Autumn Sonata

AUTUMN SONATA:

Sometimes I watch my wife,

without her being aware of

my presence.

The first time she entered that room,

she said,

"It's good. I want to be here."

We'd met only a few days before,

at a bishops' council in Trondheim.

She was the correspondent

of a church magazine.

We met at lunch, and I told her about

the vicarage here.

I ventured to suggest we come here

after the conference.

On the way here, I asked her

if she would marry me.

She didn't reply.

But when we entered this room,

she turned to me and said,

"It's good. I want to be here."

Ever since then we've lived a good

and quiet life here at the vicarage.

Eva has told me about her life.

After school, she went to university.

She was engaged to a doctor,

and lived with him for several years.

She wrote two little books,

contracted tuberculosis,

broke off the engagement

and moved from Oslo to a small town

in the south of Norway,

where she started working

as a journalist.

This is the first of her books -

I'm very fond of it.

She writes,

"One has to learn to live;

I practise every day.

"The greatest obstacle

is that I don't know who I am.

"I fumble in the dark.

"Were someone to love me

for who I am,

"I might at last be able

to study myself.

"The possibility of this

is rather remote."

If I could only tell her one time

that she is loved,

unreservedly.

But I can't say it in such a way

that she will believe me.

I lack the proper words.

Can I read you my letter to Mother,

or am I disturbing you?

No, come in. Let me

switch off the radio.

I can come back later.

I would very much like

to hear your letter.

"Dearest Mother,

yesterday I ran into Agnes,

"who was visiting her parents

with her family.

"She told me Leonardo had died.

"Dearest little Mummy, I can imagine

how terrible you must feel.

"Would you like to visit us

for a few days, or weeks?

"Whichever suits you best.

"In case you get frightened

and say no directly,

"I must tell you the vicarage

is very spacious.

"You'll have your own room,

secluded and with all mod cons.

"We have a grand piano

for you to practise on.

"Wouldn't it be nice

not to have to stay at a hotel?

"Please say you'll come!

"We'll take good care of you

and spoil you.

"It's such a long time since we met.

In October it will be seven years.

"With love from Viktor

and your daughter Eva."

- That sounds very good.

- Do you think so?

- Mummy dearest! Welcome!

- Eva dear, here I am.

I'm so happy you're here.

Let me help you.

- What a long journey.

- Yes, I know.

The last bit is the worst.

But isn't it beautiful here.

- Will you stay for a while?

- I certainly will.

- How nice that you're here!

- And I want to see everything.

What heavy bags! Have you brought

all your music?

- Of course. I intend to move in.

- That would be lovely.

- You must give me some lessons.

- Of course.

- Where's Viktor?

- He's not here.

We didn't expect you so early.

He'll be back for lunch.

- This is your room.

- It's charming.

What a wonderful view.

Here's the bathroom.

Very attractive and modern.

- The closet, I hope it's big enough.

- I'm sure it is.

I'm really very tired.

My back aches. I sat with Leonardo

during his last 24 hours.

He was in terrible pain,

despite injections every two hours.

At times he cried.

It wasn't for fear of dying,

but out of pain.

There was building work going on

outside, drilling and hammering.

The sun was so hot, and there were

neither blinds nor awnings.

We tried to get another room, but

several wards were closed for repairs.

Towards the evening the noise

subsided and I opened the window.

The heat was like a wall outside -

it was windless.

The professor came at night,

an old friend of Leonardo's.

He said he didn't have long left.

Leonardo would have injections

once an hour,

so that he could fall asleep

without pain.

The professor left

and the nurse came in.

She thought I should eat,

but I wasn't hungry.

The smell made me nauseous.

Leonardo slept for a few minutes.

When he woke up, he asked me

to leave the room.

He called the nurse, who immediately

gave him an injection.

A few minutes later she came out.

She said that...

Leonardo was dead.

I stayed with him all night.

I thought about us having been friends

for 18 years, living together for 13.

Never a harsh or angry word

between us.

For the last two years

he knew he was hopelessly ill.

I went to see him in his villa

outside Naples as often as I could.

He was kind and considerate,

pleased by my success.

We would chat and joke,

play some chamber music.

He never mentioned his illness,

and I didn't ask.

He wouldn't have liked that.

One day he looked at me

for a long time.

Then he laughed and said,

"By this time next year,

I'll be gone,

"but I'll always be with you,

I'll always think of you."

It was nice of Leonardo to say that,

but then again he was a bit theatrical.

I can't really say I mourn him.

It feels empty, but one mustn't

bury oneself.

Have I changed much

since we last met?

- You're exactly the same.

- I dye my hair, of course.

Leonardo didn't want to see

my grey hairs.

I bought this trouser suit in Zrich,

for the car journey.

I spotted it in a window.

I went in and tried it on - perfect fit.

- Astonishingly cheap. Do you like it?

- It's beautiful.

Let's unpack. Give me a hand

with this suitcase, my back hurts so.

Can we find a board to put

under the mattress, for my back?

It's already there.

I put it there yesterday.

What's the matter, dear?

Are you crying?

- Have I said something wrong?

- It's because I'm so happy to see you.

Let's hug tightly,

as we did when you were little.

I only talk about myself.

Now you must tell, Eva dearest.

Let's sit down.

- How are you, little Eva?

- I'm very happy.

That's good. But isn't life here

very isolated?

- Viktor and I have our parish work.

- Yes, of course you do.

I often play in the church. Last month

I gave an evening recital.

I played, and then I talked about

the music. It was a great success.

- You will have to play for me.

- I'd love to.

I gave five school recitals

in Los Angeles.

Imagine, playing and talking

to three thousand children!

What a success - but awfully tiring.

There's something I have to tell you.

Helena is here.

You should have written and told me.

If I'd told you about Helena

you wouldn't have come.

- I'm sure I'd have come all the same.

- I'm sure you wouldn't.

Leonardo's death wasn't enough.

You had to drag poor Lena here, too?

Mother, Helena's lived here

for two years.

I wrote to tell you we were going

to ask her to come and live here.

- I wrote to you.

- I never received that letter.

Or you didn't bother to read it.

- Isn't that an unfair accusation?

- Yes, I'm sorry.

I can't bear to see her,

at least not today.

Mother, Helena is a wonderful person.

She's so looking forward

to seeing you.

She was so comfortable

in the nursing home.

I wanted to have her here.

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