by Herman Bang
“Aye, we do indeed,” said Sørensen.
Mr Jensen made no reply. He was picking his teeth.
∞∞∞
Ida pretended to be asleep while looking from Nurse Roed in front of the mirror to the alarm clock in front of her bed through eyelids that were only a quarter open. She moved her feet gently up and down beneath the blankets. She could not lie still.
But Nurse Roed had her overcoat on at last and Ida pretended to be just waking up.
“Are you off to your sister’ s?” she said.
“Yes.” That was where Nurse Roed was going. She always went to visit her sister, who was married to a clerk on the railways. They were the only people she knew in town, and in addition there was plenty she could do to help them, looking after their three children.
Ida suddenly had a picture of them, Nurse Roed and Mrs Hansen, as they sat sewing at home on the fourth floor in Rømersgade beneath the lamp in the living room, where the easy chairs – the backs of which were becoming worn – were covered with so many small pieces of embroidery and she suddenly laughed.
“What are you laughing at?” asked Nurse Roed.
“Oh, just something I thought of.”
But suddenly, Ida threw the blankets aside and put her bare feet on the floor.
“Oh,” she said, “wait a moment.” And she ran in her nightdress across to the dresser:
“I have something for the children.” And standing in front of the open dresser so that Nurse Roed should not see the parcels and flowers in it, she tipped some French cakes out of a bag.
“They’ re so good,” she said happily, putting one into Nurse Roed’s mouth before jumping back into her bed.
“You always think of other people,” said Nurse Roed.
But Ida simply laughed.
“No, I think of myself.” And she lay looking up at the ceiling.
She heard Nurse Roed go down the stairs, and she got up again and very quietly turned the key twice as though she were afraid anyone might hear her. Then she started to dress as quickly as she could. There was something about her movements that resembled those of a schoolgirl about to carry out some mad scheme. Oh, there was plenty to do. There was a great deal to be seen to.
She pulled the drawers of the dresser out – they were so heavy from all the great number of things in them – and she took the damask cloth out and the old cups; and the silver coffee pot, which was wrapped in paper, she took out of the middle cupboard. There were also the old plates and the branched candlestick, in which she fixed candles; this was where he was to sit with the cigarettes by his place.
Hm, the last time she had put flowers on the table was for Olivia and the boys. Yes, that was in May. Fancy that it was no longer ago than the twentieth of May.
She lit the lamps and made sure the water was boiling. There must be a rose in his glass…
She went back and forth and she stood in front of the table: Yes, he would surely recognise the old things.
She started to listen while laying the colourful bedspreads on the beds. She looked at her alarm clock. It was not time yet and she sat down by the table, in his place, and waited. Someone was coming now, for she heard the door below: but it was only a porter.
Perhaps something had delayed him; perhaps he would not come. She became so convinced that he would not come as she sat there looking from one thing to the other as though she would at least print in her memory how lovely it was.
And as for the candles, she would let them burn, burn right down until they went out.
But the rose – she quietly took that out of his glass.
She had not heard anyone on the stairs when there came a gentle knock on the door, two knocks, in the way young men knock when on military service, and she opened the door.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said.
Karl von Eichbaum more or less tiptoed in. “I wasn’t seen by anyone at all,” he said.
“But Nurse Helgesen always sits just by her door,” said Ida.
She locked the door – they had automatically both spoken in a half whisper – and Karl took off his coat.
“Well, here we are,” he said as he shook her hand.
“Yes,” said Ida with a laugh: “This is where you are to sit.” She pointed to the big chair.
“It looks like Christmas Eve by Gad,” said Karl, stretching his legs out as he looked at the white table.
“Yes, doesn’t it,” said Ida, who had felt just the same.
“And damn it, there are drinks, too,” said Karl.
Ida poured the coffee in the old cups while Karl simply sat there looking happily at the array and talking about all the old things – the cake dish and the candlesticks. “They took care of their shells at home,” he said.
“Yes, they were on an extension to the table,” said Ida. In her mind she could see the old marble table in Ludvigsbakke with the shells and the fruit bowl from the court auction in Horsens and the two silver cups that were prizes from a couple of agricultural societies.
“But even so, we haven’t any home-made cakes,” she said.
Karl took liberal quantities of what cakes there were, and also of the liqueur. “Yes,” he said, “we helped ourselves to some from Schrøder.” He was thinking of the dented cake tin from Ludvigsbakke. “It’s great fun to go pinching like that.”
“Yes, it was fun,” said Ida, shaking her head, for Karl was looking at her; he always found it so amusing when she did that.
“Did you pinch things at home as well?” asked Karl.
“Yes, quite a lot,” said Ida hurriedly, but suddenly she turned pale.
“How so?” asked Karl.
Ida stared up in the air and then, slowly and quietly, said:
“Because I had to.”
There was silence for a moment.
Then she pulled herself together and raised her glass, and they chinked glasses.
“Cheers,” said Karl. He continued to sit and look at her.
