by Herman Bang
“Oh dear, Ida, dear Ida,” was all Schrøder said, putting an arm around her.
Ida had not spoken. It was as though her eyes failed to see anything as she went into Schrøder’s room.
“Dear child,” Schrøder went on. “Dearest child…what is it?”
But Ida made no reply, and, scared as she stood there before the pale, stiff face, Schrøder simply went on using the old pet name, dear child, dear child – rocking Ida’s head backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, as though, in fear, she wanted to shake the tears out of her.
“I’ve ordered the carriage.”
“Thank you.” And then Ida voiced the only thought she had:
“If only I can manage to see her.”
Speaking made her start to weep, and Schrøder said – quite relieved – she had, of course, simply not known whether Mrs Brandt was still alive.
“Oh yes, oh yes, it’s not as bad as all that…she’ll get over it all right, you’ll see, my dear.”
Ida simply placed her arms wearily down on the chair.
“You must go,” she said. “They are waiting for you up there.”
“Oh,” said Schrøder, almost angrily, “let them wait.”
The door opened; it was Miss Rosenfeld.
“Have you ordered the carriage?” she asked, in a low voice, as though she had entered a sickroom.
“Yes.”
She nodded to Schrøder, who went out.
“We’ll get off straight away,” she said, sitting down quietly and taking hold of Ida’s cold hands.
From the kitchen, Anne Marie, the kitchen maid, had crept out into the servants’ hall to hear what was going on.
“So I suppose it’s all over,” she said slowly.
“I suppose so,” replied Johan.
Anne Marie stared vacantly ahead, standing straight, in her black socks.
“She’ll leave a bit,” she said, nodding.
“She’ll leave a lot,” said Johan.
“Aye,” and he stretched his artilleryman’s legs in front of him: “Is there any coffee?” He drank it and got ready.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose we’ll take the landau on an occasion such as this.”
Ida was fetched and put in the barouche.
Silence fell on the dining table as Mrs Falkenberg attended to His Lordship and left the doors ajar.
“It doesn’t sound as though they are enjoying themselves in there. Why not?” asked His Lordship.
“We are enjoying ourselves, Your Lordship.”
“Good, but, when people are enjoying themselves, you can usually hear it,” the old man said.
Mrs von Eichbaum said she had recently been reading what Bishop Mynster had written in his “Reflections” on the subject of dying suddenly: “They were words to remember”.
“But,” she added: “little Brandt’s future is assured, I suppose.”
When the carriage drove up on the gravel path, Ida quietly entered it – her eyes had as it were become very big in her face – and Miss Rosenfeld, who had put her coat on, climbed in and sat down beside her.
“You are not going to go alone,” she said.
Karl von Eichbaum had left the table and gone down. He stood, beside the bailiff, over in front of the house by the horses. Then he reached a hand in over the carriage door, without saying anything.
When Schrøder turned to go inside – the coach was right down on the Brædstrup road by this time – she saw the telegraph messenger still sitting on the bench in front of the kitchen windows; he was waiting for his receipt.
Dinner was over and all the dishes were in disarray on the kitchen tables. Schrøder had to have them tidied up before she could start on the servants’ dinner. The sun betrayed a large number of grey hairs above her temples as she stood bending over the big bread slicer.
The gardener’s assistant came out of the garden. He slowly raked the gravel path, hiding the traces of the carriage that had just left.
The white marker stones flew past the rattling carriage, in which no one spoke. Mile followed after mile, as the horses trotted.
Ida saw nothing and heard nothing. All her life seemed to be gathered in her clenched hands.
One single thought was forcing its way out in words without a sound, as though she wanted to overturn a sense of guilt:
“I had said I wouldn’t go…”
She rocked her clenched fists up and down.
“Now I shan’t even be able to see her…”
“But…Ida…”
“No, I shan’t be able to see her…”
And then they were there. The horses refused to stand still – two dogs came rushing at them.
Ida saw nothing but Sofie’s puffed-up face as she came down the stairs.
“The doctor’s here,” said Sofie in a whisper.
Ida supported herself on the banister.
“So she’s not dead.”
“I’ll fetch Mrs Jørgensen,” said Miss Rosenfeld.
Ida nodded without having heard, and she opened the door to the sitting room; it was dark, and she waited. She could hear the doctor’s footsteps in the bedroom.
“It happened at twelve o’ clock,” whispered Sofie.
But Ida simply groaned.
“And then we sent a telegram,” Sofie whispered again.
As though glimpsing a couple of shadows, Ida saw Miss Sørensen, who came in carrying two silver candlesticks, and Miss Thøgersen, who was bringing a cloth.
“Oh,” said Sofie, starting to tremble: “this is for the last communion…and she sat down on a chair.
“We’ re expecting the minister,” whispered Miss Sørensen and the two continued to tiptoe around – with so many things.
Ida only listened to the doctor’s footsteps.
Then she heard the sound of her mother’s heavy breathing, just as she knew it…And suddenly she started to sob, quietly and desperately with gratitude.
