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Elisabet, do you like being with me?
ls it nice?
- You're a wonderful lover. You know.
- My darling...
Anaethetise me... throw me away!
No, l can't, l can't take any more!
Leave me alone!
lt's shame, it's all shame!
Leave me alone!
l'm cold and rotten and indifferent!
lt's all just lies and imitation,
all of it!
Elisabet, what have you got there?
What are you hiding
under your hand? Let me see.
lt's the photo of your little boy.
The one you tore up.
We must talk about that.
Tell me about it, Elisabet.
Then l will.
lt was one night at a party, isn't
that so? lt got late and quite rowdy.
Towards morning
someone in the group said:
''Elisabet, you virtually have it all in
your armoury as a woman and artist.''
''But you lack motherliness.''
You laughed
because you thought it sounded silly.
But after a while you noticed
you thought about what he'd said.
You became more and more worried.
You let your husband impregnate you.
You wanted to be a mother.
When you realized it was definite,
you became frightened.
Frightened of responsibility, of being
tied down, of leaving the theatre.
Frightened of pain, of dying,
frightened of your body swelling up.
But you played the role. The role
of a happy, young, expectant mother.
Everyone said, ''lsn't she beautiful?
She's never been so beautiful.''
Meanwhile you tried to abort the foetus
several times.
But you failed.
When you saw it was irreversible,
you started to hate the baby.
And you wished it would be stillborn.
You wished the baby would be dead.
You wished for a dead baby.
lt was a difficult and long delivery.
You were in agony for days. Finally
the baby was delivered with forceps.
You looked with disgust and terror
at your squealing baby and whispered:
''Can't you die soon? Can't you die?''
But he survived.
The boy screamed day and night.
And you hated him. You were scared,
you had a bad conscience.
Finally the boy was taken care of
by relatives and a nanny.
You could get up from your sickbed
and return to the theatre.
But the suffering wasn't over.
The boy was gripped by a massive
and unfathomable love for his mother.
You defend yourself.
You defend yourself in despair.
You feel you can't return it.
So you try, and you try...
But there are only cruel and clumsy
meetings between you.
You can't do it.
You're cold and indifferent.
He looks at you.
He loves you and he's so gentle.
You want to hit him
because he doesn't leave you alone.
You think he's disgusting
with his thick mouth and ugly body.
His moist and pleading eyes.
He's disgusting and you're scared.
What are you hiding
under your hand? Let me see.
lt's the photo of your little boy.
The one you tore up.
We must talk about it.
Tell me about it, Elisabet.
Then l will.
lt was one night at a party,
isn't that right?
lt got late and quite rowdy.
Towards morning
someone in the group said:
''Elisabet, you virtually have it all in
your armoury as a woman and artist.''
''But you lack motherliness.''
You laughed
because you thought it sounded silly.
But after a while you noticed
you thought about what he'd said.
You became more and more worried.
You let your husband impregnate you.
You wanted to be a mother.
When you realized it was definite,
you became frightened.
Frightened of responsibility, of being
tied down, of leaving the theatre.
Frightened of pain, of dying,
frightened of your body swelling up.
But you played the role. The role
of a happy, young, expectant mother.
Everyone said, ''lsn't she beautiful?
She's never been so beautiful.''
Meanwhile you tried to abort the foetus
several times.
But you failed.
When you saw it was irreversible...
...you started to hate the baby.
And you wished it would be stillborn.
You wished the baby would be dead.
You wished for a dead baby.
The delivery was difficult and long.
You were in agony for days. Finally
the baby was delivered with forceps.
You looked with disgust and terror
at
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