All language subtitles for The Pleasure Garden - Lustgården (1961)Swed

THE PLEASURE GARDEN

THE PLEASURE GARDEN

– Good morning, Miss Fanny.
– Good morning, Miss Astrid.

Is it already time to open the bookshop?
Oh dear, then I must hurry. Lovely day!

BOOKSHOP

That's enough, lads. Pick up your books.

– Did you read my article in The Post?
– I read the paper in the afternoon.

I think you'll find it quite entertaining.

When I was last in Stockholm
I spent some time at the Royal Library.

Delving in old newspaper files I came
across a poet, Samuel Dafvidsson.

– Have you heard of him?
– No.

Not surprising.

His poems, Privy Places of the
Heart, appeared twenty years ago.

It turned out to be
the most awful drivel.

– I'm sure you'd find it amusing.
– Oh, really?

Especially as it seems to have
a certain bearing on our town.

Privy Places, Poems by Samuel Dafvidsson.

You know, it struck me
that it might be a pseudonym.

By the way, aren't your Christian names
David Samuel?

– Yes.
– Fancy that.

What makes you think
the book refers to our town?

Well, the comic love poems, if I may call
them that, could be written anywhere.

But in the very radical
Spirit on Parole it says:

"We must beware,
lest the church devour

"the seat of learning
huddling by its tower"

There's local colour for you.

Good afternoon.

Could be Lund or Uppsala.

"So, free spirit, roam
Heed not the rule

"Though we have nought
But primary and secondary school"

Could hardly be Lund or Uppsala.

Do you know what I did?

Before publishing my article, I had our
bookshop order copies from Stockholm.

I'm told they now have a large stock.

– I believe they'll sell like hot cakes.
– How very nice. For the bookseller.

I have no doubt
the readers will also enjoy them.

Well, our little afternoon tot
won't come amiss.

I won't join you today.
I must go straight home.

Why, that's the first time in fifteen years.

- I'll be damned.
- So will I.

"Hm", was all he could say. "Hm."

Miss Fanny? Miss Fanny?

– Yes, Mr Lundberg?
– I think you can remove the chair.

Mr Franzén won't be coming today.

– Why not? He's not ill, is he?
– Oh no, Miss Fanny.

As an old biology master, I can certify
that David Samuel Franzén

was this day in fine fettle.

That's alright then.

Alas, such is love.

The "Privy Places of the Heart".

Does he still delude himself
that nobody knows of their little affair?

Of course.
He has some sense of propriety.

As a biology master,
allow me to point out

that propriety has little to do with sense.

If he knew that everyone was aware
of his affair with Miss Fanny,

then his affair with Miss Fanny
would be a scandal, an outrage.

Instead of being
a piquant and spicy tidbit.

– He couldn't teach at our school again.
– A renowned seat of learning.

And he couldn't go on living
with his sister.

– A woman of irreproachable virtue.
– Who knows about it.

But if he doesn't know
that the whole town knows,

his behaviour can't possibly
be regarded as brazen.

Biology is very complicated,
but I'm damned if morality isn't more so.

All highly-developed communities
are known for their complicated morals.

In that case, to what heights
Franzén lifts our community.

And literature. Listen to this.

"Invocation.

"Of the heart's love-filled hour
In grove and in bower

"Of bird song and flight

"When day turns to night"

There's more.

"Of thought's swift release
When sunset brings peace

"Of...of stars are we part

"And privy places of the heart"

PRIVY PLACES OF THE HEART

David dear, dinner's ready!

– The paper.
– Not today, thanks.

Oh? But there's an article
by Ludvig Lundberg.

– His scribbles hold no interest for me.
– Really?

– I had a letter from Sylvia today.
– Which Sylvia?

Sylvia Sandberg. You know, the one
who's so very much the Sandberg.

Think of the old Sandberg girls,
they had a brother who emigrated.

Their father re-married when he became
a widower, so it was a half brother.

– Obviously.
– Who emigrated.

He apparently married
a woman who ran a boarding-house,

so perhaps there are cousins
on that side too.

– Who married an Antonsson?
– Mrs Antonsson.

That's right.

The daughter of a colour sergeant.
Of good family, but a hopeless wastrel.

– A Hägerstål, I think.
– Hägersten, surely?

No, no. The Hägerståls of Lundberga,
you know.

One of them was chief constable,
the one who...

– No, we'd better not get into that.
– No.

His gambling led to his ruin.

He married a distant relation of
the Widströms, you know, our relations.

– Yes.
– On Mother's side.

– On Mother's side.
– Karl, the artist. Well, he's their son.

A bohemian, and has cost them money.
He has always detested his father,

would never mix with the family.
Absolutely no family feeling...

"...née Spegen", she'd always say.
Petty aristocracy from Germany...

Nothing to boast about, I've always said.

He married money.
A Buntel. One of the beer Buntels.

Brewery money.

His second cousin by marriage has
a mother who was born Lundberg.

So in that way we are related,

though of course very distantly,
to Mr Lundberg.

– I said Mr Lundberg, David.
– Don't mention that man.

But I merely said that he's a relation.

– I'm going out.
– But David, dear, it's only Friday.

– And what of it?
– But it's on Saturdays that you...

I mean, usually...

Never on a Friday.

– But he always comes in here.
– Pshaw.

– Every afternoon, school day and year.
– Pshaw.

The others didn't say
why he wasn't there.

Oh well, the Saturdays
are all that matters.

– Well, he's here now anyway.
– Where?

Two meatballs.
– In the dining room, of course.

At this hour? What does he want?
The others left ages ago.

Well, it's not my table,
but maybe he wants something?

Miss Fanny?

– Yes, sir?
– A cigar and a demi-bottle of arrack.

When do you finish this evening?

– At eight o'clock.
– I'll come with you.

– Thank you, that's all I want.
– Thank you.

CALENDAR

It's only Friday. Hm, only Friday?

– Darling...
– Yes.

– David?
– Good night.

David?

Why did you come here tonight?

– It's Friday.
– Yes, it's Friday.

– Were you longing for me?
– Don't be silly. At your age.

– So what?
– "Longing." That's just a word.

A silly word at that.

– Yes, it's a word alright.
– About making a fool of oneself.

– You don't have to say it. Just do it.
– Do what?

Long.

"Love, longing, adoring."
Ridiculous words. Drivel.

– Don't be silly, David.
– The feelings described are ridiculous.

– My feelings aren't ridiculous.
– I'm talking about myself.

Yes, do go on, David.
You hardly ever talk about yourself.

I tried once, long ago.
And I was dismissed as comical.

Comical!

They laughed at me
in schools and universities.

At clubs and family events.

I was quoted at dinner parties.

To amuse the ladies and give the
gentlemen a chance for manly laughter.

I was recited by buffoons.

My name was bandied about
in the newspapers.

I was a model collection
for faint-hearted aesthetes.

What did they laugh and spit at?

My feelings!

My...feelings.

Were my poems and feelings ridiculous?

Don't talk to me about love and longing.
That's only for genuine poets.

Don't expect me to love.

I'd only relapse into nonsense.

What are you laughing at?

Forgive me, David, but you look
so funny dashing about in a nightshirt.

Good night.

Good night.

David?

Are you saying
that you don't care for me?

You don't care for me.

– Are you about to start bawling?
– Yes.

For God's sake, Fanny, I'm sleepy.

– You don't care for me.
– But you know I do.

You never say that you love me.

I'm the one who does all the saying.
You never say anything.

I tell you everything about myself.
Almost.

You tell me nothing.

I talk about my work, but I suppose
I'm too stupid to understand yours.

But there are other things about you that
I could understand, if only you told me.

Tell me something
about yourself, I said!

– About myself?
– Yes, about yourself.

What?

– Are you alright?
– Yes. Thanks for asking.

– Then sleep well.
– Why, Fanny...

It isn't easy to talk about oneself.

– As you know, I live with my sister.
– Yes, I know that.

– Is she kind?
– Very kind.

She gets it from Mother.
There was great kindness on her side.

Both the Hedlunds and Widströms
were kind people.

We have Widströms
on Father's side too.

Our cousins
are their own second cousins.

– Are you asleep?
– No.

Don't you have any relations?

Don't you have any relations?

Relations? I have my daughter.

– Your daughter?
– Oh, dear.

A daughter? You have a daughter.

– Where is she?
– Why, David, she's not in this room.

I know nothing.
I haven't seen a thing.

– How could you see anything?
– Women usually get big.

– Please, David.
– Where is she? Hidden in the country?

Yes, she lives just outside town.

– Does she have a wet-nurse?
– A wet-nurse?

She's twenty years old, David.

– Twenty? But then she's not...
– How could you think...?

– Would that be so strange?
– Surely I would have...

Oh, women usually know
how to hide things.

– If it isn't me, then who is it?
– It was long before your time.

That may be so, but the child
has existed during "my time".

– David...
– I get scolded for not telling you things.

I turn my life inside out, relations and
all, while you hide children right and left.

– I only have Anna.
– Don't contradict me.

Ridiculous again. This woman, whose
couch I share, not without finesse,

rains blows on me
and pries into my life,

while the whole countryside
is swarming with her offspring.

And I know nothing about it.
Why have you kept this from me?

I wasn't married.

Calm down. That's always a reason.

– Don't cry.
– No...

– Who is the scoundrel?
– Never mind.

"Never mind"?

You've kept a wretched love affair from
the man you live with and that's all?

Year after year he has to share you
with someone else,

a seducer and libertine at that,
and he should mind his own business?

There's no sharing going on here,
remember that. Now be quiet.

– But Fanny, dearest.
– Be quiet. I start early and need sleep.

Sit down, Gustav.

You read quite well,
even if you left no doubt in our minds

as to what bounced
beneath Ingeborg's green silk.

The poet certainly didn't intend this
for the amusement of school boys,

but as a poetic description
of a young woman's physical charms.

Of quite a natural kind.

What do you wish to read, Ossian?

I would like to read The Child,
by Samuel Dafvidsson.

From Privy Places of the Heart.

"The Child.

"As gleam the fragrant hyacinths about

"While winter, bleak and grey
Doth rage without

"So doth the child adorn
Its mother's arm

"A little personage, scented and warm

"Midst men of winter
Who their joy have shed

"Fiercely to hunt
For cold and daily bread

"Ah, that we may not get stuck in poses

"Which the needy law of life imposes

"But in life copy the child's free game

"Humbly to approach the warming flame

"And like the Wise Men
offer gifts, not to a brother

"Or a father
But to the child and to its mother"

Poorly read, Ossian.

And, I'm quite sure, a vile interpretation
of a poet quite unknown to me.

A poet totally unknown to me,
who, however, seems capable of

a depth of feeling utterly foreign
to the abject rascals

that comprise this class.

As you seem unable to control
your mirth at my ignorance of this poet

and his until now unfamiliar verse,

I hereby cut short the lesson
and ask you all to go to hell.

Good afternoon, Mr Franzén.

I want every copy of
Privy Places of the Heart.

I'm sorry, we have no copies left.
They sold out yesterday.

– I've never known such a demand.
– I might have guessed.

Would you like to borrow mine?
But please be sure to return it.

– It doesn't matter.
– But you should have a copy yourself.

– Just what do you mean by "yourself"?
– Well, you wrote it.

I did not. I had nothing to do with it.

– Why, Mr Franzén.
– I'd be very grateful...

...if you would kindly tell customers
that it's all a silly mistake.

One should not disown one's brainchild.

– I think pseudonyms are immoral.
– Immoral?

Dare to stand for your actions,
even the beautiful ones.

– Beautiful?
– Yes.

Many are too timid to own up to
the beautiful things they've done.

They're ashamed of them,
feel ridiculous.

– Ridiculous.
– I like your poems so much.

But now that you disown them,
they seem suggestive, almost indecent.

– Indecent?
– Yes.

If you said, "This is what I wrote,
this is how I felt when I was young",

then the poems wouldn't be
ridiculous anymore, just beautiful.

It's being surreptitious that spoils it all,

making us lose faith in
our most beautiful feelings and motives.

Well, fancy seeing you here.
Good afternoon, Miss Skog.

You're here to buy the great sensation,
Privy Places of the Heart, I presume?

– It's sold out.
– What a shame.

But you can borrow a copy from me
so that you can read it.

Why should I need to do that?
I'm the one who wrote it.

– Well, I'll be damned.
– What?

He owns up to the doggerel.

– It isn't doggerel.
– You wouldn't understand.

You know nothing about literature,
bookshop assistant though you are.

And you nothing about feelings,
schoolmaster though you are.

You say that to me, as I've shown you
my appreciation in more ways than one.

"Appreciation"? How very poetic.

– Oh, so you want bad poetry now?
– What if I did, once in a while?

– To make a fool of myself, like him?
– I'm sure you could do it by yourself.

Pardon me, but I prefer to stay
within the bounds of good taste.

You prefer to stay in bed. My bed.
And it isn't your soul you put into it.

– No, but my body is in the right place.
– Tomcat!

You've always appeared so content.

– You only think of one thing.
– Just because I don't write bad verse.

– You could try with some nice prose.
– I'll give it a try tonight.

Leave me alone.