The doctor approached her, and she made to get up.
“I heard the carriage,” he said, and she looked up into his face.
“It might be best not to go in immediately,” he said. “Your mother has been rather irritated…”
Ida continued to look at him.
“In her condition…that you were not here…”
Ida made no reply. She had closed her eyes for a moment, and she failed to notice the hand he reached out to her.
“We will wait until this evening. Goodbye.”
Ida had bowed her head. She had understood: she was not to go in there.
She saw Miss Sørensen drag the myrtle across the floor, and she heard the doctor’s voice again. “Keep that out of the way,” he said and actually struck out at the myrtle.
She merely thought that she was not to go in there.
She did not realise that she had risen and gone across the floor, in to the little sitting room, to the stool, her stool behind the big chest of drawers.
Doors were opened and doors were closed; there was the sound of footsteps. Miss Thøgersen came and laid a desperate hand on her shoulder.
“The minister,” she breathed, and they could hear Sofie weeping.
“Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ.”
But Ida did not move.
There was no sound but the minister’s murmur. Then came the sick woman’s breathing. Ida heard only that.
“Vater unser, Vater unser,” Miss Thøgersen suddenly prayed in her own language, but she got no further.
“The Lord Jesus the same night in which He was betrayed took bread; And when He had given thanks, He brake it and said, Take, eat; this is my body which is broken for you; this do in remembrance of me.”
Ida did not pray; she had no room for prayers. She only felt her heart stopped and heavy like a stone in her breast.
“Vater unser, Vater unser…”
“After the same manner also, He took the cup, when He had supped, saying, this cup is the new testament in my blood; this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in
remembrance of me…”
Looking in through the door, Sofie could see, against the candles, the minister bend down over the dying woman and lift her pillow.
“God the Holy Spirit, God the Holy Spirit,” she whispered, falling back against the back of the chair. There was silence for a moment, and then Sofie got up again.
“The keys,” she said all at once, almost shrieking.
She had seen the bunch slide from under the pillow, slip over the sheet and fall down on the floor.
“The Body of Christ…”
They heard no more, while the night nurse also started to weep.
Ida had folded her hands on her lap:
If she fell asleep, she could go in there; when she was asleep, she could go in…
“The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make His face shine upon you, and be gracious unto you; the Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace.”
It became quite silent. Miss Thøgersen had ceased weeping and sat rocking her head to and fro.
“She is nevertheless dying as a respected person,” she said, and her tears began to flow again.
Ida heard her name as in a fog, and she stood up. It was the minister, who held out a hand to her.
“You have been away?” he said in a mildly concerned voice.
“Yes, I have.”
The minister stood for a moment in front of the tearless face. He tried to think of a text, but failed to find one.
“Aye,” he said then, “a mother’s a mother. May God give you strength.”
Miss Sørensen showed the minister out and crossed the road to go home for a moment. She could not quite forget that episode with the myrtle: she had really only wanted, with the best of intentions, to provide some “embellishment” for the sacred act.
But it was well known that Dr. Berg was a man without much sensitivity.
All was quiet now. The only sounds were those of the clocks’ ticking and the night nurse when she moved quietly in some way.
Ida sat in the same chair while Sofie tiptoed to and fro.
“Is she asleep?” Ida whispered.
“She’s still awake.”
Again, they heard the ticking of the clocks while Sofie lit a solitary candle on which the wax curled up in the form of long threads towards the flame and then fell.
“Is she asleep?” Ida asked again.
“She’s awake.”
They could hear the laboured breathing and a voice mumbling.
“Is she saying something?” Ida asked.
She had got up. She felt hope almost like a thorn in her breast when the night nurse opened the door.
“Has she asked for me?” Ida could scarcely speak.
The night nurse shook her head.
“She is probably not going to ask for anyone any more,” she said.
“She is asleep now.”
They all three stood listening for a moment in front of the silent candle: she was asleep.
“Then I’m going in,” whispered Ida.
Carefully, she took her shoes off and crept in. She looked at her mother’s face for a moment. Then, quietly, she sat down on the floor at the end of her own bed without drawing a breath.
Mrs Brandt did not wake again. She died about midnight.
∞∞∞
It was cold and empty now. From door to door nothing but the white, dead floors. On the walls only patch after patch, above which were rusty nails.
Ida went from room to room for one last time.
“Well then, you’ll close the doors,” she said to Sofie.
Sofie stood with her hand on the latch.
“Yes,” she said, weeping so the tears streamed down her face as she spoke:
“I don’t think I’ve told you…that the upshot is we’ re going to get married…”
“Married? But he has nothing, Sofie.” (Christian from the Mill was becoming more and more hopeless, and now he was out of work all the time.)
“No,” said Sofie, still weeping. “But Hansen’s wanted this for a long time…and then he’s got his three children to look after…”
“Oh,” said Ida, who only now realised that Sofie was not talking about Christian from the Mill; Hansen was a widower; he worked at the gasworks, and he drank.
