Ida Brandt

by Herman Bang

  “Oh, it’s a business meeting.”

  And then he went. “I am not particularly interested in ‘members’ ” was his usual comment.

  Nurse Boserup continued with her pronouncements. She spoke about Brandt and could not deny that she was really amazed.

  “When all is said and done,” she said, “she is one of us.”

  Sister Koch sat smoking her cigar. She smoked like an old seaman, and she had taken her glasses off while sitting there staring up in the air with her kindly, grey eyes.

  “Aye, God help her,” she said.

  “But,” Nurse Boserup said, “she will obviously join us later.”

  “Yes, probably,” said Sister Koch.

  And she continued to sit there and watch the smoke from her fat cigar appear and disperse and fade away.

  Josefine could never get away again in the mornings when she brought the breakfast. She talked the hind leg off a donkey. “For Nurse Brandt,” she said, “is a nurse you can talk to.” Josefine herself talked constantly, and her sole subject was Andersen.

  She was standing by the kitchen table beside Ida and had poured out her entire heart to her.

  “For oh, nurse,” she said, staring fixedly at the wall, “he’s got such lovely skin.”

  Josefine remained standing.

  “All over,” she concluded.

  Then she turned and went.

  It was Saturday afternoon.

  Nurse Krohn from the women’s ward, who was off duty because of a cold, was sitting upstairs near the men’s ward, as Ida was in the kitchen. She was the best at preparing food.

  There was a fire burning in the kitchen in the basement, and it was warm. Josefine, busy making pastries, was spreading egg white on them with a feather, and Ida was so eagerly whipping the yokes for the pudding that she was out of breath.

  Josefine was talking about her mother in Holbæk, where they used to make bread every Sunday.

  Over in the basement corridor, where the four were at work, there was the sound of Bertelsen’s saw as it bit into the firewood.

  “And very good it was, too,” said Josefine, referring to the splendid bread in Holbæk.

  Ida went on beating, the metal clacking against the sides of the bowl.

  “Be careful, they’ re burning,” she said, and Josefine got the oven door open and moved and rearranged the pastries.

  Ida rose and looked at them; such a lovely smell was rising from the browned cakes.

  “We kneaded all the dough at Ludvigsbakke. Everything,” she said with a laugh; “just Schrøder and I.”

  It was on summer mornings that Schrøder and she baked on their own; everyone else was asleep, and the windows were open to the dew-drenched fields. Then a long line of farmhands would come out of the farm gate and the steward would come across and say, “Good morning”, and be given his coffee and freshly baked bread as he sat on the bench.

  “And there was plenty of it,” said Ida. She could not find bags that were big enough and deep enough.

  “Oh,” said Josefine, “I suppose they get fed here as well.”

  The door went. The nurses were coming off duty and came in to have a look. “Fingers off,” said Ida, tapping Nurse Kjær’s fingers. Boserup was over by the kitchen table, eyeing the food. She was given a little handful of blanched almonds in her back pocket before going.

  “Be careful of the door,” said Ida. “Watch out for the doctors.”

  The warm steam spread right up into the corridors.

  All went quiet in the kitchen, while Bertelsen’s saw could be heard as it cut through the large pile of firewood.

  “Josefine,” said Ida, “I’m going to give them some cakes in there after all.” And she quickly put some pastries on a plate and popped down the corridor, into the basement, where three old men sat weaving mats quite automatically, as though they did not themselves know what they were doing, while Sørensen, the porter, sat leaning sleepily against a wall and Bertelsen eagerly and haphazardly sawed away through his firewood.

  “Look what I’ve brought,” said Ida, placing three buns on each of the mats, quickly, as though she had stolen them.

  “Here you are, Bertelsen.”

  “These are for you, Sørensen.” And she handed him the plate.

  A voice was heard behind her:

  “What’s this?”

  It was Quam, standing in the doorway.

  “They are cakes.” Ida gave a start and hurried past him.

  But Quam followed her into the kitchen. “Oh, it’s like Sunday in here,” he said, sitting down by the chimney.