I'm sorry. Fanny?

Sir, what are you doing
in these regions?

Fanny, I'm the one who's written it.

– Written what?
– My brainchild.

Good Lord. I must take the tray in.

Please, David, let's meet later at home.
We're being stared at.

I'm the one who's written it.

What's wrong, sir?
You're disgracing us.

Am I to disown my brainchild,
my love child?

– Go away. We'll talk later.
– No. No sneakiness.

They're impatient at table nine.
They want their order.

God in Heaven, where will this end?

Be still, Fanny. Stop, woman!
I have to talk to you.

Later, sir. Later.

No, Fanny, one must take
the bull by the horns.

What has to be said must be said now.

They're... She's coming.

Listen, Fanny. If I can't see the child,
half of you will be hidden from me.

Just as I've been hidden from you and
the world by the confounded Dafvidsson.

What's the good of that to us?
Evasion and deceit. Hurray!

– Why "hurray"?
– I don't know.

But it must happen now
and with a big bang!

– Don't bawl.
– No.

I'm so happy, David. So happy and glad.

I feel terrified and...peculiar.

– Fanny, dear...
– You're so splendid, kind and crazy.

It feels just as if you're about
to become mine, really mine.

There's so much I want to say,
but I can't say anything.

Fanny.

And you and Anna...and my whole life.

Everything feels so good, David.

Pull yourself together, Fanny.

Pull yourself together, I say.

You're making a scene.
Oh, what a scandal.

Anna?

– Come and let me comb your hair.
– Why do I have to be combed?

Come along now.

I like it here.
Your home is so nice, Mama.

– Didn't Grandma send her love?
– Lots.

It made her cross to have to let
Karlsson drive me to town in the gig.

I'm sure it did.

Grandma doesn't like being in town.

I do.

– Leave the chest of drawers alone.
– What a huge nightgown, Mama.

Put it back.
Shut the drawer and sit down.

It's his, isn't it?
Don't you know who I mean?

– You're surprised I knew, aren't you?
– I've stopped being surprised at you.

Please, let me meet him, Mama?
You see, I'm also interested in men.

– You shall meet him.
– Good, then I can tell Grandma.

She pretends she's not interested,
but I know she's dying of curiosity.

He'll be here soon.
He really wants to meet you.

Really?
Mama, hurry up with the combing.

Heavens.

What will he think of me, Mama?

Is he handsome?
Does he have a moustache?

Grandma says he's a teacher.
Is he strict?

Grandma wonders why you don't
get married. Why don't you?

Well, it's all the same to me.
What's important is to be in love.

Are you very much in love?
Does he love you a lot, Mama?

What a lot of questions all at once.

This is him.

- Oh...
- Well, I think he's handsome.

And he's so manly, you see.
And wise.

He's a form master. That's no ordinary
village school teacher.

His students become bishops,
governors, generals, doctors, and...

And he has a such fine relatives.

– Is he stuck up about it?
– Not a bit.

He's so gentle and kind. And brave.
And the way he thinks.

When he says something he leans
his head back, takes a deep breath...

...and expresses himself.
When it's something important.

Otherwise he can say things
just like other people.

It's so hard to describe
people you see and speak to often.

I'm so happy you want me to meet him.
It feels grown-up, somehow.

Sit still now, Anna.

I can see him before me.

Right now, he's standing in front of the
mirror preening himself, for my sake.

Then he has a good look and
suddenly thinks he's quite handsome.

– Do you know what he's doing now?
– No.

He's so happy he's singing.

Are you alright, David?

– David? Why are you moaning?
– Are there no singers in the family?

Grandfather's cousin Anton
had a splendid bass.

There, you see.

David? Anton's bass doesn't give you
the right to make noise.

I give myself permission.

– What's going on, David?
– Dear sister, big events are at hand.

Fair women await your ageing brother.

Young maidens curtsy to his dignity.
Childish eyes appeal to his fatherliness.

I'd better have a word with Dr Brusén.

Mother's cousin's aunt's
little poppet of a grandchild.

Tell everyone. Family, friends,
acquaintances, enemies,

second cousins once removed,
tradesmen, members of parliament.

Those childish eyes sparkle.
I'm coming...

– Hadn't you better stay home, David?
– Home? The world is my home.

Women are my castle
and happiness, my willow cabin.

– But the Town Hotel isn't open yet.
– Ah, sweets to the sweet.

Roses to the rosy-cheeked
and bliss to the blissful.

