by Herman Bang
“And then we’ll be able to go over there in the summer again,” said Karl. “Cheers, Ida.”
“Cheers,” said Ida, still with the same expression on her face.
And Karl, who had put his glass down and stuck his hands into his pockets, said happily:
“But it can be very nice in our capital city, don’t you think?”
They continued to chat happily and as it were came closer to each other. Ida spoke of Olivia and the villa and the Jørgensens – she always did this when she was happy – but suddenly she said:
“Oh, but he had such a loud voice…”
“Who did?”
“The suitor,” she said.
Karl laughed.
“Well, you’ve got to be able to hear him.”
Ida sat staring in front of her.
“Yes, but even so,” she said more gently.
There were not many left out in the main body of the restaurant, and the waiters were whispering to each other over their bills.
Karl sat smiling and looked at the neck of a bottle.
“Have you ever been in love, Ida?” he said.
Ida looked up and shook her head a little sadly.
“No,” she said in a tone that suggested that this was something that had passed her by.
“But” – and her voice trembled a little and she did not herself know why she said it or what she was really thinking of, if it were not the small house in Horsens and its three gloomy rooms.
“But,” she said, looking across the table and trying to smile, “I suppose I have been sad rather often.”
Karl had developed a kindly look in his eyes.
“That’s damned hard to believe,” was all he said.
And they sat silent for a while.
Ida looked out into the main restaurant, where it was half dark and most lights had been extinguished.
“But they’ve all gone,” she said and was afraid.
“Yes,” said Karl, sitting up indolently in his chair: “But we’ re damned well going to have a cup of coffee.”
They were served with it and with liqueurs as well, which Karl poured. He continued to have such a gentle manner and tender voice as they sat there a little longer. But the waiters were beginning to lose patience and extinguished the last gas lamps, so that darkness forced itself in on them. The sole light now was that from the candelabra.
Ida looked at the darkness now closing in on them.
“It’s all over now,” she said.
“It’ll be your turn next time,” said Karl.
“Yes,” said Ida quickly and happily.
“And that must be at home, in your room” said Karl as he helped her on with her coat.
“Oh no,” said Ida with a laugh.
“Why?”
“It’s not allowed.”
Ida continued to laugh, but Karl merely passed her hat to her and said:
“Oh, never mind about that.”
They went out through the hotel reception, and the porter made to close the door after them, when Ida, radiant with delight, said:
“Now, I must…” and put a krone in his hand.
Karl gave a hearty laugh.
“But, for God’s sake, Ida, do you think that is a proper thing to do?”
When they had gone a little further down the street, he offered Ida his arm.
“I suppose I may offer the lady my arm,” he said.
“Yes,” said Ida as she took it, pressing her shoulders a little together. “It’s night now, of course.”
Karl walked up and down in his sitting room, smiling, for a long time before getting up into his big bed. The light was by the bed, and a yellow book lay there. But he did not read.
He simply lay there, looking up at the ceiling and wrinkling his nose.
“No,” he said, profoundly reflective or wondering. “There’s no understanding a woman after all.”
And he stayed there and smiling amidst the smoke from his cigar.
∞∞∞
All was quiet in the block, and Ida went silently up the stairs. When she reached the first floor, she found Nurse Roed standing in front of the open cupboard.
“Good heavens, is it you coming home so late?” she said. “Where have you been, having a picnic?”
Ida suddenly smiled at the word “picnic”. “I’ve been out,” she said and made to continue. She was walking as though she was carrying some wonderful but invisible thing in her hands and wanted to bring it to safety.
“Good night.”
But Nurse Petersen, dressed in elegant fabric slippers for the night, had heard her from behind the door and opened it. There was nothing that interested her as much as a detailed account from someone who had been “out”.
“Ach, is it you,” she said. Her voice assumed a quite special meddlesome quality when she sensed news.
Suddenly, Ida turned Nurse Roed around twice in front of the cupboard. “I’ve been to the theatre,” she said so loudly that her voice suddenly resounded down the corridor and then she ran.
“Sshh, think of the patients,” said Nurse Roed. But the two nurses merely heard Ida laugh up above; and they went in to where their dinner awaited them under the gas lamp.
As they ate, they could hear the deep breathing of the old patients and a few broken words from Bertelsen as he talked in his sleep, as though he was both obstinate and angry. There was the sound of footsteps to and fro in Ward A.
Nurse Petersen went on eating, and in the ward Bertelsen continued to talk in his sleep. Nurse Roed got up to see to him; but as always he lay tossing and turning, with clenched fists.
Ida was up in her room. She set the alarm clock and undressed. She was not really thinking about anything; she simply hummed quietly all the time until she was in bed.
Well, yes, it might be possible for Eichbaum to come for coffee if he could come up very quietly…
Ida’s face radiated delight in the darkness.
But it would have to be a Tuesday when Nurse Roed was off duty…he could quite easily tiptoe up on a Tuesday, very gently.
