Free The Best Intentions by Ingmar Bergman

They’ve just set up a meteorological institution. Professor Beck has suggested I apply.
    Anna: And you’d like that?
    Ernst: Watching the skies and clouds and horizons and perhaps going up in a balloon. Eh?
    Anna: You’ll have to speak to Mama. I don’t think she’d let me go.
    Ernst: Who’s going to cook my meals! Who’ll darn my socks? Who’s going to see to it that Mother’s little darling goes to bed on time? You know, we could have a good time.
    Anna: It’s tempting.
    Ernst: I’ll go by bike, and you can go by train. Then we’ll meet at TrädgÃ¥rdsgatan. This summer idyll is beginning to get on my nerves.
    Anna ( kisses him ): You’re a cunning beast, Ernst.
    Ernst: You’re also a cunning beast, Annie-Pannie Cranberry Coot. Though of another kind.
    Summertime tutoring. Reluctant and depressed pupil with scabs on his knees, half-asleep. Reluctant and depressed tutor with suppressed rage and lewd thoughts. The window is open to the July summer. Far away, but visible, four young women are bathing, shrieking, and laughing. The garden’s balmy scents. Åkerlunda Manor, Åkerlunda estate, twenty or so kilometers northwest of Upsala. The Åkerlunda River, the estate road, the waterfall, the beehives, some leisurely stray cows in the rye field.
    The young count is called Robert and is glaring sulkily at an open German grammar. He is expected shortly to recite the present tense, the imperfect, and the pluperfect, and if possible the future of the auxiliary verb Sein. Henrik, in a tie and shirtsleeves, is sitting on the other side of the table reading church history, occasionally underlining something with a blunt pencil stub. Robert and Henrik, two slaves chained together at the very bottom of the galley of learning. The bathing girls shriek. Robert raises his eyes and stares out the window, the white curtain lazily billowing. Henrik takes his feet off the table and slams his book shut.
    Henrik: Well?
    Robert: What?
    Henrik: Have you learned it?
    Robert: Can’t we go for a swim?
    Henrik: What do you think your father would say to that?
    The young count lifts one buttock, farts, and shoots a look of hatred at his tormentor, then unbuttons his trousers. Robert is really a handsome youth and his mother’s darling, but now he is caught between the hammer and the anvil — the count’s arrogance and ambition.
    Robert: Oh, bloody fucking hell.
    Henrik: Do you think I like this any more than you do? Let’s make the best of the situation.
    Robert: At least you get paid! ( Scratches his crotch .)
    Henrik: Button up your trousers, and chuck the grammar over here.
    Robert throws the book at Henrik and reluctantly tucks in his bluish, slightly floppy dick. He puts his arms on the table, his head on his arms, and takes up a sleeping position.
    Henrik: Well, start now . . . present tense first.
    Robert ( rapidly ): Ich bin, du bist, er ist, wir sind, Ihr seid. Sie, sie sind.
    Henrik: Bravo. Dare I ask for the imperfect?
    Robert ( equally rapidly ): Ich war, du warst, er war, wir waren, Ihr wart, Sie, Sle waren .
    Henrik ( surprised ): Listen to that. And now . . . well, what?
    Robert: Perfect, for Christ’s bloody sake.
    Henrik: The perfect?
    Robert: Ich habe gewesen . ( Silence .)
    ( Henrik stares at him .)
    Robert: Du hast gewesen, er hat gewesen . ( Silence .)
    Victim and tormentor look at each other with irreconcilable repugnance, though at this particular moment it is hard to say who is playing which role.
    Henrik: Oh, yes . . .
    Robert: Wir haben gewesen .
    At that charged moment, the old count comes in without knocking. Maybe he has been listening outside. Svante Svantesson de Fèste fills the room with his bulk, his voice, his sideburns, and his nose. His eyes are childishly blue, his face red merging into purple. Henrik has got to his feet and is straightening out his clothing. Robert hunches up, well aware of what is coming.
    Count Svante: