Ida Brandt

by Herman Bang

  When Ida was on her way upstairs, she met Nurse Boserup.

  “I suppose you’ll be resigning,” said Boserup.

  Ida had simply not thought of that.

  “Oh,” said Boserup: “Thank goodness, it will be some time before you go. Jørgensen set about furnishing a flat a whole year before she got married as well.”

  Ida flushed suddenly. Then she turned quite pale.

  “I suppose I can be allowed to furnish my own place to live in,” she said. She had never spoken so harshly before, and she did not herself know why she did so now.

  But when Boserup got down into the dining room, she said:

  “Good Lord: don’t talk to Brandt about the flat. That little dove has claws as well.”

  “But when you can afford to rent a flat and furnish it with leather upholstery, you oughtn’t to do others out of a job.”

  Øverud said in her Funen lilt:

  “Leather upholstery, that’s what they had in the smoking room at Broholm. It looked so nice and it was so cool to sit on after a meal.”

  Ida had lit the lamp up in her room. She did not herself know why all this sense of nervousness and anxiety had come over her. But suddenly, she started to write to Karl:

  “But you must not be angry, you hear, you must not because of you know what. I simply became so afraid, as I am sure you can understand. But I only want the same as you do all the time: do you not realise that? And it was only because I felt as though your mother was there all the time. But you must not be angry, my own, own dear, surely you will not?”

  Karl was putting his riding breeches on when Julius came with the letter the following morning.

  He stood for a moment and looked at it, wrinkling his nose a little before opening and reading it, still with the same expression on his face. Then he dressed. But when he had finished and come down into the street, he smacked his whip against his thigh:

  “Women damned well always think about things for such a ridiculously long time.”

  Kate was already in the saddle when he arrived.

  “Nom d’ un chien,” she said, “vous n’ êtes pas matinal.”

  Karl pursed his lips:

  “I’ve been reading some business letters,” he said, putting his foot in the stirrup.

  Kate waved her whip up at her mother. Mrs Mourier always came to the window in a dressing gown to watch “the two young ones” ride off.

  ∞∞∞

  It was Wednesday after lunch, and the general’s wife wrote to her sister, Mrs von Eichbaum:

  Dear Emilie,

  I am writing because it is my turn and we have agreed that I should write on Wednesdays. For nothing has happened here apart, naturally, from the fact that we miss you with all our hearts, Mille. Your house has been cleaned throughout and only awaits you and your return (the hyacinths between the windows are in flower; two of them are red, although Asmussen had promised faithfully that they would all be blue, but actually it is quite a pretty colour, as I told him when I ordered flowers for the birthday reception at the Schleppegrells). It was really very pleasant (we were given maraschino mousse, you know, but it was not a success, Anna is always keen to try new recipes), although there were not enough seats for all of us. The young people left when the time came for the desert – Karl was with Kate – and partook of the sweet mousse in the cabinet. Unfortunately, I do not think that Fanny has any good prospects. Miss Juel told me the other day at the Reverend Jørgensen’s lectures (he has finished with Baggesen, and, fancy, he spoke for three quarters of an hour about Sofie Ørsted, something that was rather superfluous for us who are related to her, as we know better) that the princess in all probability is not to have a lady-in-waiting. The fact of the matter is presumably that they expect the Prince of Saxony to marry her soon, which would make it all superfluous. Moreover, it is natural that they wish to economise. Now Anna is talking of the possibility that Fanny might learn massage. It is only a question of strength in her arms, and they say she has that in spite of her stomach, which continues to be a problem to her. The best thing would naturally be if Skeel finally married her. I suppose Karl will have written to you. I do not see much of him, but hear him in the house at his good, regular hours. Dear Mille, it is as I have always said, that if he started on a fixed routine, the family calm would descend on him. We are not, thank God, capricious by nature. He and Kate go for a long ride every morning now across the bridge (it seems to me that she grows quieter and quieter and more and more like Vilhelmine) and converse a great deal in French: they have all their memories in common from Lausanne. We have reached Chateaubriand in the French lectures. It is very interesting, but he must have been a restless creature. Vilhelmine is reading “Attila” now. You know how thorough she is. As soon as the spring puts in an appearance, they are going to start on the main building at Ludvigsbakke. Karl and Kate are for ever changing the plans together, but the house will be lovely (Mr Schmidt from Aarhus, you know, who was here for the birthday, also told me that Mourier earns a couple of barrels of gold each year now) with bathrooms like those in Aix-les-Bains. Little Brandt is said to have been here the other day to ask whether she should see to your flowers. It was very thoughtful of her, but quite superfluous to my mind for that is what we have Ane for. Ane said she looked drawn and strangely old. But I suppose she will soon be at the age when young girls become old maids. There has been some smoke in the kitchen, so I finally sent for Petersen (he had just got a grandson, so I had him inside for a glass of Madeira), but he said it was the weather, so there was nothing to be done about it. Give my love to Aline; it is a pity she has problems with her legs. Bruun (who looks worn out, poor man, he is terribly busy in his practice) says that it must be some sort of paralysis and that is not surprising. Good heavens, my dear, just fancy people of that age exposing themselves to all those emotions. All here send their love.

