out of her immobility and knocks on the door of the maid’s room, where things are very cramped. Mia’s cot is blocking the doorway, and she is lying curled up, her forehead beaded with sweat. Mejan is sitting up on the pull-out sofa, knitting and coughing dully. The stove pings; the iron doors rattle; the room is steamily hot and smells of sweat and body odors.

  “I’m getting up tomorrow,” says Mejan determinedly. “Only if you haven’t got a temperature,” says Anna. “How’s Mia?” “I think she’s delirious. She says such peculiar things, I have to laugh,” says Mejan. “Maybe you ought to air the room,” says Anna. “It’s rather stuffy in here.” “I’m not letting out all this nice warmth,” says Mejan, coughing. “Have you drunk your Ems water?” “Oh, yes. And Petrus had to go, did he?” “Yes, Petrus has gone.” “I never liked that boy,” says Mejan decisively, rattling her knitting needles. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to do the dishes?” “You stay there!” says Anna, and goes out into the kitchen and closes the door.

  There is a copper cistern of hot water by the stove. Anna turns on the tap, and the hot water steams and splashes into the washing-up bowl. She adds cold water and mixes in a slick of green soft soap (shortage), then lifts the bowl onto the bench. She can feel that in her back, but she is deep down in her darkness and tears are pouring down her cheeks. She starts washing the dishes from yesterday’s evening meal. Then she stops abruptly, wipes her hands, and sits down at the kitchen table. The stove rustles and crackles, but otherwise it is quiet. A gigantic quiet lies on Anna’s shoulders, rising like a column toward icy space.

  She has sat there quite a long time, perhaps even dozing off for a few minutes, when she hears the sleigh bells up by the gate and the neighbor who has lent them the sleigh coming. Henrik speaks to him and hands over the reins. They exchange a few words, and then Henrik is stamping the snow off his boots on the steps. Anna gets up and stretches, bending back. Sometimes her back aches, or else she has been sick, but that’s not surprising. The door opens and closes. Anna washes dishes. Henrik is standing over by the door, taking off his coat. Anna washes dishes. Henrik sits down on a chair and pulls off his boots. Anna washes dishes in a clatter of glass, china, forks, spoons, and knives. Henrik sits down by the window, his coat across his knees, his boots on the floor beside him. He is looking steadily at Anna, who is washing dishes. Jack lies down under the kitchen table.

  Henrik: It was bes t that way.

  (Anna washes dishes.)

  Henrik: We couldn’t possibly keep him here.

  (Anna washes dishes.)

  Henrik: I think he understood.

  (Anna clatters.)

  Henrik: He didn’t even cry.

  (Anna puts the plates into the bowl.)

  Henrik: Why don’t you answer?

  (Anna doesn’t answer.)

  Henrik: We can’t go on like this, Anna!

  (Anna washes dishes.)

  Henrik: You’ve no reason to behave like this.

  (Anna stops washing dishes, stands still.)

  Henrik: It’s as if it were all my fault.

  (Anna shakes her head, washes dishes.)

  Henrik: Stop washing dishes and turn around!

  (Anna stops washing dishes and doesn’t turn around.)

  (Henrik says nothing.)

  (Anna says nothing.)

  Henrik suddenly gets up and walks across the floor to Anna, snatches the plate out of her hand, and bangs it down on the draining board so that pieces fly in all directions. Then he grabs her by the shoulders and turns her to him, breathing heavily, his face trembling.

  Henrik: Speak to me!

  Anna: You’ve cut yourself on the plate. Your finger’s bleeding.

  Henrik: I don’t give a damn.

  Anna (calmly): Come on, let’s get out of here. There’s no point in the girls hearing us.

  She wipes her hands on her apron and goes ahead of Henrik into the living room. It is bitterly cold, and their breath turns white.

  Henrik: Can’t we go up to my room? It is so damned cold in here.

  Anna: No. I have moved Dag into our bedroom. We’re only going to heat the bedroom and your workroom. What did you want to say?

