All language subtitles for Autumn.Sonata[Hostsonaten].1978.XviD

Sometimes I stand
looking at my wife

without her knowing I'm here.

The first time she
entered that room she said,

"Oh, how nice.
I feel at home here. "

We hadn't known
each other long.

We met at a bishops'
conference in Trondheim.

She was there as a journalist.

I told her about
the parsonage out here.

I ventured to suggest a visit

when the conference was over.

On the way, I asked
her to marry me.

She didn't answer, but when
we entered the room she said,

"Oh, how nice.
I feel at home here. "

Since then we've lived a quiet,
happy life at the parsonage.

Eva has, of course, told me
about her earlier life.

After leaving school
she went on to college

got engaged to a doctor and
lived with him for several years.

Wrote two small books.

Came down with tuberculosis,
broke off the engagement

and moved from Oslo to a small
town in the south of Norway

where she began
to work as a journalist.

This is the first of her books.
I like it so much.

She has written,

"One must learn to live.
I practice every day.

"My biggest obstacle is
I don't know who I am.

"I grope blindly.

"If anyone loves me as I am

"I may dare at last
to look at myself.

"For me, that possibility
is fairly remote."

I'd like to tell
her just for once

that she is loved
whole-heartedly

but I can't say it
in such a way

that she'd believe me.
I can't find the right words.

I've written to Mama.
Am I interrupting?

- No, no. Come in.
I'll turn off the radio.

I can come back later.

No, please read me the letter.

"Dearest Mama, I was in town
yesterday and ran into Agnes

"who was on a visit
to her parents.

"She told me Leonardo had died.

"I know what a terrible
blow this must be to you.

"I'm wondering now if you'd
like to come and visit us

"for a few days or weeks.

"So that you won't
say no right off

"the parsonage
is very spacious.

"You'll have your own
room with all conveniences.

"We have a piano and you can
practice all you want to.

"It would make
a change from a hotel.

"Do say you'll come!

"We'll make a fuss
over you and spoil you.

"It's ages since we last met.

"7 years this October!

"Much love from Viktor and Eva."

- That's fine.
- Are you sure?

- Mama darling!
- Eva! Well, here I am!

- I'm so glad you're here. - Yes,
just fancy. It was a long trip.

- Yes, I know.
- How beautiful it is here!

- Do stay a long time.
- Indeed I will.

- I can't believe you're here.
- Let's go for a nice long walk.

- What heavy bags! Have you brought
all your music? - Yes,

I'm staying for good!
- It would be nice.

- You'll give me some lessons,
won't you? - Yes.

Where's Viktor?
- He's not at home for the moment.

We didn't think
you'd come so early.

- This is your room.
- Oh, isn't it nice!

And what a beautiful view.
- The bathroom's here.

- How nice and up-to-date.
- I hope one wardrobe is enough.

Everything's fine.
I really am very tired.

I sat with Leonardo
the last day and night.

He was in bad pain and was
given shots every two hours.

Now and then he cried
because it hurt.

He wasn't afraid of dying.

Outside the hospital
they were drilling and hammering.

The sun was blazing down
and there were no awnings.

We tried to get another room but
many wards were closed for repairs.

Towards evening the noise stopped
and I could open the window.

The heat outside was like a wall,
and not a breath of wind.

In the evening the doctor came.
He's an old friend.

He said it wouldn't be long now.

Leonardo would get a shot every half
- hour so he could die without pain.

Then the doctor left
and the ward nurse came in.

She said I should eat,
but I wasn't hungry.

The smell was making me sick.

Leonardo dozed off

then woke up and asked me
to go out of the room.

He rang for the night nurse
and she came in with a shot.

A minute or two later
she came out and said

Leonardo was dead.

I sat with him all night.

He had been my
friend for 18 years.

We had lived together for thirteen
and had never had an angry word.

For two years he had known he was
ill and that there was no hope.

As often as I could I went to
see him at his villa near Naples.

He was kind and thoughtful
and happy about my success.

We talked and joked
and played chamber music.

He hardly ever spoke of his illness
and he wouldn't have liked me to ask.

One day he gave me a long look

then laughed and said:

"This time next year I'll be gone

"but I'll always be with you.
I'll always think of you."

It was sweet of him to say so

but he was apt to be
rather theatrical.

I can't say I go around grieving.

Of course he's left a gap,
but it's no good fretting.

Do you think I've changed much?

- You're just the same.
- I dye my hair of course.

Otherwise I'm the same,
don't you think?