As though she understood what Ida was thinking, Sofie, continuing to sniff, said:
“And it’s not everyone who can be left to live on their own…”
Ida looked at her. She did not herself know why the tears came to her eyes.
“Then I hope it may bring you happiness,” she said.
Sofie stared ahead through her tearful eyes, and her voice sounded quite different.
“And I’ll be sure of a place to live and a bed to sleep in,” she said. “And one’s got to live.”
She was overcome with tears again, and in despair Ida put her arms around this ageing woman and she, too, wept, though she hardly knew why.
Then, slowly, Sofie closed all the doors, one by one, and left.
She slept at Miss Thøgersen’s that night.
Ida had gone to Olivia’s house and had supper there on her last evening.
Now she and Olivia were sitting on the veranda steps, looking in the dusk out towards the Sound and Boller Woods, the outline of which was dark and heavy. They had not spoken. Olivia had simply gently slipped her arm under Ida’s, and they were standing shoulder to shoulder.
Jørgensen’s rocking chair could be heard rocking up and down on the veranda…Rolf, the dog, crept down the steps and lay down at Olivia’s feet.
“So I suppose I’ll be a nurse,” said Ida.
“But why, Ida? You don’t need to.”
Ida looked out over the darkening sound, and her voice sounded very gentle:
“I suppose it’s the only thing I can do.”
Olivia made no reply, and they sat for a while in silence.
“And then I’ll be of some use to someone.”
Ida suddenly thought of Sofie and, still in the same tone, said:
“Now Sofie is going to get married.”
“To Christian?” Olivia asked, suddenly in a louder voice.
“No, to Hansen from the gasworks.”
“Oh, good Lord,” said Olivia. “Is she going to have him to fight with now?”
“Yes,” said Ida with a half smile. “I don’t think she can live without something like that.”
They fell silent again and could hear nothing but the dog’s deep breathing as it lay at their feet.
“How quiet Rolf is.”
“Yes.”
They were both whispering. Not a leaf stirred in the darkening garden.
“It’s as though everything knew you were going away.”
They sat motionless. But Olivia felt a couple of tears fall on her hand in the dark.
“Let’s go up to the children,” said Ida.
They stood for a moment more, looking out over the still garden. Then they went in.
Ida ran in first into her own room; then they crept up to the sleeping children. The lamp was burning low beneath the ceiling and the maid sat knitting in a corner.
“How sweet they are,” said Olivia.
Ida said nothing, but she lingered for a long time by each of the white beds.
“What are you doing now?” whispered Olivia.
Ida put a small sealed package down under each pillow.
“You do nothing but give things,” said Olivia.
Ida stood in front of Dumpling’s bed.
“If only I had someone to give to,” she said.
They came down into the sitting room and Olivia told Fritz about the parcels.
“I must be allowed to do that,” said Ida. “It’s my last evening.”
“Oh yes, I suppose so,” said Olivia with a laugh. “But if you fall in love one day, my dear, you’ll give him everything down to your last stitch.”
Olivia had gone up with Ida and came back to the quiet sitting room. She and Fritz sat in silence,
each in their own chair, in front of the white stove.
“Oh,” said Olivia, “if only Ida could be made happy.”
Fritz sat for a time looking at the smoke from his cigar and said:
“I don’t think she ever will be.”
Olivia seemed to ponder this.
“But why?” she asked.
“Because she will never learn to seek her own happiness,” said Fritz.
“No.”
There was silence again before Olivia said in a voice that betrayed much emotion:
“Do you realise how grateful happy people should really be?”
Fritz merely nodded. But, as though the words were coming from deep down inside her, Olivia said:
“And then death comes even so.”
∞∞∞
The following afternoon, Ida left on the steamer.
Darkness was beginning to fall – the first day in Copenhagen. Ida had wandered around among unfamiliar things and had sat at table among unfamiliar people. Now she went out, across squares and along streets. She wanted to see a ship, the Brage, which was to sail back home again.
She walked along the quayside, where ships lay side by side. There it was, at the far end. She stood there and looked at it, the big hull and the masts and the cabin doors that were all closed. It was going home to sail the waters over there.
The windlasses were working and there were still people working in the holds. They were going to go along the shore and past the woods and all those lovely meadows.
And Karen would stand there watching for the ship and raise the ladies’ flag above the white bathing hut.
Ida stood there for a long time. She hid herself, beneath the eaves of the big warehouse. There, it was dark.
∞∞∞
Ida was tossing about in her bed. One moment, she was dreaming and the next she was awake.
The doors were opened and slammed. The porters were bringing patients.
Two long shouts from “the noisy ward” resounded throughout the building and then the doors closed.
Half awake, Ida heard the porters’ footsteps and the cries of the difficult patients, as though they were coming from far, far below, from deep down beneath the earth.
II
“Come along, Holm, get those hands of yours washed.”
The four patients in the main ward, known as the Hall, were out of bed and standing in the anteroom, each in front of a bowl of water. Josefine put the breakfast down and tapped Holm cheerfully over both his wrists so that his wrinkled hands flew down into the water.