  Your loyal sister

  Lotte

  P.S. The other day, Vilhelmine brought us a picture of Kate and herself – framed, lovely and with their signatures. For the moment I have put it on the big étagère. Kate is lovely, with her slender figure. It was taken at Hansen’s, as I suggested. For Fanny was taken somewhere else recently, and it was awful. I think Anna is looking forward to the chocolate.

  Mrs von Eichbaum answered on the Saturday:

  Dear Charlotte,

  Thank you for your letter and all that delightful news. All goes fairly well here (I will not deny that I am longing to be home in my quiet surroundings), but for Aline’s sake we shall probably remain here until the end of the month, for I believe after all that it is best she should only come home when she is completely in a state of balance. Her legs are a little better (Dr. Brouardel, a really clever doctor, who has also given me a kind of ointment or something to combat dry hands, to be applied morning and evening, says that it is a weakness in her knees) though not entirely right; it is as though they will not really carry her, although she has become much thinner. When the sun shines, however, we regularly sit on the terrace in the morning to enjoy the fresh air. We naturally never talk about the person concerned or, you will understand, anything at all about how it all happened. That sort of thing is something you have to struggle with on your own. The maid says that madam often weeps in the mornings, something I pretend not to notice. If she is weeping, it is best she should carry on undisturbed. You know I am of the opinion that people often grow tired of weeping if no one sees them. But I imagine we shall be leaving in a fortnight, and after a few days Aline will go home to the estate. And when she has been home for a month or so, she will come to town, quite quietly, just as she usually does in the spring. But it would naturally be best not to talk about all this. Here in the hotel they still think that she is having follow-up treatment after Vichy, as I told them immediately on our arrival. Vilhelmine wrote to me (I also had a letter from Anna, she is often rather a bother when one is travelling with the many tasks she wants one to perform; that Fanny did not become a lady-in-waiting c
ame as no surprise to me, they do not take them so young out of consideration for the impression it would make) and was full of praise for Karl. It gives me great delight that he can be something for Mine and Kate, as she wrote, provided he does not neglect his office. One thing I would ask you is that for heaven’s sake you will make sure the apartment is still well aired. They would never forgive me if they caught as much as bronchitis. You know that when one is away one can get ideas that tend to disturb one’s peace of mind (and being together with Aline every day does not leave one’s nerves untouched) and I can wake up in the night perspiring at the thought that there can have been any infection left after Mary. One can never open a newspaper nowadays without reading something about these bacilli. Karl writes that little Brandt has rented a flat outside the hospital. It is my opinion that she ought to have been content with a room; she has somewhere to live, and she has not been used to more.. But that must be up to her if that is what she wants (she has rented a flat in Ole Suhrsgade; you know the apartments from visits to the adoption society, three rooms with parti-coloured wallpaper on the walls) for one must never interfere in other people’s affairs. It struck me, Lotte, that if you saw her you could perhaps ask her about some effective disinfectant. She must know about such things, as she works in the hospital. And the thought of infection gives me no peace, and I worry in case that healthy family could be struck by any kind of infection. I would like you one day when you have time to take my savings bank book (it is in the desk drawer opposite the window) and draw a hundred and fifty kroner to give to Karl. It naturally costs him something to look after Vilhelmine, who gives no thought to money, and things are not expensive down here if you live reasonably economically. In order to make sure she does not forget, would you ask Ane to cover the furniture in the cabinet with a couple of sheets.. Pressed velvet fades so easily in the sun now that it is beginning to shine on it longer (it is almost spring here with violets in the street) from the south, as it does. Thank Vilhelmine for the picture – indeed, Kate has quite the same figure as her mother did when she was a young woman. Aline sends her best wishes, and I send mine to all.