I bought this outfit in Z'rich.
Saw it in a window

went in and tried it on
and it fit perfectly.

- Don't you think it's nice?
- Yes, very.

Will you help me with this case?
My back's giving me hell.

Have you a board
to put under the mattress?

We put one there yesterday.

Eva dear, what is it?
Have I said something wrong?

I'm just so glad to see you.

Give me a nice squeezy hug,
as you did when you were little.

I've done nothing
but chattered about myself.

Tell me about you.
How are things?

- Oh, fine. - Don't you lead
a very isolated life?

- No, we have our parish work.
- Yes, of course.

I often play the organ.
Last month I had a musical evening.

I played and talked
about each piece.

- I hope you'll play for me.
- I'd love to.

I gave five school
concerts in Los Angeles.

3,000 children each time.

I played and talked to them.
I was a huge success.

There's something
I have to tell you.

Helena is here.

You should have told me.

If I had, you
wouldn't have come.

I'm sure I would have.

And I'm sure you wouldn't.

Isn't Leonardo's death enough?
Why drag poor Lena here too?

She's been here for
the last two years.

Viktor and I asked her
if she'd like to live with us.

- I wrote to you.
- I never got the letter.

Or else you never
bothered to read it.

- Aren't you being rather unfair?
- Yes. I'm sorry.

I'm not up to seeing her.
At any rate not today.

Helena is a wonderful person.

She's longing to see you. - It
seemed so nice for her at that home.

- I wanted her with me.
- Are you sure she's better off here?

Yes. And I have
someone to look after.

Has she... I mean is she...
Is she worse?

Oh yes, she's worse.
It's part of the disease.

Come along then,
let's go and see her.

- Are you sure?
- I have no choice.

Some people are so naive.

- You mean me?
- Lf the shoe fits.

Dear Lena!

I've thought of you
so often, every day.

Helena is afraid
of giving you her cold.

I haven't had a cold
for twenty years.

What a lovely room you have!

I have the same
view from my room.

Helena wants you
to take her head

in your hands.
- Like that?

I'm so glad Eva's
looking after you.

I thought you were still at that
home. I would have come to visit.

But it's much better
like this, isn't it?

Now we can be
together every day.

- Are you in pain?
- No.

- How nicely you've done your hair.
- It's in your honor.

Suppose I read aloud to you?
Would you like that?

And we can go for a drive.
I've never been around here before.

- What? - Helena says you must be
awfully tired

and not to make
any more effort today.

Well done, Mama.

- Doesn't Lena have a wristwatch?
I'll give you mine.

It was a gift from an admirer

who said I was always late.

Will Lena be having dinner with us?
- No, she's on a diet.

She ate far too much
at the hospital.

Why do I feel like
I have a temperature?

Why do I want to cry?

I'm to be put to shame,
that's the idea.

Then a guilty conscience.
Always a guilty conscience!

I was in such a hurry to get here.
What was I expecting?

What was I longing
for so desperately?

This extraordinary mother!

You should have seen her
when I told her Lena was here.

She actually managed
to produce a smile

despite her surprise and alarm.

And as we stood outside Lena's door:
An actress before her entrance,

scared but in control.
The performance was superb.

Why on earth did she come here?

What did she expect of a meeting
after 7 years? What did she expect?

- I wonder. - And what did I
expect? Does one never stop hoping?

- I don't think so.
- Always mother and daughter!

No use starting to cry.
Damn it!

There she sat, gazing
at me with her big eyes.

I held her face
and felt the disease

twitching at her
throat muscles.

Damn it!

To think I can't
carry her to my bed

and comfort her as I did
when she was three.

That soft, torn body

that's my Lena!

Don't cry, for Christ's sake.

A writer whose name
I've forgotten said,

"It's like a ghost
falling on top of you

"when you open the door
to the nursery

"having long since forgotten
it is the nursery."

Do you think I'm grown up?

- I guess being
grown up is being able

to handle your dreams and hopes.
Not longing. - Do you think so?

Maybe you stop being surprised.

How sensible you look,
with your old pipe.

- You're quite grown up.
- I wonder. I'm surprised every day.

- At what?
- At you.

And I have the most
unreasonable dreams and hopes.

And a longing too, come to that.

- Longing?
- Yes. I long for you.

Those are very pretty words.

Words that don't
mean anything real.

I was brought up
with beautiful words.

Mama is never furious
or disappointed or unhappy

she is "pained". You have
a lot of words like that too.

It's a kind of
occupational disease.

