Stig Dagerman - A Burnt Child

Therefore, I can understand if you felt the need to run off to a less depressing environment. I would have done the same if I had been able to. So I understand quite well why you want to get married now. But I have nothing against your choice for a companion, so I have to disagree with you on that point. If I have shown your fiancée any “coldness,” as you call it, it was probably because for a long time I was unsure of how I should behave in front of her. After all, it’s still our first year of mourning (which you probably consider too conventional), and you can’t blame me if this has caused me to keep some distance from her. But to conclude that I would somehow be cruel to her because of this is, without a doubt, to go too far. I wish you both happiness, and I think it’s great the wedding is going to take place after the New Year; this way, no one can say that you remarried the same year Mama died.

I am a little hurt that you completely misunderstood my reaction to the news. Perhaps I should explain. It wasn’t my intention to make a “scene,” as you call it. And there were two reasons why I was a little harsh. The first and most important reason was that I was a little overwrought as a result of my studies being so demanding lately. As you know, I had to spend the majority of the fall term at the library into the wee hours of the night just to make up for what I lost during my military service. And this certainly wasn’t beneficial to my nerves. The other and less significant reason was that, as I’ve already mentioned, I was a bit surprised by the sudden news, more precisely, not by the news itself but that it came so unexpectedly. Therefore, none of it was because of any resentment toward either of you, as you seem to think. You said yourself that you noticed Gun has been holding a slight grudge against me—ever since she found that stupid letter from that girl in my pocket when she was brushing my coat—and you therefore suspected that I had some reason to be upset with her, too. Yes, you might be right that it’s really none of Gun’s business if I’m unfaithful to Berit and that the scene she made when she found the letter was quite strange, but I think there’s a natural explanation for her frustration. Women are very loyal to each other, and Gun must have felt very hurt on Berit’s behalf. But she scarcely had any reason to be so upset for Berit in this situation. On the one hand, Berit didn’t find out about it, of course. On the other hand, the affair was quite harmless. I simply met that girl while visiting a friend from school. She’s one of those types who like falling for men, and rather often. You must have seen that cartoon with the woman who has a heart for a stomach? That’s what she was like. Her lips were like a carnivorous flower. Kissing her was like sinking down into a swamp, and she didn’t give me any pleasure. So I don’t feel sorry about it, because you can’t punish forbidden acts with regret, and we only feel remorse if we truly enjoyed it. The reason I “fell” for her was something deeper than mere lust. In my state of overexcitement I was seized by the suspicion that Berit was cheating on me. In retrospect, I agree that it was absurd, but you yourself know how absurd jealousy can be. Now, the best remedy for jealousy is to arouse jealousy yourself. This way, we achieve a comfortable balance. By the way, I think a Don Juan is a man who tries to keep his life in balance by not investing all of his affection into one object. A cowardly man? No. A wise man. Because for every disappointment, he can find solace in someone else. He knows how to economize his feelings. He is practical.

Not that I’m a Don Juan. It was just an observation, nebenbei, so to speak. Of course, I eventually realized that Berit was faithful to me. It was just tragic, or more precisely, tragicomical. So I burned up all my letters from the girl and asked her to burn all of mine. Unfortunately, I must have forgotten one in my coat, but that kind of thing happens, as you know. Yes, it was too bad that Gun happened to read it, but the fact is that no one asked her to. To make it up to her, I bought her that bracelet I showed you before I left. It was rather expensive, but it’s worth the price if it can restore peace to our family. Don’t you think?

Well, I’ve explained my point of view the best I could. If you speak with Gun about my letter, you can mention my explanation for my trivial relationship with that girl. It really doesn’t concern her, but it might make her feel a little less offended for Berit’s sake.

Wishing you a Merry Christmas

(what’s left of it) and a

Happy New Year

from your son Bengt

P.S. Berit and her parents send their warm wishes.

BERIT IS EVEN AFRAID OF THE ICE. Not just the ice that has formed overnight, but also the solid ice that has been freezing all winter. This is why she is so anxious as they travel across the ice to the island. She is sitting on the kicksled and Bengt is pushing her. She fears the whole time that the ice will give way. But it does not. It only creaks. The runners are screeching, and Gun is singing. She is sitting on the father’s sled with a bag in her lap. She is wearing short white boots. Berit has high black ones that she has borrowed. But they are too big, so she wobbles when she walks.

Sunday morning is white and clear and three degrees Fahrenheit. A sheet of frost covers the ice, and tiny spruce trees are scattered about. A car rolls in slowly from across the frozen sea, and its snow chains rattle with fear, like chattering teeth. Farther out, a ship is frozen in the water; it looks like it’s lying flat on the ice. Its contours are sharp and precise. The smoke rising from the funnel is thin and frigid. And large ivory spider webs seem to be hanging between the masts. The islands look a lot different from how they did in summer. The long, low island has sunk into the ice and snow. A single ski track goes into it but doesn’t come back out. And the tall island is no longer as high as it was in the summer. The frozen crowns of the pine trees glisten in the sun. Gun puts on her sunglasses, the same ones from last summer. And Berit covers her eyes with one hand. Partly because of the sun and the ice, and partly because she is imagining things.

Bengt is also imagining things. They all are, for that matter. Gun stops singing. So now only the runners are singing. Up ahead, the ice is black, and they cross a stream. There, Bengt doesn’t dare dig his spike too deep in the ice, so the father is able to catch up to him and even pass him. Then Gun leans to the side and looks back. Her stepson returns her glance. Neither of them smiles, but Bengt steers in behind the father. This relieves Berit, although she won’t be truly at ease until they arrive.

The cliffs are covered by a deep layer of snow, and ice towers over all the rocks like little white volcanoes. An animal has apparently trudged across the island; the tracks could be from a dog. They leave the sleds on the ice and plod up to the house. But Bengt takes a different route. He climbs over the cleft, where the wind has packed the snow into solid drifts. He hardly leaves any tracks behind him. But in the hidden hollow, he sinks down to his knees. Then he stands up for a while, takes off his gloves, and fills his hands with snow. When he tastes it, it tastes like salt. Then someone calls out to him and he goes back.

Where have you been? the father asks.

Out, he says curtly.

The fire is burning on the hearth. The father has taken off his shoes and socks. Now his feet are propped up on the edge of the fireplace. They are not very clean.