Anna, let's have coffee outside.
It's such a lovely day.

– Good morning.
– Good morning.

– What a beautiful morning.
– Yes, beautiful.

This is my daughter Anna
who has come visit.

How nice.
Why, Miss Fanny, I didn't know...

– I mean Mrs Fanny.
– I'm still just Miss Fanny.

What's so funny about
Mama being a Miss?

Grandma says it's to do with
the temptations of town life.

Perhaps it is. Make sure you're beware
of them. We must help each other.

Miss Astrid, did you want the table?
Because we're expecting a visitor today.

– It's not my table.
– We're expecting a man. A temptation.

Anna!

– This is Anna.
– Yes, it is.

– And this is David.
– Yes. It is.

– Run and get a vase, Anna.
– Yes. Here, take this.

– Please have a seat, David.
– Thank you.

– She's sweet.
– You think so?

– Everyone must think so.
– She's a bit outspoken.

I didn't notice. That's modern youth.

Flowers in a vase.
Now I'm really in town.

Right... Some coffee would be nice.

Go on, pour some, Mama.

Did you have a pleasant journey?

– Journey?
– Yes.

Oh, yes.
Though I wouldn't call it a journey.

Grandma put me in the gig with Karlsson
and here I am.

– Was it nice in the country?
– Nice?

– We townspeople long for the country.
– Really?

– Why?
– Things are more natural in the country.

Closer to life.

– Mama, is he sheepish because of me?
– Anna...

I think he's bashful
at having seduced you.

– Anna...
– Don't be bashful.

– Mama was seduced long before you.
– So I gather.

I was the result.

My father is a parson.
That's why he couldn't marry Mama.

He had to hush it all up.

– Anna, that will do.
– Yes, it certainly will.

Papa had to think of his advancement
and Mama had to think of me.

They divided it up.
Do you also have advancements?

– I beg your pardon?
– Do you also have advancements?

Advancements? Well... One can
become senior master or headmaster.

– But not me.
– Why?

– Because of Mama?
– By no means.

– David... What will we do today?
– Take a stroll in the park.

Listen to music and enjoy the weather.
It's sunny again.

– Together?
– Of course!

– All three of us?
– All three of us.

David...

– What's special about the park music?
– "Pompa pompa boom-boom".

– Doesn't sound very nice.
– Just you wait.

The brass band plays, flags wave,
skirts rustle, trumpets sound.

The trees whisper,
the gravel crunches, there's chattering.

Men raise their hats,
women dip their parasols.

The sky is blue, the grass is green.
The sun is yellow.

It's Sunday in town.

Hello, lads. How do you do?

This, my ladies,
is our much-loved park music.

A thorn in the side – or the ear –
of our neighboring town

which calls a few shrubs a park
and a cornet-player a town band.

Our town is good and generous
to its citizens.

The citizens show their gratitude
through their festive Sunday mood.

– You sound like I've never been here.
– It's Anna I'm showing round.

– Are you thirsty?
– Yes.

Let's visit the kiosk.

Have a seat, ladies.

Miss Marie? Four lemonades, please.

– We're only three.
– No matter.

Look, the mayor!

Good afternoon, Mr Mayor.

He didn't see us.

– What does a mayor do?
– He judges.

– He looked away when he saw us.
– Not at all.

He's a very good friend of mine.

The Headmaster! How do you do?

They were evidently in a hurry.
They usually take refreshments here.

– Perhaps they weren't thirsty.
– That doesn't matter.

It's a Sunday habit.

– Miss Skog. Glorious Sunday weather.
– Indeed.

– A lovely person.
– Yes.

– It's getting empty around us.
– People pay and leave.

– Aren't you supposed to pay?
– Yes, of course.

Peace, my lord Bishop.

Parsons never want anything
to do with us, Mama.

– Who are they?
– Colleagues.

– Good afternoon, Berta.
– For shame.

How do you do, Postmaster?

– One is giving us a kind look.
– It's only the curate.

Miss Marie, the bill please.

He's very sweet. I feel it in my bones.

– 24 öre.
– Robbery.

– Keep the change.
– Thank you.

Let's go.

– Anna!
– That's all the fun I get.

Ellen is waiting with dinner.
I need to go.

The thunder is early this year.

I'll be seeing you.
Goodbye, Anna. Goodbye, Miss Fanny.

– Hunger came over him quickly.
– Yes.

Come on, Mama.

Look, there's the curate.

– Come on, let's go home.
– Yes.

– Mr Franzén?
– Yes, what is it?