  “No, it’s Saturday,” laughed Ida.

  Quam also had a pastry and sat watching.

  “Do you know what, Nurse Brandt,” he said. “I really like you, you know.”

  Ida had finished in the kitchen. But Nurse Krohn nevertheless had to stay there for the whole of her time on duty: for there were a couple of things Ida had to go out and buy. Twilight was already gathering as she happily hurried across the courtyard. There she met Eichbaum, but she merely smiled at him and ran past.

  “I’m in such a hurry,” she said and hurried on.

  Karl stood there and watched her. He had not spoken to her since that evening, and he did not really know how things stood.

  But down by the gate Ida turned round and smiled, showing him her purse and shaking it.

  Quam had just come out of the middle gate and stood watching Ida with his hands in his trouser pockets.

  “Do you know,” he said to Karl, “she’ d be a damned nice wife to have in a country practice.”

  “You could ask her,” said Karl, who had suddenly started juggling with his bunch of keys.

  “Yes,” said Quam reflectively, “but I would never have a wife with money even so.”

  Karl simply laughed and threw his bunch of keys up in the air.

  “We’ll have to see about that,” he said and went in through the door.

  He did not himself know how he ended in the basement kitchen together with Josefine, who was clearing up.

  “It’s lovely and warm in here,” he said, stretching his legs and looking around at all the food that Ida had been frying.

  Ida had taken a cab. There were more and more things that had to be bought for Nurse Helgesen’s birthday. She was going to give her six bottles of really good wine in addition to that tray for visiting cards.

  She could do that if she decorated the basket with flowers. And as for the flowers, they could use them on the table then, for there must be lots of flowers and plenty of light.

  ∞∞∞

  It was Sunday evening, after dinner, at the home of the general’s wife.

  When Karl came back from his walk, Julius was just bringing in the tea urn.

  A quiet game of whist was being played at two tables, while Miss Kate looked on with rather heavy eyes, sitting in the corner of a sofa together with Miss Fanny Schleppegrell, a lady with a very pronounced lower jaw, who was preparing to be a lady-in-waiting at court.

  Karl sat down beside them, and Miss Schleppegrell asked whether it was still snowing. That everlasting slush made an appalling mess of one’s shoes.

  Kate suddenly said to Karl: “Do you know, I always imagined you to be quite different.”

  “Really?” said Karl without any real interest.

  “Yes,” said Kate. “I had quite honestly expected you to be much more fun.”

  She sat for a while and looked at the two whist tables and their eager players, and then she said:

  “Does this go on every Sunday?”

  Karl burst out laughing, so they both laughed together.

  Julius announced that the tea was ready, but the general’s wife said:

  “We are expecting the admiral.”

  After coffee, Admiral Schleppegrell went to the Atheneum by way of Østergade, going there and back a couple of times and not arriving back on board before the exact time arranged.

  But Julius said:

  �
�The admiral is in the entrance hall.”

  They left the whist tables and in the midst of the discussion on the games Mrs Schleppegrell, who always spoke in a tone resembling a descant, was heard to say to Mrs Mourier:

  “Good heavens, Vilhelmine, do you call that going to a lot of trouble? One always writes one’s orders short and to the point on a postcard.”

  The admiral’s wife was talking about Printemps.

  The sound of a voice saying good evening could be heard at the sitting room door, and the admiral, who was standing there rubbing his hands after his walk, said:

  “They say that Madame Aline is in a terrible mess now.”

  “Good heavens, Schleppegrell, how?” The general’s wife took a couple of steps towards him.

  “Well, Vedel told me that the chap has deserted her and she’s left behind there.”

  Mrs von Eichbaum – in the ensuing moment’s silence – put her hands to her eyes.

  “Oh, poor thing,” she said quietly.

  “Yes,” said the admiral, offering his arm to Mrs Mourier. “That’s what Vedel said, too.”

  They started to go to table while, in the midst of the noise from the chairs, Mrs Schleppegrell was heard to say in her rather shrill voice:

  “Yes, that is just like a man.”