  Your devoted sister

  Mille

  P.S. If you should see Bruun, perhaps you would ask him whether there could be any question of infection, as the walls are all painted in oil paint. I have been to the Reformed Church. The language was beautiful, but the sermon I thought was bombastic and without the firm, religious train of thought and the solid construction we expect of Petri. Nevertheless, it was a delight, as I say, because of the language. Ask Karl whether he is taking care not to catch cold after riding, as can so easily happen. Anna will be receiving a consignment of the chocolate we drink here every morning. It goes further than that from Cloetta.

  ∞∞∞

  Ida slipped through the corridor in the Rørholm Café; quickly, she dodged into the private room; her shoulders were strangely narrow.

  No, he was not there – not yet.

  The lady at the counter, still wearing a net over her hair, had seen her come along the corridor:

  “Hm, you can bring it all back again now, Ellingsen,” she said.

  Mr Ellingsen made no reply. He never indulged in staff conversations, but he had today and for the future decided only to set the table when “the gentleman” had arrived.

  “It doesn’t really matter in any case whether he comes or not: we’ re sure of the money,” said the lady at the counter in a shrill voice as Ellingsen went past with a table cloth. In the corridor he encountered a young couple who were fooling around and laughing. The lady, a chubby woman with red cheeks, banged the flap down on the door opposite Ida’s room.

  “Occupied,” she shouted.

  “Occupied,” said the gentleman, knocking the flap with his walking stick; and the younger waiter, who had already seen them, shouted from the counter:

  “Tea, butter, toast, four soft-boiled eggs…”

  “Six,” shouted the gentleman, and the door banged shut.

  “Six,” the sound was blared out from the counter to the kitchen like a fanfare; while Ellingsen, with a napkin over his arm, opened the door to the private room where Ida hastily hid a couple of small packets under her coat.

  “You are busy here today,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Ellingsen, laying the cloth on the table and smoothing it with his wrinkled hands so that his celluloid cuffs could clearly be seen: “We must not complain, thank goodness.”

  Ida had sat down (it was as though she had felt a kind of stitch recently when entering Rørholm) and Ellingsen said:

  “But early spring is always the best time here.”

  “Yes,” Ida replied. She seemed not to have heard what he had said, but she had recently talked to all the staff, to Ellingsen and to the lady at the counter, to all of them almost as people involuntarily spoke in hotels when they are frightened of not being able to pay one day.

  “It is such lovely weather,” she said.

  “It is the season for it,” said Ellingsen. He was about to go when the sound of laughter came from further down the corridor, and Ida said, “They sound happy.”

  Ellingsen held his head on one side and smiled. “Yes, it is the young people; they have just started to come here.” He went over to the door and added before gliding out – Mr Ellingsen had a way of opening and closing doors as though all the doorsteps in Rørholm’s were covered with felt:

  “We will wait a little, then.”