I want to say I find you brave,
chivalrous and pure-hearted.

You stand up to everything furtive.

If only everyone had the courage
to show their love to the world.

– Astrid?
– What do you want?

– You didn't let me in. What did I do?
– Nothing. Don't talk to me.

– Why, my love?
– Because, my dove.

– Those poems have changed you.
– Maybe so.

Astrid... Let me come home with you.
It's raining!

– I promise to read you real poetry.
– Borrowed goods.

– Sweetheart. What do you expect of me?
– Treat me like a person.

– A person?
– Go for a walk with me like Franzén.

But you're afraid that people will see!

– You're crazy!
– Am I?

No, I'm sorry.
I mean that Franzén has gone crazy.

Then I want you to go crazy.

Damn that Franzén.

Damn that Franzén!

I think he's stupid.
Stupid and stuck-up!

– Please.
– Stupid and stuck-up!

"How do you do, Mr Mayor?"
But no one responded.

Just to impress us.

– He knows them well.
– They don't know him with us there.

And that made him scared!
Just like Papa.

– Are all men like that?
– I don't know that many.

– But he's not scared. Just confused.
– Batty and scatterbrained!

It's not that easy for him.
He's a teacher and I'm a waitress.

He has school and I have you.
It's so uneven.

– Is it wrong to have me?
– That's not what I mean.

He's not handsome. He's skinny.

Don't be unfair to David.
He was glad to get to know you.

– He doesn't like me.
– Yes, if he gets to meet you more.

A man who just runs away?

You know what, Anna?
David isn't like other people.

Sure he is! Just like everyone else.

No...

He's something of a poet.

– In what way?
– I don't know...

A poet is a person who's had a vision.

That doesn't quite check out.

We need to be careful with him.
He's a bit broken.

And what's broken, breaks even more
when handled roughly.

As your grandma likes to say.

What about him?
He doesn't care if you break.

Oh, Mama...
I can tell that you're upset.

It'll be alright.
I'm so in love with him.

So for me, it's an almost perfect fit.

I don't think he's in love with you at all.

I don't know...

I don't suppose he knows himself.

And he won't bother to find out.

If something didn't quite fit once,
I suppose a person gets lazy about it.

Especially a poet.

I don't understand a thing.

But then I've never met any poets.

And I don't want to.

Mama...
Don't be upset. He's not worth it.

Who cares about worthiness?

No...

I'd better be off to the hotel.

Can you manage on a few sandwiches?

I'll always manage.

I said: Of course it's dreadful.

Yes...

Silence at the table!

Don't speak while eating!

– Mr Lundberg rang.
– Really?

– He was very indignant.
– Really?

– The whole town is indignant.
– Really?

Showing yourself
in the park with that person.

– What person?
– The person from the hotel.

– Miss Fanny?
– I certainly wouldn't know her name.

– I happened to fall in with them.
– That seems to happen often.

Even in her bedroom.

– You know nothing about that.
– Know?

The whole town knows about it.

– The whole town?
– David...

– Everyone has found it so delightful.
– Delightful?

Such a delightful secret.
And everyone has realized

that you haven't known
that everyone has known.

That's why it's been considered correct.

– Correct?
– But now...

There's no whispering
when you flaunt it.

You're no longer
delightful and correct.

– And you, being a teacher and all...
– A teacher?

An educator of youth.

A model for new generations.

Mr Lundberg will speak
to the head and the board.

What will the head say?
The Bishop, the sewing circle.

I'm sure they've said a lot already.

They'll think that you and I
have discussed this entanglement.

In our home.

I'll need to leave the sewing circle.
And our family!

– Leave the family because Fanny...?
– No. Not "Fanny" in our home.

"Miss Fanny".

Decency demands
that I should know nothing about it.

This cursed, complicated decency!

All those who "think".
And those who "know".

Who thought I knew that they know.

And my heroic decision to stop people
talking, when I was obviously clueless.

– Why can't they go on pretending?
– There are children involved.

– What?
– Mr Lundberg told me so.

– That you have a child.
– Who?

You and that person.
You've flaunted it around town.

That's why the head and the board
need to get involved.

– I don't understand.
– But I do.

– Anna. Do you mean that Anna...?
– I certainly don't know its name.

– What do you mean, "its"?
– That...

That child of yours.

That you've been
heartless enough to flaunt.

How shameless!

How could you
treat me so heartlessly?

Our...?

Our...!

Dear God!

– Now you're hiding!
– It's not...