  Henrik: You must speak to me.

  Anna: There’s no point.

  Henrik: Anything, Anna. Anything’s better than saying nothing.

  Anna: And you say that?

  Henrik breathes, and his breath billows out. Anna is standing with her back to the window, her hands under her woolen cardigan and her arms folded across her bosom. Mejan’s blue apron is too large. Her hair is untidy, her face gray.

  Henrik: Anything.

  Anna: I have a responsibility. I am responsible for Dag and the child that is coming. My responsibility tells me that I must leave here. My responsibility to the children is more important than my loyalty to you.

  Henrik: I don’t understand.

  Anna: I must take Dag with me and go away. You want to stay, as that is your conviction. I respect your conviction but do not share it.

  Henrik: And where are you going?

  Anna: Where shall I go? Home, of course.

  Henrik: Your home is here.

  (Anna says nothing.)

  Henrik: You can’t do this to me.

  Anna: I have already written to Mama.

  Henrik: What a triumph. For her.

  Anna: So that’s your first thought.

  Henrik: I forbid you to go.

  Anna: You forbid nothing, Henrik.

  Henrik: And how long will you be away?

  Anna: When you have come to your senses, then perhaps we can talk about the future.

  Henrik: What future?

  Anna: I have spoken to Gransjö. Or rather he has spoken to me. He pointed out that the offer still stands.

  Henrik: So you’ve gone behind my back, have you?

  Anna: You could say that, yes.

  Their breath comes steaming out of their mouths, the cold pressing against their faces and their bodies. They remain inexorable, Anna with her back to the window, Henrik inside the door.

  Henrik (calmly): I shall never forgive you for this.

  Anna: So now we know that. Now I’m going to the kitchen to finish the dishes.

  She walks past him. He turns around and grabs her by the arm to stop her, but she frees herself and laughs. He hits her in the face, and she stops, staring at him.

  Henrik (panic): Just go away! (Shouts.) Go away, for Christ’s sake! I never want to see you again! Go away! You’ve lied and gone behind my back. (Shouts.) Go away! Just go away!

  He hits her again. She staggers back and slowly brings her hand up to her face, staring steadily at him, more astonished than really shaken.

  Anna: You’re insane.

  Henrik: I knew it would be like this! I knew you’d leave me! I knew it!

  She isn’t listening to him, but goes out into the kitchen and closes the door behind her. Henrik starts walking across the floor, the cold penetrating through the floorboards, through his legs, stomach, and chest, up into his throat, mouth, eyes.

  Three days later, everything is organized for an undramatic departure. Anna says she is taking her son with her to visit her mother in Upsala, so
mething everyone finds quite natural. Husband and wife speak politely to each other in friendly tones. The dog Jack weeps quietly over the suitcases. Anna catches herself singing as she packs. Mia and Mejan have recovered, and the everyday domestic order is more or less restored.

  The pastor accompanies his wife to the station. It’s windy, the loose snow swirling about in silent clouds, the sun as red as a sore, the time half past nine in the morning. They have taken shelter in the waiting room, a large room with brown walls, fixed wooden benches, and a huge iron stove glowing more than producing heat. Mia is busy checking in the many suitcases; then she puts them on the platform where the guard’s van stops. Henrik and Anna are alone in the waiting room, sitting beside each other on the wooden bench. Dag sits on Henrik’s knee but wants to get down on the floor. Nothing is said. Then the train hoots and clatters across the points, thick white clouds of steam billowing in the cold.

  The prayer house is a bare hall with four high windows facing the snowstorm and the arctic night. The wooden walls are unadorned and painted green. On the platform there is a lectern and a pedal-organ. (Instant savior.) Behind the lectern is a cross painted black. Two tall iron stoves take care of the heating. Eight carbide lamps hang on iron hooks from the ceiling and spread a strong bluish white light. The hall contains fifteen long benches with no backs. Despite the bad weather, everyone has come. It is a full house, more than full, and people are standing in the aisles and sitting on the floor. It is suffocatingly hot, and they are all sweating profusely.