  And Karl, pushing chairs forward for Miss Fanny and Kate, murmured:

  “You have to blame the men, of course.”

  Kate, who heard this, started to laugh, and Karl said:

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “Hm,” said Kate, tossing her head a little, “I simply thought that it must have been six of one and half a dozen of the other.”

  Up at the other end of the table, Mrs Schleppegrell continued to talk across the table in an eager but subdued voice until Mrs Mourier, who was drinking tea from a cup intended for use in an office, said:

  “Well, it is no good denying it, Anna; Mourier is right: most people simply take what they can get.”

  The admiral laughed and said: “There’s something in that, by Gad” and the general’s wife, sitting facing Kate and Miss Fanny, by whose place there was a bottle of tuberculin-tested milk, said:

  “Yes, I think, of course that…”

  But Mrs von Eichbaum, who was still very upset and had tears in her eyes, ignored her sister and said in a voice as though she was taking a decision:

  “But she cannot be left down there.”

  Mrs Schleppegrell gave a start and turned her head in a manner rather reminiscent of a wagtail, saying:

  “Well then, but may I ask then where she should go? You surely can’t imagine her coming home?”

  Mrs von Eichbaum said slowly:

  “I suppose that is something we shall have to think about. We all know Aline after all, when she is herself.”

  There was silence, and the admiral said: “Aye, it’s a dreadful business,” while Mrs Mourier, nodding vehemently, twice, down at her silken breast, said, in the direction of Mrs von Eichbaum, almost by way of a confession:

  “I am fond of her.”

  And a further torrent of words could be heard coming from Mrs Schleppegrell. “Good heavens, you know perfectly well, Vilhelmine, that I don’t throw stones.”

  Karl sat with his head a little on one side and looking over at his mother; there was something resembling a twinkle in his eyes.

  When they had risen from table, Mrs Mourier found herself standing by Mrs von Eichbaum.

  “You are the same as you always were,” she said, firmly gripping her hand in both of hers.

  “Dear Vilhelmine,” said Mrs von Eichbaum: “One simply has to rally round. And if no one else will go, then I will.”

  Karl was standing behind his mother and he touched her shoulder with his moustache, almost as though he was caressing her.

  “That was a lovely meal,” he said in a quiet voice.

  Mrs Schleppegrell also came across: “Emilie,” she said, “I hope you won’t misunderstand. You know perfectly well that if she were to come…”

  “Anna, everything of that kind,” said Mrs von Eichbaum, “dies down again provided no one talks about it.”

  Karl was in the dining room. He had suddenly found himself in wonderfully high spirits and had performed card tricks for Kate and Miss Fanny. Then he projected the cards on to the table in a double stream.

  “Can you do that?” he said.

  Kate took the cards and said:

  “You are in high spirits today.”

  “Yes,” said Karl, looking her straight in the eye while clapping one hand against the other: “because I’m going out with a lady tomorrow.”

  The Schleppegrell family went home after leaving Mrs Mourier and Kate at their door. The admiral’s wife walked in front with Fanny. They were discussing Kate.

  “Yes, Fanny,” said the admiral’s wife, “but in your place I would nevertheless take the opportunity to speak French. The girl has been in Lausanne for two years after all.”

  “Schleppegrell,” she said, gathering her skirts about her as she stopped, “the ducks came from Malle Bardenfleth at Vallø.”

  Mrs von Eichbaum and Karl had arrived home, and Karl stood in the doorway to the living room.

  “You know, Karl,” said Mrs von Eichbaum, “Kate’s a sweet girl, but she seems to me to be just a little restive.”

  “I think she’s rather amusing,” said Karl, tugging at his moustache.

  “Yes, but she must be given a little polish.”

  Mrs von Eichbaum made quite a small dismissive gesture with her hand.

  “She has quite an idiosyncratic way of sitting down on a chair and so on. But that reminds me of Mourier, with his rather daring ideas.”

  Mrs von Eichbaum covered her lace pillow over, saying:

  “I suppose little Ida Brandt is not free on Tuesday?”