If you long for me
when I'm here,

I begin to be suspicious.
- You know what I mean.

No. If I knew, it would
never enter your head to say so.

I must see to the veal roast.

Mama thinks I'm a hopeless cook.

- Mama thinks you're a...
...wonderful cook. Thank you!

And she's to have
decaffeinated coffee.

I'll cut my visit short.
I can manage four days.

Then I'll go to Africa
as I originally planned.

This hurts, Charlotte.
It hurts. Hurts. Hurts.

I've often wondered why
she sleeps badly. Now I know.

If that woman slept normally,
her vitality would crush everyone.

Her insomnia is nature's way
of using up the surplus energy.

I'll put on my red dress
just to spite Eva.

I'm sure she thinks
I ought to be in mourning.

See how carefully
she dresses for dinner.

Her dress will be a discreet
reminder that she's a lonely widow.

I'm angry the whole time. Viktor
and Eva have been sweet to me.

Viktor's a kindly soul.
Lucky for Eva, the cry-baby.

I don't suppose the shower works.

Yes, it does!

- What a lovely dress!
- Does it suit me?

One day I met
a friend who said,

"I've just come
from a fashion show.

"There was a divine red dress
which is absolutely you!"

To your health, Charlotte.
We're delighted to have you with us.

Eva, see if I left
my glasses on the table.

Thank you, darling.

That was my agent, he's so sweet.
The only friend I have left.

You remember him. Old Paul. We've
worked together now for 30 years.

What a fine old instrument! What
a lovely tone! And just tuned.

Now I'm really happy.

I didn't need to worry.
- What do you mean, Mama?

I was nervous of seeing you
again after so many years.

I nearly didn't come.

This peculiar coffee is a bore

but what can I do when
I can't sleep?

I see you're working
on the Chopin preludes.

Play something.
- Not now.

Don't be childish.
You'd give me great pleasure.

But you wanted
your mother to hear you.

But it's all a sham.
I have no technique.

I haven't even bothered
to learn the fingering.

Darling, no more excuses.
Come on now, play.

Eva, my dearest.

- Is that all?
- I was just so moved.

- Did you like it?
- I liked you.

- I don't follow.
- Play something else.

- What was wrong?
- Nothing.

You didn't
like my interpretation.

- We all have our own.
- Exactly. I want to know yours.

- You're cross. - No, I'm upset.
You won't tell me your idea

of this prelude.
- All right, if you insist.

Your technique wasn't at all bad
though you might have taken

more interest
in Cortot's fingering.

But let's just talk
about the conception.

Chopin was emotional,
but not mawkish.

Feeling is very far
from sentimentality.

The prelude tells
of pain, not reverie.

You have to be calm,
clear and harsh.

Take the first bars now.

It hurts, but
he doesn't show it.

Then a short relief.

But it evaporates at once,

and the pain is the same.

Total restraint the whole time.

Chopin was proud, passionate,

tormented and very manly.
He wasn't a mawkish old woman.

This prelude must be
made to sound almost ugly.

It is never ingratiating.
It should sound wrong.

You have to battle your way
through it and emerge triumphant.

Like this.

I see.

- Don't be cross with me.
- Why should I be? On the contrary.

For 45 years I've worked
at these terrible preludes.

They still contain a lot of secrets.

When I was little,
I admired you enormously.

Then I got pretty tired
of you and your pianos.

Now I admire you again,
but in a different way.

- Then there's some hope.
- Yes, I guess so.

- Where are you?
- I'm up here, Mama.

I've changed, so we can go
for a walk if you like.

- Is this the nursery?
- Yes, it's Erik's room.

- Fancy letting it stay like this!
- We've often talked of altering it.

Sometimes I come and sit here
and let my thoughts wander.

Let's go.

- Wait, Mama! Feel the
nice atmosphere in here.

Erik drowned the day
before his fourth birthday.

But you know that.

It was too much for Viktor.

I grieved a lot, outwardly.

Deep inside, I felt
he was still alive,

that we were living
close to each other.

All I have to do is concentrate,
and he's there.

Sometimes, as I'm falling asleep
I can feel him breathing on my face

and touching me with his hand.

He's living another life,
but we can reach one another.

There's no dividing line,
no insurmountable wall.

I wonder what the reality looks
like where my little boy is living.

I know it can't be described.

It's a world
of liberated feelings.

Do you know what I mean?

To me, man is
a tremendous creation,

an inconceivable thought.

In man is everything,
from the highest to the lowest.

Man is God's image,
and in God there is everything.