  Now they are singing:

  When the sinner blindly rash,

  Hastens to destruction,

  He is preceded by Thy Grace.

  Thou hastens to his meeting, calls:

  Stop sinful bondsman!

  See salvation for wretched soul!

  Waken and see your peril!

  Henrik looks around. He is squashed up against the wall. They are all singing, the storm crashing against the windows, the carbide lamps shining sharply down on the pale faces, old people, young girls, families with children, boys in uniform.

  They all sit down, shifting and making room, a gentle coughing buzz. Pastor Levander gets up on the platform and says a silent prayer. Then he raises his eyes and looks at the assembled crowd without ingratiation and speaks in a light but penetrating voice.

  Levander: And they brought to him one who was deaf and almost dumb and bade Jesus lay his hand upon him.

  Congregation: Yes, yes, praise the Lord!

  Levander: Then Jesus took him aside from the people and put his fingers in his ear and spat and touched his tongue.

  Congregation: Hallelujah! The Lord be praised!

  Levander: . . . and looked up at the heavens, sighed and said to him “Effata” — “open up.”

  Congregation: Effata, Jesus, thou my savior!

  Levander: Then his ears were opened and the bands on his tongue loosened, and he spoke plainly and clearly.

  Congregation: He spoke, he spoke, Oh, Jesus! Jesus!

  Levander: And Jesus forbade them to tell of this to anyone, but the more he forbade them, the more they told of what had happened!

  Congregation: Come to me, Jesus! Open my heart!

  Levander: And the people were amazed beyond all things and said: “He has brought about everything. He lets the deaf hear and the dumb speak.” Hallelujah, sisters and brothers, let us together praise the Lord Jesus Christ for the miracles he creates with us daily and always. May we with rejoicing raise our voices in praise and prayer.

  The organ squeals and squeaks and is at once drowned.

  All (sing): Crushed by the threat of law, by your hand I’m guided, to the throne of grace, to the foot of the cross, where salvation is prepared! Here am I purified in the blood of Jesus. Here I find another courage. Here life in faith is given!

  Levander: The Grace of God and Peace be with you all, but especially with those of you who come from the extremes of darkness, especially those of you who are slaves of your deeds, especially those of you who think yourselves rejected and weep tears of blood, those of you who are choked by your evil words and your evil thoughts, those of you who carry earth in your mouth and the poison of serpents in your mind. Grace be with you! The Grace of Jesus Christ be with you. And may He have mercy on you this night and grant you peace.

  Congregation: Hallelujah! The Grace of God! The Love of Jesus!

  Levander: You who have gone astray, may you be taken by the hand of the Father. You who are lonely and think yourself spurned, may you already this night see the great light in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.

  Congregation: Amen, amen, amen.

  Henrik tries to make his way out, almost suffocated by the heat and the crush. The congregation is now rising, and a trumpeter is on the platform. It is Tor Axelin from the village store. He is a member of the band of the Volunteer Defense Corps.

  Congregation (roaring): The blood of Jesus my guilt doth take away. Jesus hast all reconciled. Jesus all good for me doth exhort. That I was mercifully spared. I a certain refuge find, in the deep wounds of Jesus. Jesus helps us out of need. Out into life and into death.

  Henrik has reached the door and squeezes his way out. He sees surprised faces, a smile, someone whispers. Then at last he is away from that huge mysterious crush of human bodies. Icy nails in his face, the pain a release.

  Mrs. Karin Åkerblom is waiting for the train, which is late because of the snowstorms in North Uppland. The two women meet on the platform, but there is no time for emotions. The grandchild is whimpering, and overseeing things now assumes vital importance, so a porter, arranged for in advance, takes the luggage tags, and a hired cab sits waiting.