Ida continued to smile as she thought about it. Then they would be able to use all the old things from “Ludvigs” and see whether he recognised them and set a real table…
Ida fell asleep.
It was midday a few days later. The four had come up from the basement and were walking round and round in the anteroom, alongside the walls as they waited for their meal (Bertelsen had developed a habit of constantly passing his hand over his eyes as though trying to wipe away something that prevented him from seeing). The jingle of keys was heard and Josefine came with the food.
“Good morning everyone,” she said. “Here’s your lunch.”
She went into the kitchen to help Ida with the containers, while Bertelsen ceaselessly washed his hands under the tap.
“It’s a shame about the head clerk,” Josefine then said.
“What is?”
Ida spoke quickly. Josefine always referred to Eichbaum as the head clerk.
“They are after him for one unpaid bill after the other,” said Josefine, “and everyone’s talking about it.”
“Here, in the office?” It sounded as though Ida had something stuck in her throat.
“Yes,” said Josefine, putting down the container. “And the superintendent will be on him like a ton of bricks if it goes on.”
Ida nodded mechanically.
“But of course, it’s those women that are after him; we know all about that,” said Josefine, proceeding to place potatoes on the six plates.
Ida made no reply; she simply went on to serve the food, while Josefine, who had finished her task, stood there with her hands on her hips.
“And he is certainly good looking,” she said, staring ahead reflectively.
Josefine had a sympathetic eye for all male creation. Otherwise, she remained completely faithful to her conductor. She never left a “friend”, and when he went off and she had shed copious tears, she then rema
ined as it were in the same area. It was always a tram conductor. It was simply a different one.
“Yes,” she said, “I know all about it, for Andersen has been a bad one.” (Andersen being the current conductor.) “But now we’ve sorted it out.”
It could not be seen whether Ida was listening, for she simply stood there moving the six plates around.
“Well, and then we went on,” said Josefine.
There were always a few snatches of forbidden tunes, bits of variety songs, rather like a fanfare, when Josefine started.
Ida placed plates on the table in front of each of the four patients: “Now you must have something to eat, Holm,” she said. “Now then, Bertelsen, you just stay where you are and have something to eat.” She helped the two old men to get their food down, bit by bit, and she was finished and had cleared away while having but a single thought.
“That poor man, that poor man.”
Comprehension was never established in her mind all at once, but only slowly and little by little until it grew out of all proportion and was all that was there.
What was to be done?
She served the gentleman in Ward A. He was bent over his never-ending papers, and she heard his “Thank you,” and “Thank you,” as he raised his head and watched her.
Ida went out again and sat down on the chair by the window.
And she had helped him to spend his money.
Her thoughts went no further than this: she had helped him to spend his money. All Josefine’s words rang in her ears again and again, and suddenly she flushed scarlet. There was something she had only now understood. She did not herself know that she was not thinking about money any longer, but only about one thing, merely about that one thing…nevertheless each time skirting round it, skirting round that sentence.
Who had spent his money?
The porter fetched the four for work in the basement, and the old patients dozed in their beds. In Ward A, the gentleman measured the floor with his feet. Occasionally there came a cry from the “noisy” ward.
Ida went to and fro seeing to the old patients and then she returned to her chair until it grew dusk.
Nurse Kjær stuck her boyish head in from the women’s ward.
“Good evening, nurse.
And suddenly Ida said:
“Oh, Nurse Kjær, could you take over for a moment? I would so much like to go upstairs.”
“Yes,” said Nurse Kjær, closing the door, “just for a moment.”
Ida went out, down the steps, through the garden and hurried across the courtyard to the office. Karl was there alone by the desks beneath the gas lamp, with his legs drawn back under the office chair and his chin on his hands; he was whistling.
When he saw her, he raised his head and smiled at her:
“Good evening.”
She asked about something or other – she did not know what – and she suddenly smiled as he went on talking and all at once stretched in the chair reaching up into the air with his arms.
“Heavens above, what a life,” he said.
And Ida laughed.
She went back across the courtyard. She was no longer troubled and she smiled as she walked. All she was thinking was:
“It’s only reasonable that I should help him.”
And she no longer thought of anything else, simply because she had seen him.
When Ida reached the ward, Nurse Kjær was waiting just inside the door.
“The prof’s there,” she whispered.
Ida jumped and was horrified.
“Where?” she whispered.
“In A.”
There was the sound of keys being gently turned, and Nurse Kjær was back in the women’s ward. Ida went around lighting up, hearing the professor’s voice through the door to Ward A, which was standing ajar. She started to tidy everything up ready for the round, at the same time hearing the porter and the four on the stairs and the keys that were turned in the lock.
“The consultant’s here,” she whispered to the porter, and the four patients, who heard her, crossed over timidly and sat down on the stools beside their beds, while a voice from the women’s ward could suddenly be heard wailing.
Ida was standing in front of the stove when the door to Ward A opened. The professor remained on the threshold, slim and straight, in his long, black coat.