So human beings are created,
but also the demons

and the saints, the prophets
and artists and iconoclasts.

Everything exists side by side.

It's like huge patterns
changing all the time.

In the same way, there must
also be countless realities

not only the reality
we perceive with our dull senses

but a tumult of realities arching
above each other inside and outside.

It's just fear and
priggishness to believe in limits.

There are no limits.
Neither to thoughts

nor to feelings.

It's anxiety that sets limits.

When you play the slow movement
of the Hammerklavier sonata

you must feel you're living
in a world without limitations

in an activity you can
never see through or explore.

Let's go for a walk
before it gets too dark.

I thought I heard Helena
calling. Excuse me.

I think Eva is awfully unhappy.

I'm appalled when I hear her
holding forth. It's so neurotic.

Just a moment, Charlotte

and I'll try to explain
how I view my wife.

When I asked Eva to marry me,
she said she didn't love me.

- What do you mean?
- I asked if she loved someone else.

She said she had
never loved anyone,

that she was
incapable of loving.

Eva and I lived here for
several years. Then Erik was born.

We'd given up hope of a child of
our own and talked of adopting one.

With her pregnancy, Eva
underwent a complete change.

She became cheerful,
gentle and outgoing.

She got lazy and
couldn't be bothered

with her parish work
or her piano-playing.

She would sit by that window
gazing at the play of light

over the fell and the fjord.

We were suddenly very happy.

I'm much older than Eva.

I felt as if a gray film
were settling over life.

I felt as if I could
look back and say,

"Well, well, so that was my life,
that's how it all turned out."

But suddenly things were different.

Please forgive me, but
it's still rather hard to...

Yes. We had some years
that were very rich. Erik.

You should have seen Eva.

At the time of Erik's birth

I was recording
all the Mozart sonatas.

- I hadn't one day free.
- No.

We invited you
over and over again.

When Erik drowned,
that gray film got even grayer.

For Eva it was different.

- Different?
- Her feeling lives, uncorroded.

Or so it seems anyway.

If she feels that her son
is alive and near her,

well, perhaps that's how it is.

She seldom speaks of it.

I guess she's afraid
it might upset me

as indeed it would.

But what she says
sounds true enough.

- I believe her.
- Yes, you're a minister.

- My faith lives on her terms.
- I'm sorry if I hurt you.

It doesn't matter.
Unlike you and Eva,

I'm diffuse and uncertain.
It's my own fault.

I think I'll take a good dose
of sleeping pills tonight.

It's so peaceful here, only
the hiss of the rain on the roof.

- Do you have all you need?
- Couldn't be better.

Cookies and mineral water,
tape recorder,

two detective novels,
my blindfold and ear-plugs

and my travel blanket.

Like to taste my
delicious Swiss chocolate?

- You can have two pieces.
- I don't like chocolate.

I seem to remember you were
crazy about candy as a child.

- Helena liked it. I didn't.
- Good, all the more for me.

- Good night, Mama.
- Good night, my pet.

Viktor is a delightful person.
You must take care of him.

- I do.
- Are you happy together?

Do you get on well?
- Viktor is my best friend.

I can't imagine life without him.

- He said you didn't love him.
- Did he say that?

- Yes. Why?
- Oh, just rather surprising.

Was it a secret?

But he shouldn't have said it?
- He's not the confiding sort.

We were talking about you.

- If you want to
know anything, ask me.

I'll answer truthfully.
- Now, don't get upset.

A mother naturally worries
about her daughter.

We spoke of you with
the greatest affection.

If only you'd leave people alone!

I've left you alone far too long.

- You're right. - Give me a hug.
Promise you're not angry.

- I'm not.
- I love you, don't you see.

I love you too.

It's not much fun
being alone always.

I envy you and Viktor.

Now that Leonardo's dead,
I'm so awfully lonely.

Don't you see?
- Yes.

I'll begin to weep with
self-pity in a minute.

This book isn't at all bad.

It's by Adam Kretzinsky.
Have you heard of him?

I met him in Madrid.
Mad as a hatter.

I couldn't defend myself.
In fact, I didn't.

- Shall I put out this light?
- Yes, please.

- I'll bring your breakfast.
- Don't trouble yourself.

- But I want to spoil you.
- Very well, if you insist.

Strong coffee, hot milk, two
slices of German bread with cheese,

one slice of toast with honey.

- And orange juice.
- I nearly forgot.

I can...
- Juice it will be.

Good night, darling.
- Good night, Mama.