  “No, they are only let out every third week.”

  “That is a pity,” said Mrs von Eichbaum.

  Karl went.

  Mrs von Eichbaum pottered around for some time before putting out the light and going inside. She had obviously forgotten to shut the door between the living room and the sitting room. She had done this more frequently recently.

  At home, Mrs Mourier and Kate had enjoyed a snack in their dining room.

  “Heaven preserve us, we surely don’t need to go there more than once a month.”

  Mrs Mourier made no reply, but Kate said:

  “Oh, I suppose he’s the best of them though. You can get to know something from him.”

  She was referring to Karl.

  Kate gave her mother a goodnight kiss and went to join Victoria.

  The following morning a telegram arrived from Mourier to tell them that he had bought Ludvigsbakke. Mrs von Eichbaum, who was going shopping with Vilhelmine, came just as Mrs Mourier and Kate were about to have lunch. She was not otherwise keen on eating in their apartment on account of the dogs.

  “You know,” she said to the general’s wife, “one can never eat in peace with those animals around.”

  But today she stayed on account of the news.

  “Well,” said Kate, “so now it’s been decided. But Engelholm would undoubtedly have been grander.”

  Nevertheless, Kate thought they should celebrate the event and she had Victoria fetch a bottle of the burgundy that had been stored in the cellar at home in Aarhus since her baptism.

  The three ladies chinked glasses.

  “Yes,” said Mrs von Eichbaum: “Congratulations, Vilhelmine, congratulations.”

  Kate held her glass out.

  “I suppose I shall be given the farm.” She emptied her glass and went on.

  “But at least we can have a couple of fillies over here, for the livestock is included.”

  “A couple, Kate?”

  “Yes, I shall have to have someone to ride with me,” said Kate. “I suppose Karl can do that when we get the horses.”

  “Yes, if only he had time for it from the office,” said Mrs von Eic
hbaum.

  Kate drank another glass of burgundy, to the arrival of the fillies.

  ∞∞∞

  Monday evening arrived.

  The nurses who had been on day duty had their party dresses spread out on their beds. But Ida, who had put candles in the candlesticks in Nurse Helgesen’s room, had a lot to see to and was running up and down. There was always more with which to decorate Nurse Helgesen’s table: plates and vases and three glass bowls and everything came out of the bureau as though from a magician’s hat. There were also the five small lamps, which could be lit among the flowers. Ida brought them down and arranged them.

  Nurse Helgesen, who was wearing a grey dress with a matt silk cape, said:

  “Thank you, Brandt, thank you, well, in a way I suppose this is a joint effort.”

  “It’s simply lovely that we can use them,” said Ida, smiling and doing the arrangement. She needed some flowers now, to be arranged around each pudding dish.

  “It’s going to be lovely,” said Ida, taking a step back to view it all. All the old silver shone so beautifully and it was so long since it had last been used.

  Nurse Helgesen, out of a desire to set her eyes on something that was hers, extracted the crown-decorated card that had been inserted in the moss and commented:

  “This tree from Mr von Eichbaum is quite a rarity.”

  Karl von Eichbaum’s “Gloire de Dijon” stood proudly at the centre of the table. Nurse Helgesen had already protected each of the yellow flowers with small white paper trimmings.

  “Yes,” said Ida as she examined one of the yellow buds, “it’s beautiful.”

  “But what time is it?” she said suddenly. All the nurses’ presents were to be moved from the birthday table over to one end of the dining table. Nurse Helgesen took them across, and Ida arranged them. They formed a whole ring of plants and flowers around Nurse Helgesen’s place.

  “Those from Kjær are beautiful,” said Ida.

  “Everyone has been so kind,” said Nurse Helgesen, who, as hostess, began to be all flustered and no longer really saw anything, but she said:

  “Do you think there will be enough chairs?”

  “We’ll bring them down,” said Ida, continuing to arrange things. Nurse Boserup had contributed a bleeding heart, a plant with a rather unpleasant smell that looked as though it had been taken up from a larger flowerbed and put in a pot that very morning.