“Yes, just continue, doctor,” he said, closing the door behind him… “Let the patient do as he wishes. And you can turn the gas down at night.”
There was as it were no colour in his voice, and he scarcely opened his lips to speak as though it were a matter of keeping them as tight closed as possible around his white teeth and many secrets.
“Yes, professor.”
He stood for a moment on the threshold to the Hall, while Bertelsen’s eyes glinted as they wandered over his face.
“Nothing new,” he said, moving on silently, in through the door to the women’s ward. But one of the old men lying there in his bed started to complain, as he always did during the professor’s rounds.
Ida went across and knocked on Nurse Petersen’s door to waken her. Dr Quam had come in, but she had not heard him.
“Where’s the professor?” he asked hurriedly.
“He went in to the women’s ward,” replied Ida, who was on her way to the Hall.
Quam was ready to rush across, but he nevertheless stood there for a moment and looked at Ida.
“Is it your birthday again today?” he asked.
Ida laughed:
“No, why?”
“Well you look so cheerful,” he said. He was already half way into the women’s ward. The woman’s cry from before emerged clearly through the open door.
“Nurse Petersen, Nurse Petersen,” Ida shouted.
She turned round; Bertelsen had his hands under the tap again.
“Come on, Bertelsen,” she said, taking him by both wrists and waggling them as though she was shaking hands with him: “You are washed clean now.”
And as she continued to shake the sick man’s wet, red wrists for a moment, she thought with a smile:
“Poor Karl, he tried not to let me see that he was upset.”
They were becoming more and more restless in the women’s ward. Cry after cry, as though the cries were calling to each other and washing up against the closed door.
Nurse Petersen, who had emerged from her bower, put her head into the kitchen.
“Ach, how restless they are,” she said. “But we have a change in the weather.”
Nurse Petersen’s feet were as good as a barometer when there was a change in the weather.
But after tea, Ida ran across to the post office with a registered letter for Mr Karl von Eichbaum.
It was Ida’s last day on day duty.
Nurse Helgesen went through the ward checking; she had a look in her eye all the time as though she were adding something or other to a list.
“Will you take this report across?” she said to Ida.
“Yes,” replied Ida. All the blood drained from her face.
“I have to stay here,” said Nurse Helgesen, sitting down.
So Ida had to go across to the office. Her keys seemed to be reluctant to go into all the locks, and she failed to notice the ward sister nodding from her window. It was as though she had been overcome by fear the minute it had been sent yesterday. As soon as she emerged from the entrance to the post office, where she had been so delighted, so happy, as the postman sealed the letter and entered it and gave her a receipt and everything, she had been overcome by dread: suppose he was angry, suppose he was only angry? And she had not slept that night as the thought grew and grew in her mind: that he would be angry. But she ought probably to have written to him, to have said something and explained. But she had not been able to write. She had not been able to do it.
But perhaps he was angry now.
She went across the courtyard and in through the entrance and up the stairs. She immediately saw his face by the door; he loo
ked pale. But when he saw her, he turned scarlet.
“I have a report,” she said.
And he bent down towards her.
“It’s simply damned incredible,” he murmured in a voice that was a little broken.
“Thank you.”
Ida drew her breath and made to go, but when they were outside the door – for he had followed her – she said (to help him over it or to comfort him; the thought of saying it had never entered her mind a second before):
“Now we’ll have a cup of coffee on Tuesday.”
It was as though Eichbaum winced. But pursing his lips, he said:
“I’ d rather have tea.”
Ida laughed:
“No,” she said, still in the same hurried voice. “It’s going to be coffee, and we are going to use the old pot.”
And then she ran.
No, no, he was not angry.
Oh no, he had understood her.
Karl von Eichbaum went over to Svendsen’s for lunch. He whistled as he went along the street; but there was nevertheless something, as though he could not really bring himself to think of the money or of the fact that he could now distribute it to plug the worst holes. And he also had something of an unpleasant feeling in his fingers at the mere thought of the envelope containing it.
But when he came to pay, he quickly took one from the bundle of large notes in order to change it.
Jensen, the waiter, stood there, half bowing in front of the envelope.
“Do you wish to pay it all, sir?” he said in a low voice down towards the sofa.
But Mr von Eichbaum did not reply. He had, as though timidly, taken out a card from among the notes. Ida was all that was printed on it and then there was a small picture of Ludvigsbakke in the corner.
Karl von Eichbaum continued to sit there with the card in his hand.
When lunch was over, both Svendsen’s right-hand men, Messrs. Jensen and Sørensen, stood there each leaning on his own doorpost.
“There you see, Sørensen,” (Mr Jensen spoke through his nose, which he considered a mark of distinction in the trade), “that I got the money. That sort of people always find a way out. We know that from d’ Angleterre.”
In the days when he was slimmer, Mr Jensen had been the wine waiter in the a-la-carte restaurant in the Hotel d’ Angleterre.