I think I'll have
a look at my accounts.

I'll have Brammer invest
the money from Leonardo.

The house is worth
quite a bit too.

You never bothered about money.

You were above mundane worries

and left all problems
to your Charlotte.

3,735,866 francs.

To think you had so much money.
Who'd have thought it?

And you leave it all
to your old Charlotte.

I've got a little nest egg, too.

Together, it comes
to over five million.

What am I going to do
with so much money?

I'll buy a nice car
for Viktor and Eva.

They can't drive around
in that old rattle-trap.

On Monday we'll go into
town and look at a new car.

It'll cheer them up.
Me too.

"She offered him the red flower
of her virginity.

"He accepted it
without enthusiasm..."

What trash!

Adam was quite
an idiot, he was,

even if he did nearly commit
suicide because of me.

Supposing I buy a new car for
myself and give them the Mercedes?

Then I can fly to Paris

and buy a car there and
won't have to drive all that way.

Tomorrow, I must get
down to Ravel.

It's disgraceful
how lazy I've been of late.

Mama, what's happened?

I heard you call out,
and you were not in your room.

I'm sorry to wake you, but
I had such a horrible dream...

I can't remember it.
- Shall I keep you company?

No thank you, dear.
You go back to bed.

Very well.

- You do like me, don't you?
- You are my mother.

That's one way of answering.

- Do you like me?
- I love you.

Do you?

I broke off my career to
stay at home with you and Papa.

Your back prevented you from
practicing six hours a day.

Your playing got worse
and so did your reviews.

Have you forgotten it?
- No, but Eva...

I don't know which I hated more

when you were at home
or when you were on tour.

I realize now you made
life hell for Papa and me.

Your father and I
were very happy.

I'd have done anything for him.

- You were unfaithful to him.
- I was not!

I was quite honest with Josef.

I fell in love with Martin
and lived with him for 8 months.

It wasn't a bed of roses.

- It was I who had to sit
with Papa in the evenings.

It was I who had to comfort him to
keep repeating that you did love him

just the same, that
you were sure to come back.

I read your letters out loud.

Your long, loving, amusing
letters in which you told us

of your interesting travels.

We sat there like two idiots
reading your letters

over and over. We thought a more
wonderful person didn't exist.

You hate me.

I don't know. I looked forward
so much to your coming.

I don't know what
I was imagining.

Maybe I thought you
were lonely and sad.

I'm so confused.

I thought I was grown up and
could look clearly at you and me

and Helena's illness
and our childhood.

Now it's all one big muddle.

It's all right now.
Wake up.

I'll sit here with you
until you go to sleep.

To you, I was a doll you played
with when you had time.

If I was sick or naughty, you
handed me over to your nursemaid.

You shut yourself
in and worked,

and no one was
allowed to disturb you.

I used to stand outside,
listening.

When you'd stop for coffee, I'd
go in to see if you really existed.

You were always kind,
but your mind was elsewhere.

If I spoke, you'd hardly answer.

Thank you.

Mama wants to be left alone now.

Run along and play outside.
It's such a lovely day.

You always looked so nice,
so I wanted to be nice.

I always worried that you
wouldn't like my appearance.

I was so ugly. Lean and
angular with big cow's eyes,

and big wide lips
and no eyebrows.

My arms were too thin
and my feet too big.

No, I thought
I looked repulsive.

Once you said:
"You should have been a boy,"

and laughed so
I wouldn't be upset.

I was, of course. Then one day your
suitcases would be downstairs

and you'd be talking on the
phone in a foreign language.

I used to pray that something
would stop you from going,

but you always went.

You'd put your arms
around me and kiss me

and look at me and smile.

You smelled
nice but strange.

You yourself were a stranger, already
on your way. You didn't see me.

Then you'd be gone.
I used to think, "Now I'll die,

"it hurts so much.
I'll never be happy again.

"How can I bear such
pain for two months?"

And I'd cry in Papa's lap.
He'd sit quite still

with his soft hand on my head.

He'd go on and on sitting
there smoking his old pipe.

Sometimes he'd say, "Let's go
to a movie this evening, "or

"What about ice cream
for dinner today?"

But all I wanted was to die.

So the days and weeks passed.

We shared the
loneliness quite well.

We didn't have much to say

but I never disturbed him.

Sometimes he'd look worried.
I didn't know then

that he was always short of money.
But whenever I'd come

clumping along, his
face would brighten,

and he'd pat me
with his pale little hand.

Or else Uncle Otto would be sitting
on the sofa, drinking brandy.

