Free The Best Intentions by Ingmar Bergman Page A

Ah, yes. German grammar. Well now, what was it I was going to say? Yes. A young gentleman called Ernst Åkerblom has arrived on his bicycle and wishes to speak to you. I informed him that you were occupied with my son until one o’clock, and urged him to visit our girls down at the bathing place, advice he clearly accepted with pleasure. Yes, well, that was that. How are things going for Robert? Is he ineducable, or have you managed to knock into him some of the education expected of a nobleman? — now that the old parliamentary system has been abolished. How’s it going?
    Henrik: I think Robert’s very able and is making good progress. If there are gaps . . .
    Count: Do you mean gaps, not chasms?
    Henrik: . . . there are gaps, as I said, but with mutual efforts, we shall no doubt achieve something before the beginning of the autumn term.
    Count: Really? You don’t say! Well, that sounds hopeful. What do you say, Robert? Eh?
    The count slaps the back of Robert’s neck so that the boy’s teeth rattle. The gesture is intended to be encouraging, but Robert lowers his head, starts sniffing, and a tear trickles its way down his dirty cheek.
    Robert: Yes.
    Count: What? Are you blubbering?
    Robert: No.
    Count: I was mistaken. I thought you were. Blow your nose, boy! Don’t you have a handkerchief? What sort of sloppiness is this? Here. Take mine. Stop sniveling. I want to talk to Mr. Bergman alone. Take your grammar with you, and go and read in the arbor.
    Robert slouches off, a walking misery After he has closed the door, the count lowers his bulky frame onto an unsteady chair with a broken back and sits there hunched up, growling to himself.
    Henrik: You wish to speak to me, sir?
    Count: His mother says I’m unfair. That I drive him too hard. I don’t know. She says I don’t love him. I don’t know. Perhaps I’d better stop this cruelty to animals. What do you think, Mr. Bergman?
    Henrik: One should never give up hope.
    Count: Nonsense, Mr. Bergman! My son Robert is an ineducable sluggard, a damned idiot. A tearful slouch. He’ll grow up to be a spendthrift, a ne’er-do-well. He reminds me of his uncle, my wife’s brother. In him, you can see the final result.
    Henrik: I feel sorry for him.
    Count: What? Sorry for someone who’s had everything? Who’s never had to make the slightest effort? Who’s his mother’s spoiled brat? If you’re sorry for that creature, then you’re sorry for mankind.
    Henrik: Perhaps I am sorry for mankind.
    Count: What sort of damned nonsense is that, Mr. Bergman? That sort of morbid fantasy — no thanks! Ich habe gewesen! What? Mankind is a muck-heap, Mr. Bergman. An excrescence on the face of the earth. Thank Christ for horses, Mr. Bergman. If I didn’t have my horses, I’d put a bullet through my head. Horses — you can be sorry for them. Their great mistake was at the beginning of time when they made a pact with man. They’ve had to pay dearly for that agreement. ( Abruptly .) So we’re agreed to stop this nonsensical coaching of Robert?
    Henrik: That’s for you to decide, sir.
    Count: Exactly, Mr. Bergman, the count decides. We’ll send the crybaby to his grandmother in Hägersta, where there are plenty of old biddies to spoil him. And he’ll have to repeat a grade next year. What’s the date today? Saturday, July 9? You’re finishing at your own request as of today and will be paid up to Friday the fifteenth. You can stay or leave, Mr. Bergman, whichever you like. Does that suit you?
    Henrik: May I remind you, sir, that I was appointed until the first of September. I lack resources and have counted on this appointment.
    Count: Well, I’ll be damned. Are you saying you should be paid for doing nothing?
    Henrik: It would be quite impossible for me to find another post this late in the summer. I have to live, sir.
    Count: You certainly have pretensions, Mr. Bergman.