– Don't wriggle out of it.
– So they think she's my child?

I need to go. Immediately.

No, you can't leave again.
You've done enough for one day.

Have I done enough?
Enough with all of this!

It's not mine. The child isn't mine.

It's not my...

Not my...child.

– Good afternoon.
– Good afternoon.

Keep playing. It was beautiful.

You knew where I was.

Did you know I was a bit sad?

– How sweet of you to provide music.
– I can't play myself. Nor sing.

No matter. Come on up.

Hurry up!

That'll do, Anders. You can go.

I'm Anna.

I'm Emil. I can't help it.

– This quarter is called Pleasure Garden.
– Oh, my!

I know you're a parson.

My papa's a dean.

Don't worry, I'm illegitimate.

– Illegitimate children don't exist.
– I exist.

Are you going in for advancement?

– Right.
– Why does that upset you?

Never mind.

Do you want my sandwich? I'm full.

My, you sure were hungry!

Sorry.

– I don't mind.
- No...

And you're right.

It's just fine.

Shall I show you the Pleasure Garden?

Eat up!

Come on!

The sun came out again.

Feel it! The ground is dry.

It's peaceful out here. So peaceful.

I'm beginning
to understand Mama so well.

– Why do you say that?
– No reason.

But I understand her with my body.

Yes...

Someone might see us.

– Yes...
– Shouldn't we look around a bit more?

– Let's look around inside.
– That's even worse.

No one can see us there.

– Emil...
– Yes.

– Are you sulking?
– I don't like to be called Emil.

It's an unpoetic name.

– Are you also a poet?
– Also?

Yes... A parson and a poet.

That's what I'd call
killing two birds with one stone.

I understand Mama better and better.

Not liking my own name
doesn't make me a poet.

And you mention your Mama too much.
It puts me off.

– Puts you off what?
– Never mind.

Let's go.

– What's this door?
– Close it!

No, let's have a look.

– It's a bookshop, isn't it?
– Yes, it's the town bookshop.

You're a parson.
Have you read this many books?

– No, I haven't.
– Don't laugh at me, silly.

I've only read my schoolbooks.
Don't laugh at me for that.

– I'm sorry.
– That's right.

You'd better be careful.

Or I'll call you Emil unpoetically.

No...

I'm looking at the books.

This looks exciting!

Look! They're in love.

Dangerous Liaisons.

With illustrations.

– This is not for you.
– Let me see!

Oh...

Oh, I need to sit down.

Wasn't it in the Pleasure Garden
that their eyes were opened?

Yes.

No, you can't come in!

Franzén denied it all
and pretended he didn't know her.

– Let me go!
– I called his sister.

– And I'm calling the Headmaster.
– You're doing what?

– It's all because I'm in love with you.
– Are you?

Why is the door open?

My love. My darling.

You're so beautiful.
So darned beautiful!

What if the Headmaster finds out?
I might scream.

Listen to me.
Anna is Miss Fanny's daughter.

– Papa is a dean.
– What on Earth?

Good heavens.

Miss Skog is not very good
at looking after this shop.

– You were very familiar just now.
– Yes, we're very close friends.

– Like Mama and David?
– That's right.

– Miss Skog! I don't understand...
– Really?

As long as the curate understands.
Tell the Bishop. He'll want to know.

– I trust your discretion.
– I trust his indiscretion more.

I'll tell the proprietor
about Miss Skog.

And I'll tell the head about you.

Please be sensible.

I'm sweating!
And my migraine is coming on.

You'd better go to bed.
And feel as lonely as you'll be.

And you two...
What are you doing in here?

The books are on the floor!

You'd better come home with me.
Until your Mama comes back.

DANGEROUS LIAISONS

PRIVY PLACES OF THE HEART

– A woman is looking for you.
– A woman?

I think she's from the hotel.

Go ahead.

– So this is what your home is like...
– Yes.

– How odd to see, after all these years.
– Yes.

I apologize
for embarrassing you with my visit.

No need to apologize.

Your sister seemed to think so.

Oh...

"A woman from the hotel."
That's me.

Don't worry.
I don't think anyone saw me.

– It's not that.
– Then what is it?

Nothing.

– This is your desk.
– That's right.

– This is your life.
– My life?

Yes, your life.

The desk. The books, the school.

The passing years.

Your room.

When I rest my head on your desk...

...I can see your life.

But I'm not part of it.

– I'm leaving town, David.
– Are you?

– Isn't that what you want?
– I never said that.