They'd mumble to each other.

I wonder if they heard
what they said.

Or else Uncle Harry would be
there and they'd play chess,

and then it'd be extra quiet.

I could hear three
different clocks ticking.

A few days before
you were due home

I'd get a temperature
from the excitement.

I'd worry I might
really get sick,

because you were
afraid of sick people.

When you did come,
I was so happy

I couldn't say anything.
You'd get impatient and say,

"Eva doesn't seem very pleased
to have her mother home again. "

I'd blush red as a beet
and break out in a sweat.

I couldn't say anything,
I had no words.

You had taken charge
of all the words in our home.

- You're exaggerating.
- I must finish speaking.

I know I'm tipsy but otherwise
I wouldn't have said what I have.

When I don't dare say any more
because I'm ashamed

you can explain and
I'll listen and understand

just as I've always done.

I loved you, Mama, it was
a matter of life and death.

But I distrusted your words.

They didn't match
the expression in your eyes.

You have a beautiful voice.
When I was little,

I could feel it all over my body.

But I knew instinctively
you didn't mean what you said.

I couldn't understand your words.

The most horrible thing was,
you'd smile when you were mad.

When you hated Papa
you'd call him

"my dearest." When you
were tired of me you'd say

"darling little girl."

How quiet.

What am I to say?

- Defend yourself.
- Is it worth while?

- How do I know?
- You reproach me for going away

and for staying at home.

I had a hell of
a time those years.

My back hurt, I couldn't practice.
Important engagements were cancelled.

My life seemed meaningless.

I had a guilty conscience about
always being away from you and Papa.

You smile sarcastically.
I'm trying to speak truthfully.

I'm merely
telling you how I felt.

We may as well have this out for
once then we won't refer to it again.

Go on.

I was in Hamburg,
playing Beethoven's First.

It's not too difficult,
and everything had gone well.

After the concert I went out to
supper with Schmiess, the conductor.

We always did. When we'd been
eating and drinking for a while

and I was content
and relaxed

and my back wasn't aching,
Schmiess said,

"Why don't you stay
at home with your husband

"and child and lead
a respectable life,

"instead of laying yourself
open to constant humiliation?"

I stared at him
and laughed and said,

"Did I play so badly?"
"No," he said

"but I can't help
thinking of August 18, 1934.

"We played Beethoven's First
together in Linz.

"You were twenty years old,
the hall was packed,

"we played like gods,
the orchestra was inspired.

"Afterwards, the audience
stood up and cheered

"and the orchestra
gave a fanfare."

Then he said "You had a
simple red summer dress

"and long hair to your waist."

"How do you remember all that?"
I asked.

"I wrote it down
in my score," he said.

"I make a note of all
my great experiences."

When I got back to the
hotel, I couldn't sleep.

At three in the
morning I phoned Josef

and told him I was
going to stop touring,

and stay at home with him and you.
We'd be a real family.

Josef was awfully happy.

We wept with emotion,
both of us,

and talked for two hours.

And that was that.
That summer

we were happy.
Weren't we?

You weren't happy?
- No.

You said things had
never been so good.

I said it to please you.

That just goes to show.
What did I do wrong?

I was fourteen and you directed
the whole of your

pent-up energy against me.

You were damn well
going to make up

for your neglect.

I tried to defend myself,
but I didn't' have a chance.

You trotted out your thoughtfulness
and your worried voice.

There wasn't one detail that escaped
your loving energy.

I had a stoop.
You got to work with gymnastics.

We did exercises together.

You thought my hair
was too long,

so you had it cut short.
It was hideous.

Then you got the idea
my teeth were crooked

so I got braces.
I looked grotesque.

You said I couldn't go
around in pants any longer

so you had dresses made
without asking what I thought.

I didn't dare say no because
I didn't want to upset you.

You brought along books for me

which I didn't understand.
I read and read, then you

and I had to discuss it. You'd hold
forth and my mind was a blank.

I was scared you'd expose

my stupidity.

But one thing I did
Understand: Not a shred

of the real me could be
loved or accepted.

You were obsessed and I grew more
and more afraid and annihilated.

I said what you wanted me
to say and made your gestures.

I didn't dare to be myself
even when I was alone

because I hated
what was my own.

It was horrible, Mama!
I still shake all over

when I think of those years.
It was horrible.

I didn't realize I hated you as I
was quite sure we loved each other.

I couldn't hate you, so my hatred
turned into an insane fear.

I had nightmares.

I bit my nails.