  Ida sat there. Her eyes had taken on a strange stare, and she thought the one thought she had had since arriving: If only he would tell me when he’s not coming. But suddenly she smiled as she envisaged Karl’s ever carefree face.

  “But he doesn’t think about it,” she said, continuing to smile.

  She started when there came two knocks on the door.

  “Is it you?” she said. Her voice broke and there was Karl standing in the doorway.

  “So you are here?” he said.

  “I have someone with me.” And he stepped aside to make way for Knuth. Ida had stopped and turned scarlet, and Karl said – perhaps a little too suddenly and cheerfully:

  “Knuth was hungry as well, you see.”

  There was a slight pause and Knuth said: “Yes, I’m sorry for barging in, Miss Brandt,” before Ida held out her hand, mechanically, without knowing that she had tears in her eyes.

  “I know you of course, Count Knuth,” she said.

  And after another moment’s hesitation, she said, as though she simply had to get away:

  “I will go and order some coffee.” And she went.

  Neither of the men said anything before the door was closed and they were alone.

  “Oh hell,” said Karl, and it was as though he was shaking something off: “She’ll get over it. Take your coat off.”

  Ida had gone. For a moment, only very briefly and only with her elbow, she supported herself against the wall. But when she reached the counter and saw the waitress’ rat-like eyes looking at her, she suddenly said in a happy voice:

  “There are three of us today, Miss…”

  And there she stayed, talking and laughing, without thinking, until Ellingsen started to take the food in and she followed him, into the private room, where Karl and Knuth sat waiting. Sometimes looking up and sometimes with his eyes turned down, Knuth started to talk in a quiet, respectful voice about the lovely mornings and the barracks. “Of course, you also live in a kind of barracks, Miss Brandt,” he said. “Yes,” Ida murmured. Although rather more hesitantly, Knuth continued speaking in the same respectful tone about the theatre, which would soon be closing, and spring, which would soon be coming.

  Ida answered yes and no. And no sound was to be heard other than the chinking of their cups as Ellingsen served them and the sound of a silver bracelet that Knuth was turning round his wrist.

  “Now let’s see about getting some of this food down us,” said Karl even before Ellingsen had gone.

  And they started to eat w
hile Ida held her egg cup up from the table as though she was afraid that her spoon would not reach her mouth, and Knuth continued to sit rather far away from the table, in the same respectful manner. But Karl felt for Ida’s cold hand under the table and pressed it.

  “Are there no cakes?” he said, speaking almost as though caressing her and, although not aware of it, he avoided calling her by her Christian name, “Miss Brandt always has cakes with her.”

  Ida rose and took the parcels from under her coat.

  “Oh, of course there’s a cake by Gad,” he said, and while Ida was cutting it he put his hand on her wrist still in an attempt to be kind to her, but Ida took her hand away.

  “Do have a piece,” she said, handing the plate to Knuth, who took it with a sudden rather jerky movement.

  “The cake’s lovely,” said Karl, “but we need some port wine with it; it clears the throat.”

  Knuth stood up, a little too quickly, to order it. “May I?” he said. Hardly had he gone before Karl rose and stood behind Ida.

  “Surely I can bring someone with me,” he said, bending over her.

  Ida made no reply. Framed by his hands, her face was as pale as a sheet.

  “You don’t need to be so damned upset about it, chick,” he said, continuing to look down on her until he suddenly kissed her behind her ear.

  Ida had not made a move, but suddenly she rose and, trembling all over as though she was cold, she clung to him.

  “But I’ve given you everything,” she said. There was something about her tone like a shriek that had not been uttered.

  “There, there, there.”

  The tenderness in his voice was genuine, and there was something in it that almost sounded like pain:

  “There, there.”

  A smile passed over Ida’s face. “I’m all right again now,” she said, drying her eyes. “It’s all right.”

  And she suddenly ran over to her coat and took the purse out and put it down in his pocket.