You're such a coward, David.

And I'm a fool.

"Samuel Dafvidsson." Is that you?

Yes.

Well, I'll be going.

– Best to check no one's on the street.
– What do you mean?

You wreak havoc with my poor life.
You want things your way.

Anna came to make you
seem magnanimous.

– I don't feel magnanimous.
– I'm sorry it was such a failure.

Don't meddle in other people's lives
with nothing but words and posturing.

– Don't I have more than that?
– I don't think so.

You have a low opinion of my feelings.

You've never told me your feelings
during all these years.

That's hard on a woman.

– Quite hard.
– Please forgive me, Fanny.

Oh... I'll be fine.

I've even been quite happy
if you want to know.

You don't need to apologize.

Don't apologize! You're implying
that something was lacking.

– The nerve!
– Nerve? What...?

You dislike all the words I use.

– No.
– You just listen to my silly words.

Never paying attention to what I mean!
As if I'm incapable of meaning anything.

But you were the one who
couldn't be bothered of mean anything.

I'm leaving now.

I'm leaving town.

I'm glad you got to meet Anna.

The woman from the hotel
has a name: Fanny. How do you do?

PRIVY PLACES OF THE HEART

"The Child"

"My hometown..."

"My beloved"...

"Eventide"

"Ecstatic evening,
as our day goes whence it came

"The sun is setting
and the sky's aflame.

"So too my blood
As in a grove I call the name

"Of my beloved

"Ere night the light doth tame

"What does the night whisper?
That our day is done?

"The grove is dark
Where late the sun's fire shone

"It sank into the West
And with distrust I am alone

"My heart beats coldly

"My love is gone"

– Fanny.
– Astrid.

Emil.

Anna.

Amen.

Yes, come in!

I thought it was Emil.

– Emil?
– Yes, the curate.

Where's Fanny?

– She's gone!
– She needs her bag for that.

Yes, you're right.

– Where is she?
– I won't tell you.

All you do is upset Mama.
You've been doing it all day.

All because of me. It's all my fault.

Mama's entire life is my fault.

First Papa and now you!

– Where is she?
– I won't tell you!

I'll just wait here, then.

Unless you leave
I'll bring the bag to Mama.

– I'll follow you.
– I'll hit you in the head with the bag.

Don't you understand?

I want to put everything right.
For Mama and you.

– How?
– I'll make you legitimate.

There's no need. I can let...
I'll do it myself.

– How?
– I'll marry Emil.

– The curate?
– He's asking the Bishop.

– Well?
– We don't need you.

– Your Mama needs me.
– For what?

– Well...
– There you go. Now leave!

I want to be here.

I want her to be here.

I want to be with her.

How do you feel?

As if I'm about
to lose a part of myself.

A good part.

I suddenly see myself without her.
I never thought of that.

I understand that.

I understand it because of Emil.

You feel like...you need her.

I'm not worthy of her.

Do you know what Mama said?

She said:
"Why bother about worthiness?"

She said that? Did she really?

Calm down! Remember that I'm engaged.

She's outside. Down by the river.

– Why are you here?
– To see how you get on.

No luck here. She won't let me in.

Try saying that you need her.

Anna!

Emil!

– The Bishop said it was fine.
– Really?

I'm glad you realized
that I was down here.

This was where...

We've grown older.

No, you're right.
We're definitely not wiser.

Are you saying we've become wiser?

That's good. In what way?

Are you going to marry me?

I won't marry you.

But I'm going to be with you.

Isn't that wise?

For the time being.

For the time being, I won't marry you.

– You haven't said anything.
– There's no need.

I don't need to.

It feels natural not to say anything.

I feel natural.

I can't live without you.

God, what am I saying?
How does it make sense?

– I think it makes perfect sense.
– Yes, but it's unpoetic.

– David, I'm going to read to you.
– No, don't!

– Don't do that.
– Have a seat.

Keep reading.

"My darling, my love
When you stand at my gate

"The hawk is a dove when you are nigh
The storm doth abate

"Sharp thoughts die
Sight you may prove

"Love is real

"My love"

– Well?
– There's something to it.

It's true.

"Ah, my dear
Happiness is no chance

"All the time it was near
It dwelt in your hand, lived in a dance

"In freedom's band
Nothing to fear

"Love bears all, my dear"

It's true... It really is.

It's really quite good.

"Love's morning is mine"

It's all so damned true!

PLEASURE GARDEN

Subtitles by A. Yberg & E. Larsen
Svensk Medietext