I pulled out tufts of hair.

I tried to scream but could
only make stifled grunts.

That frightened me even more

as I thought I was
going out of my mind.

Then came Stefan.
- And made you pregnant.

I was 18. Stefan was grown-up.
We could have managed.

- No! - We wanted to have the child
but you spoiled everything.

That's not true!
I said to Papa

we should wait and see. You didn't
realize Stefan was an idiot.

Were you present
at our discussions?

Were you lurking
under our bed?

Have you ever given a damn about
any living soul except yourself?

I didn't force you
into an abortion.

How could I defy you?
I was afraid and needed help.

I tried to help you.
I thought abortion was the only way.

I've thought so all along.
All this hatred!

Why have you never said anything?
- Because you never listen.

You're a goddamn escapist.
You're emotionally crippled.

In actual fact
you detest me and Helena.

You're shut up
inside yourself

and always stand
in your own light.

I loved you,
but you thought I was disgusting

and stupid and a failure.

You managed to
injure me for life,

just as you are injured.

All that was sensitive
and delicate, you attacked.

All that was alive,
you tried to smother.

You talk of my hatred.

Your hatred was no less.

Your hatred is no less.

I was little
and malleable and loving.

You bound me
because you wanted my love

just as you want
everyone else's love.

I was utterly at your mercy.

It was all done
in the name of love.

You kept saying you loved me
and Papa and Helena.

And you were an expert at love's
intonations and gestures.

People like you
are a menace.

You should be locked away
and rendered harmless.

A mother and a daughter.

What a terrible combination

of feelings and
confusion and destruction.

Everything is possible and is done
in the name of love and solicitude.

The mother's injuries are to
be handed down to the daughter.

The mother's failures are to
be paid for by the daughter.

The mother's unhappiness is
to be the daughter's unhappiness.

It's as if the umbilical cord
had never been cut.

Is it so?

Is the daughter's misfortune
the mother's triumph?

Is my grief your
secret pleasure?

My back's aching.

Do you mind
if I lie on the floor,

it's the only
thing that helps.

I remember very little
of my childhood.

I can't recall my parents
ever having touched me,

either with caresses
or punishments.

I was quite ignorant
of everything to do with love:

Tenderness, contact,
intimacy, warmth.

Only through music did I have
a chance to show my feelings.

Sometimes, when
I lie awake at night

I wonder whether
I've lived at all.

Is it the same for everybody?

Or do some people have a greater
talent for living than others.

Or do some people never live

but just exist?

Then I'm seized by fear.

I'm seized by fear and see
a horrible picture of myself.

I have never grown up.

My face and my body have aged.

I acquire memories
and experiences,

but inside all that
I haven't even been born.

I can't remember any faces

not even my own.

Sometimes, I try to recall
my mother's face

but I can't see her. I know she was
big and dark and had blue eyes,

a large nose and full lips.

But I can't fit
the various bits together.

I can't see her.
In the same way,

I can't see your face
or Helena's or Leonardo's.

I remember giving birth
to you and your sister but

all I know of the deliveries
is that they hurt.

But the pain?
What was that like?

I don't remember.

Leonardo once said that...

how did he put it now...

"A sense of reality
is a matter of talent.

"Most people lack that talent
and maybe it's just as well."

Do you know what he meant?
- Yes, I do.

How very strange.
- Strange?

I've always been afraid of you.
- I can't understand that.

I think I wanted you
to take care of me.

To put your arms around me
and comfort me.

I was a child.

Does that matter?
- No.

I saw you loved me

and I wanted to love you, but

I was afraid of your demands.

- I didn't have any.
- I thought you did.

I didn't want
to be your mother.

I wanted you to know I was
as helpless as you were.

Is that really true?

- What are you thinking about?
- Leonardo and Helena.

I don't understand.

Why, they hardly
knew each other.

We were together on Bornholm one
Easter. - You left after 3 days.

I was to play
Bartok's First in Geneva.

I wanted to go through the concerto
with the conductor in peace an quiet.

So it's possible
I did leave earlier.

The weather was hideous. Leonardo
was in a bad mood. So were you.

Why make me remember it all?

I'll tell you.

You arrived on Thursday.
That evening we laughed

and sang and drank wine
and played

some old game we found.

Helena wasn't so ill then.
She was

happy all evening.

Leonardo was happy
because she was.

He talked and joked with her.

She fell head over heels in love.

They sat together
until late at night.

Next day Helena told me
he had kissed her.

In the evening we had guests.

