Free The Best Intentions by Ingmar Bergman Page B

And you’re insolent, to boot. I hadn’t expected that of an apprentice priest.
    Henrik: I’m sorry, but I stand by my rights. If you refuse, sir, I shall be forced to turn to the countess, for the written agreement was in fact signed between her and me.
    Count: Don’t you dare speak to the countess.
    Henrik: I’ll have to.
    Count: You’re a damned scoundrel, Bergman. Clearly you weren’t thrashed enough in your childhood.
    Henrik: And you, sir, if I may say so, are a bounder who was presumably thrashed far too much in your childhood.
    Count: What if I make up for some of your father’s sins of neglect by giving you a good thrashing here and now?
    Henrik: If you do, sir, you can count on me hitting back. Go ahead. You may strike first since you, sir, are undoubtedly the elder. The nobler.
    Count: I have high blood pressure and am not supposed to get annoyed like this.
    Henrik: May one hope for a slight stroke. In that case, God is merciful, freeing the earth of such a scoundrel.
    Svante Svantesson de Fèste now starts laughing and punches Henrik in the chest with his fist. Henrik smiles in confusion.
    Count: Damn it, you’re quite something of an apprentice priest. Well, not bad at all, young man. If you’re to get anywhere in this rotten world, you have to stand up for yourself. Did you say the first of September? Then I owe you for July and August. That’ll be two hundred and fifty riksdaler. Let’s settle up on the spot, and not a word to the ladies, eh?
    Henrik: Our agreement actually included food and lodging until the first of September. But I’ll forego that.
    Count: Stay on, won’t you? It’s pleasant here. And pretty girls! And good food! You must admit we eat well.
    Henrik: No, thank you.
    Count: Christ, you really are stuck-up. Don’t you forgive easily, either?
    Henrik: Not in this case.
    Count: Come on then, we’ll go and have coffee with the countess and the girls. And your companion. What was his name again?
    Henrik: Ernst.
    The count, in a good mood, slaps Henrik on the back.
    The day is growing hot, the dust swirling around in the dry puffs of wind. Henrik and Ernst are on their way to Upsala. They are cycling side by side along the bumpy road. Sandals, trousers rolled up a little, shirts open at the neck. Rucksacks filled with diverse necessities. Jackets, underclothes, socks rolled up in raincoats on the carriers. Student caps. Leisurely pace. They set off at five o’clock and after a great many rests and swims have got as far as Jumkils Church.
    There are people about, standing in groups and walking along the side of the road, men in their best suits and round hats, collars andties. Suddenly Ernst gets a lump of earth between his shoulder blades. He stops and turns around. Henrik stops a little ahead of him. A group of men pass, talking to each other, but not looking at Ernst. A tall, thin man suddenly rushes up and snatches off Henrik’s student cap, spits on it, hurls it to the ground, and stamps on it. Henrik is dumbfounded. Ernst pedals past and signals for him to get a move on.
    They pass Bälinge station. A special train with a large number of cars has stopped on a siding, and there’s a great deal of activity near the train, a brass band unpacking its instruments, flags being unfurled. A hundred or so men are moving about on the dusty sunny-white
open space outside the station.
    Ernst: We’ll see if there’s going to be any autumn term at all.
    Henrik: Why shouldn’t there be an autumn term?
    Ernst: Don’t you ever read the newspapers?
    Henrik: How can I afford to?
    Ernst: They say there’ll be a general strike and a big lockout. In August at the latest.
    Henrik says nothing. He is confused and embarrassed because, as usual, he is ignorant of such matters.
    They arrive at about one o’clock at an Upsala empty of people. The sun is straight above TrädgÃ¥rdsgatan, and the shadows have