  Lisen is standing at the front door. She has never seen the son. Light everywhere, warmth. Supper is on the table, which is laid with the hand-painted English cups and saucers. Anna and Mrs. Karin make a hurried tour of the apartment, which is unrecognizable. The dining room has been halved and turned into a study with desk and bookcases, and, at the moment, with a sofa bed made up for the night. “I’m sleeping in here,” says Mrs. Karin. “Then you and the boy can have my room. Have you ever seen such a nice room! I took away a third of the drawing room and got a pleasant bedroom. We’ve managed to get a cot for the boy. I hope he’ll like it here.”

  After they have eaten, Dag is to go to bed. He falls asleep before he has time to say his prayers. Lisen is puttering around in her room (the only room that remains unchanged). Mrs. Karin and Anna have closed the door. “Now at last, I really must take a look at you,” says the mother, her arm around Anna’s waist. “Now I really must have a good look at you.”

  The two women are standing on the green carpet in the drawing room, the light in the chandelier out and the mirrors behind the wall brackets reflecting the gentle candlelight. “I’ve so longed to be back,” says Anna. Her mother shakes her head and strokes her daughter’s forehead and cheek. “Now you are.”

  Anna: I got so exhausted, you see.

  Karin: That’s natural, you’re in the third month.

  Anna: They were all ill. I was frightened.

  Karin: When is it due?

  Anna: The doctor thought July.

  Karin: You must go to Fürstenberg. I’ve spoken to him. He’ll see you on Monday.

  Anna: Mama?

  Karin: Yes.

  Anna: I’d better . . .

  Karin: (after a pause, carefully): What is it?

  Anna: I’m confused and just want to cry.

  Karin: You’ve been traveling all day.

  Anna: I’m not going to break up my marriage. I’m not going to leave Henrik. Perhaps you got the wrong impression from my letters.

  Karin (quietly): Come, Anna, let’s sit down here on the sofa. Just like in the old days. Would you like a little glass of sherry or a brandy? I’m going to have a stiff brandy — you too, won’t you? After all these emotional upheavals.

  Her mother pours out their drinks and puts the glasses on small, rou
nd silver platters, after which they sit down on the indulgently bulging green sofa. Mrs. Karin puts her feet up on a stool, Anna kicks off her slippers. She tucks her feet under her. A small lamp with a painted shade is on the low table, the small doors of the tiled stove open, the embers winking and flickering, crystal flowers of ice just visible behind the embroidered screens on the double windows. Anna closes her eyes. Mrs. Karin waits. A sleigh jingles down on the street below. The cathedral clock strikes the three quarters of the hour, distantly

  On the twentieth of December 1917, the Iron Works goes bankrupt and all payments are suspended. That same morning, Nordenson is found dead in his study. He has shot himself through the mouth with his hunting rifle. Half the back of his head is spattered all over the bookcase.

  In the unsettled icy morning light, more than a hundred men gather outside the Works office, the doors of which are locked, a neatly written notice on the board outside — No Payments. Two policemen from the Valbo force are posted outside the manor gates. The local policeman and his colleague are in the drawing room trying to speak to Mrs. Elin. Her face is expressionless except for a small polite smile, and her head is turned away as she answers yes and no and I don’t know. He didn’t tell me anything about his difficulties. He didn’t talk at all recently. My husband did not want to worry me. I know nothing.

  At the pastor’s office, it is bitterly cold, and in order to share fraternally the insignificant warmth warring with the freezing drafts from the badly fitting windows, the Reverend Gransjö has left the door of his private room ajar. At the moment his assistant is busy on some errand in the course of duty, and the organist is on his way to the church to repair, if possible, one of the keys. As soon as air reaches the organ, it lets out a high-pitched sound, which must be silenced.

  The Reverend Gransjö calls to his curate and asks Henrik to please come in and close the door. “Do sit down. Where is the new organist? He can’t just go out like that without saying where he is going. But he’s new, of course, and sings well. He’s got a good voice, that boy.”

  Henrik: He went to the church to repair the organ. Some key in the top manual has fallen down. He thought he could silence it.