Leonardo drank too much
and played all the Bach solo suites.

He was quite unlike himself,

heavy and gentle
and as if enlarged.

He played badly
but beautifully.

Helena sat there
in the dusk, beaming.

I've never seen
anything like it.

You and I went for a walk.
You chattered away.

I didn't really listen.
I was thinking of those two.

When we got home, they
were sitting as we'd left them.

You went off to bed and
I had to help Leonardo upstairs.

Outside the door of the bedroom

he stopped, looked
at me and said,

"Can you imagine?
There's a butterfly

"fluttering against the window."

When I went back to Helena,
she was sitting

bolt upright,
quite relaxed and calm.

There wasn't a trace
of her illness.

I'll never forget
her face, Mama.

I'll never forget her face.

Next morning
you left for Geneva,

four days earlier
than we had agreed.

You said casually on
Leaving,"I've asked Leonardo

"to stay, as I see it's
doing Helena good."

And you smiled.

Leonardo abruptly became
restless and unhappy.

On Easter Day he went for a long
walk in the rain. When he came back,

he told Helena he was leaving.
He said they'd meet again.

Then he called Geneva
and talked to you for an hour.

That evening he left
on the last plane.

During the night I was
woken by Helena crying.

She complained of pain
in her hip and right leg.

She didn't think she could
stand it until morning.

At 5 o'clock I had
to phone for the ambulance.

- So Lena's illness was my fault?
- Yes, I think so.

- You mean that her illness...
- Yes.

You don't seriously mean...

- When Lena was a year
old you deserted her.

Then you kept deserting her
and me all the time.

When Lena got seriously ill,
you sent her to a home.

- It can't be true...
- What can't be true?

Have you any proof
to the contrary?

Look at me, Mama.
Look at Helena.

There are no excuses.

There is only one truth
and one lie.

There can be no forgiveness.

- You can't blame me entirely.
- You expect an exception for you.

You've set up a sort of
discount system with life

but one day you'll see that
your agreement is one-sided.

You'll see you're harboring a
guilt, just like everyone else.

What guilt?

Eva darling.

Won't you forgive me
for all the wrong I've done?

I'll try to mend my ways.

You've got to teach me,
we'll talk to each other.

But help me.
I can't go on.

Your hatred is so terrible.

I haven't realized.
I've been selfish and childish.

Can't you put your
arms around me?

Touch me, at least!

Help me!

Mama!

Come!

Help me!

Mama!

Come!

Poor little Mama,
rushing off like that.

She looked so frightened
and suddenly so old and tired.

Her face had shrunk and her
nose was red from crying.

Now I'll never see her again.

It'll be dark soon,
and it's getting cold.

I've got to get home and
make dinner for Viktor and Helena.

I can't die now.

I'm afraid to commit suicide,

and one day maybe God
will want to use me.

Then he'll set me free
from my prison.

I feel so shut out,
I'm always homesick.

But when I get home

I find it's something
else I'm longing for.

Are you stroking my cheek?

Are you whispering in my ear?

Are you with me now?

We'll never leave each other.

There's a light on
in Helena's room.

Viktor's there,
talking to her.

That's good.
Kind of him.

He's telling her
Mama has left.

Your mother sent her love.

She was sad and worried.
She'd been crying.

Eva has gone for a walk.

She was looking forward so
much to seeing her mother.

She hoped for too much.

I hadn't the heart to warn her.

I can't understand
what you're saying.

You say you want to...?

Try to speak calmly,

otherwise I can't understand.

Eva! Come quickly!

Sometimes I stand here
looking at my wife

without her knowing.

She's in such distress.

Since Charlotte left so suddenly

she has been terribly upset.

She has not been able to sleep.

She says she drove
her mother away

and can never forgive herself.

- Are you going out?
- Just down to the post office.

Could you please mail
this letter for me?

Sure.
It's to Charlotte?

Read it if you like.
I'm going up to Helena.

"Dear Mama! I realize
that I wronged you.

"I met you with demands
instead of affection.

"I tormented you with an old
hatred that's no longer real.

"I want to ask your forgiveness."

I don't know if this
letter will reach you.

I don't even know
if you will read it.

Maybe everything
is already too late.

But I hope all the same that
my discovery will not be in vain.

There is a kind
of mercy after all.

I mean the enormous opportunity of
getting to take care of each other,

to help each other,

to show affection.

I will never let you
vanish out of my life again.

I'm going to persist.

I won't give up,
even if it is too late.

I don't think it is too late.

It must not be too late.