But Ida suddenly became uncomfortable or whatever it was, and she failed to think of anything to say, while Karl, who was perhaps also a little overwhelmed, sat silently, smoking and reading the inscription on the prize coffee pot until he suddenly blurted out:
“Aye, old Brandt liked his coffee.”
They both laughed, and Ida fetched the old pictures. Karl took them and the ice was suddenly broken. He took his glass over to the sofa, and they pointed to the windows, remembering who had lived there, and to the roads, remembering where they led, and to the figures – that was so-and-so and that was so-and-so.
“That’s you, Ida,” said Karl, holding on to the photograph.
“Yes,”
“And there’s the steward,” said Karl.
“Yes, he’s dead now.”
Ida sat looking at the steward, with her head alongside Karl’s.
“He died very suddenly,” she said slowly.
“He shot himself,” said Karl.
“No.”
“Yes he did,” said Karl, continuing to look at the steward’s small face: “Didn’t you know that? It was that wearisome Caroline Begtrup; she refused him. So he went up in the corn loft and shot himself just after setting all the folk to work.”
“So where is she now?”
“She’s married and lives in Næstved,” said Karl, putting down the photograph.
He leant back and wrinkled his nose.
“I suppose it was really a very sensible thing to do,” he said. “For, God help me, there’s not much fun in living.”
Ida looked up into the candles.
“Yes there is,” she said slowly and quietly.
Karl, sitting with his hands in his pockets, nodded after a time towards the candlestick:
“Well, perhaps if you are a gentleman farmer.”
“You can be one,” said Ida, again tossing her head.
“Oh, thank you very much,” Karl sniffed. “How?”
But suddenly his mood changed, and as he took his hands out of
his pockets and rubbed them together, he said:
“It’s rather nice in here, you know.”
Ida was still gazing at the candles:
“But he was such a quiet person.”
“Who?”
“Krog, the steward.”
“Aye,” said Karl and nodded: “but still waters run deep.”
He got up from the sofa to stretch his legs, and he looked around from one piece of furniture to the other.
“There’s the old bureau,” he said. “That’s amazing.”
Ida had tears in her eyes; she did not know why; perhaps it was the tone in which he said this.
“Yes, look,” she said.
And she opened the central section and pulled the old drawers out while he held the candlestick, and she showed him everything in it; she showed him Olivia’s children and heather from the holiday and father’s old account books with the faded writing and so many things, while they went on remembering and talking.
“No, you can’t have that,” she said, quickly taking one book from him; he had put the candlestick down on the flap. “No, that is my album.”
“God help us,” said Karl.
But he wanted to see the book.
“No,” said Ida, holding firmly on to it. “You are not going to. People write so many silly things in them.”
“But surely you can tell me what poem you like best,” he said. It was mainly the fact that she blushed so prettily that amused him.
“Yes…I like this best.”
And she showed him a page at the same time as holding firmly on the other pages; it was Solvejg’s Song. Karl stood by the candlestick and read it.
“Oh, it’s just a woman’s poem,” he said, but then there came something gentler in his voice:
“Why do you like it best?”
“Well, because it’s the most beautiful. But,” she added, “it was a long time ago. I wrote it down from a music book.”
She put the album down, and a small photograph fell out of it. It was Her Ladyship’s old white horse. And they stood and laughed at the time the old circus horse danced in the middle of the street in Horsens because a barrel organ played a tune it knew; and His Lordship could not keep his seat and the barrel organ went on playing and the horse went on dancing in the middle of the street.
“But it had been a splendid animal,” said Karl.
“Now the butter merchant’s been to have a look at the place,” he said a moment later, putting the white horse away.
“Are they going to buy it?” asked Ida.
“They probably will,” said Karl, looking into the candles.
“If only they keep it beautiful,” said Ida and nodded.
“Yes. But no, they probably won’ t.”
She grabbed Karl’s hand. He was rummaging around in everything…They were mother’s rings and her brooches and gold chain and father’s signet ring, and he was poking around in them all.
“Mind the candles,” she said.
The candlestick was rattling on the leaf of the table as she tried to keep hold of his hands.
“Those are the valuables, damn it,” laughed Karl.
“And that is my bank book,” said Ida happily. She held the greyish yellow book in her left hand and gave it a tap with her right. But suddenly she became quite pale and quietly put the book down.
Karl also stood silent for a moment.
“But can I never thank you, Ida?” he then said in a quiet voice.
“No,” was all she said. It could scarcely be heard.
For a moment, Karl had placed both his hands down around her waist. Then he took them away. Ida did not move.
“Sshh…”
They could hear someone on the stairs.
“It’s Nurse Petersen…”
“Put the candles out, put them out.”
Karl managed to extinguish them.
“Brandt, Brandt,” Nurse Petersen called out and knocked on the door.
And Ida replied, from over by her bed, in the dark.
“Yes, yes, I’m awake.”
They heard her go again before Karl whispered, in a rather boyish tone:
“But I can stay a bit longer. We can sit by the stove.”
Ida made no reply; but she sat down in front of the stove door, which Karl had opened. They heard no sound but that of the coal as it gradually fell, while the glow from it came and went over their faces.
“How quiet it is,” said Karl.
“Yes,” said Ida: “They are very quiet today.”
They only spoke in low voices, and then they sat silent again. Karl looked at the fire.
“But you are far too patient, Ida,” he said, looking at the embers.
“How?”
“Well, you could demand far more.”
“How do you mean, demand more?”
They were sitting with their heads stretched half forward, each in just the same way, and the slow words came in the same tone.
“Well, I mean demand more of life,” said Karl.
They fell silent again and heard nothing but the coals collapsing.
“Eichbaum, you will have to go now.”
“Yes,” said Karl: “In a couple of minutes.” He actually never liked to get up from a place where he was sitting.
“Do you know what, Ida?” he said, continuing to look at the coals:
“I really am such a home bird.”
“Yes.” The word came quite softly.
Karl reached out his hand in the dark and took hers.
“Thank you for a lovely evening.”
“And thank you,” she whispered.
She got up and lit the lamps. She was strikingly pale as she did this – a pallor that almost seemed radiant.
Karl got his coat on and she opened the door without making a sound.
“Good night,” whispered Karl and slipped out.
Behind the door, Ida listened to his steps: no, no one was coming and now he was down at the bottom.
She locked the door again. There was the same smile on her face as she opened and closed things and put everything away. But she was not going to extinguish the candles. They could burn; they were to go on burning until after tea.
Then she went down.
Karl was down in the street. His eyes seemed in some curious way to be bigger as he walked along, chewing at his cigar.
“Aye, she’s a nice girl,” he said, nodding his head.
He hardly realised that he went on walking up and down the bit of road that was overlooked by the lighted gable window.
Mrs von Eichbaum, who was working at her bed curtain, quickly got up and called:
“Julius…My son has come home.”
Karl stayed in his own room until it was time for tea. Afterwards, he asked whether they should not have a game of bezique. They were still playing – in a room well filled with cigar smoke – when the general’s wife came across to say good night.
“Oh,” said Mrs von Eichbaum, “do sit down and have a glass of Madeira.”
“Thank you,” said the general’s wife, taking a seat. “I wonder whether that is a good thing so late at night.”
Julius came in with Madeira and French biscuits, and they enjoyed them together under the lamp in the corner of the room.
After Karl and the general’s wife had gone, Mrs von Eichbaum went around opening windows: for smoke was unpleasant when it had been in the room all night.
The following morning, when Ida returned from her walk, Karl was standing on the steps leading up to the office. Ida had almost expected this. She went up a couple of steps and took a rose out of the buttonhole in her coat.
“You should have had that yesterday,” she said.
∞∞∞
Mrs von Eichbaum and the general’s wife took a last look at the Lindholm apartment. The Mourier family were due to arrive by the late morning train.
The sisters inspected the rooms and were satisfied.
“And, my dear,” said Mrs von Eichb
aum, “it is a good thing that we have put away some of the superfluous things.”
The “superfluous things” were certain rather dubious silks that were “draped” in the Lindholm flat and which Mrs von Eichbaum loathed. “Good heavens, you only use that sort of thing to hide a stain,” she said to her sister. “And then it just hangs there and gathers dust.”
The general’s wife nodded.
“Besides,” she said, “fancy having all that in a house with a sick person like Mary.”
Mrs von Eichbaum went into the next room before saying:
“It has been well aired in here.”
“And,” she added, “we are naturally not going to say anything about it.” Mrs von Eichbaum was still thinking of that problem with Mary.
“Good gracious, Mille,” said the general’s wife: “We know what people’s imagination can do for them. And these days, when people simply insist on being ill.”
Kate’s room was behind the small drawing room. It was empty. Miss Kate wanted to have her own furniture. Mrs von Eichbaum stood in the doorway and surveyed the bare walls.
“Well,” she said, “Kate will have to arrange it all to suit herself.”
Julius came and announced that the cab was there.
“Thank you, Julius. And then I suppose Ane will set a table for lunch, with boiled eggs.”
The sisters went down to the porch and climbed into the cab, in which Julius was sitting on the box, wearing a top hat with a rosette and his own winter overcoat.
When the train drew in to the platform, a rather plump, fair-haired face popped out of a first class compartment. It was Miss Kate.
“There they are,” she said. She had seen the two sisters waving their handkerchiefs exactly on a level with their faces.
Mrs Mourier and Miss Kate came out of the compartment, and hands were shaken and the three old friends kissed each other, all with tears in their eyes.
“Dear Vilhelmine,” said Mrs von Eichbaum: “Just fancy our having you here now.”
Her voice was truly trembling. Mrs von Eichbaum was always so emotional when she encountered “people from her younger days” again.
“And the weather’s been good over the straits,” she said.