A Change of Time

by Ida Jessen

  * * *

  —

  I think of such episodes when former bitterness returns. It can go deeper still, to something hard and strong as salt, though quite as bitter.

  Hilda squeezed my hands so hearteningly. “A lady,” she said. But Vigand, who sees through everything, takes a different view. “A one-eyed woman in the country of the blind, more like it,” he says. “How about putting your money to better use?”

  “What would you suggest?” I ask, with genuine interest. But Vigand has never been keen on providing answers, nor, for that matter, on asking questions.

  He knows me so well. He knows, without ever having broached the subject, that my path has been decided by nothing else but chance, and that my inclinations have been towards, if not another, for I cannot be quite as categorical as that, then at least in some other direction. He considered me uneducated. He is right. He considered me primitive too, at the mercy of my emotions. In all the years we were married, I endeavored to speak in such a way that he would not think me stupid. Now I can be as stupid as I like. I bury my face in my hands.

  How forceful this bitterness, even though I now have everything the way I want. Pause for thought indeed.

  I have lit the lamp, but not even that helps.

  February 8

  Several mornings of frosty mist. This morning the temperature was twelve degrees below freezing, the lowest all winter. The rime clung to the trees long after the sun came out. The garden is dotted with the tracks of the hare, it looks like a whole drove was here. The birds in the tree say nothing, there is barely a movement anywhere.

  I went for a walk. I must find new walks now. I am keeping a low profile at the moment. I went in the southerly direction, past Hedebjerg Farm. Its avenue of trees was white, wrapped up in the frost. It was a quiet morning, but this afternoon there have been visitors. Pastor Grell and his wife came to see the house, and Rosenstand was here too. I did not offer him coffee today. After he had gone, Carl came. He had brought seeds with him, in envelopes with the seed type written on each. Poppy, marigold, runner bean, sweet pea, curly kale.

  “You brought me seeds?” I asked in mild surprise.

  “No, they’re from my father,” he said.

  Immediately, I recognized the handwriting.

  He said the curly kale should be pre-sprouted without delay. We found some old pots stacked up in a box on top of a shelf in the outhouse. I wondered about the soil, it was frozen. “We’ll use some compost,” he said. He knew where the heap was at the bottom of the garden and filled up a bucket for me. We put it in the cellar where it will stay warm.

  And the sun is high. It is only two o’clock.

  February 9

  Today is also cold. This morning the thermometer said minus nine, and the smoke rises straight in the air. It is transparent, a mere shimmer above the roof. There is not a breath of wind.

  On such a crisp and frosty day, Carl and Dagmar stood as small children in the yard in front of the farmhouse and heard the hospital wagon come from Give to collect their mother, who lay dying from the Spanish flu. They could hear the horses for a whole hour, far away on the other side of Dørken, he told me yesterday. He was quite matter-of-fact about it, as is his habit.

  “Oh, Carl,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  He had photographs with him. Undoubtedly for my pleasure, there were a couple from the living room in the doctor’s residence. I saw the gramophone, and my own astonished face like a spirit’s, staring out from the sofa.

  I think I shall sing for a while.

  Yes.

  February 11

  I met Peter Carlsen at Hansen’s grocery shop one Saturday afternoon a fortnight after I had been out at Hedebjerg Farm asking for him. I was on my way out, he on his way in.

  “Did you get my message?” I asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “I spoke to your mother and Henriette.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “They must have forgotten,” I said.

  “They don’t usually,” he said.

  We lowered our voices. Not that there was any need, no one could hear us, we were standing on the step. But the moment I saw him, my very being descended into a more ponderous tenor. To speak so solemnly and so softly, as if oblivious to the greater forces at play. Even my legs felt heavy.

  “Is Bernhard with you?” I asked.

  “He’s waiting in the cart. He prefers it that way. You can come and say hello to him.”

  He took my basket out of my hand. We patted Bernhard and made such a fuss of him I can hardly imagine he had ever been the object of such attention before. Nor had I ever felt such warmth in my presence, but I recognized it immediately. I told him about my plans to make a garden for the children, with trees and bushes for shelter.

  That same evening he came walking over the meadow. He wanted us to consider the matter before the sun went down.

  I suggested lilac and jasmine, fruit trees and a kitchen garden. He said we should begin with several rows of white spruce against the wind.

  “How long will it take?” I asked.

  “A long time,” he replied.

  As dusk came, we went for a walk in the direction of Hedebjerg Farm to see a newborn calf. We walked over the fields and saw no one. The grass was fragrant, the heather was fragrant. We stood and watched the calf and its mother until it was almost dark. Some distance away the lamps were lit on the farm, and I turned towards him and for some reason whispered rather than saying the words out loud: “Would you care for a cup of coffee?”

  “Yes,” he whispered back.

  We walked back to the school. We saw no one.

  Thoughts are superfluous. For of all the things that may be imagined or said, nothing bears comparison to being held in his embrace, when that happened. Of all the things my hands and body have done, this is what they remember best, and I do not wish to forget it.

  * * *

  I will write about today. What has happened? Various visitors, much coffee drinking. Reading. I have joined Fru Grell’s reading group and we have been given homework. We are to read Birds Around the Light by Jacob Paludan and have had some difficulty getting hold of it. The library in Give have not yet received a copy, and so we have been compelled to purchase our own and must make do with taking turns. It is quite an extravagance, and Fru Grell was not pleased with the solution at all, but she has been so buoyant at the thought of our keeping abreast of contemporary works. I felt quite sorry for her when complaints were murmured. After lunch a walk up the hill in the direction of Hedebjerg Farm. I turned back before I got to the top. It was so windy I had to keep my hand on my hat the whole time. With the wind the temperature is rising and is now above freezing. Hour by hour, the snow in the garden has sunk. I took some snowdrops in and arranged them in a glass.

  Just before, as I was lining the shelves in the scullery, a thought occurred to me that I shall put here as a question and answer: What is community? It is work and love. But it is also to stand outside. Someone must point to what it is. Someone has to know.

  I find it to be rather a comfort.

  February 12

  Why should I torment myself?

  For no reason, just as I have no reason to arrange my breakfast so nicely with the starched napkin on the tray that I carry over to the sofa by the window. The trees are swaying, and the garden suddenly looks grubby. It is a dismal day. Two degrees above freezing. When I came into the living room a short time ago, I noticed a hare gnawing at one of the fruit trees. It was standing on its hind legs, gripping the trunk with its front paws. I opened a window and shouted at it. It was so indifferent it hardly twitched a whisker. I had to put my boots on and go out to chase it away.

  * * *

  I stood in his arms in the kitchen, and his chest was against my chest, his arms were around me, and I was fi
lled by a single sentence: “For now is a new time.” It was not a thought, but a fullness that manifested itself in the words. He lowered his lips to my ear and his voice was a measured whisper: “I am not free.”

  I drew myself up and sank down at once, and he gripped me even tighter.

  “Then you must choose,” I said and pulled away. I ran into the living room, and he ran after me. I ran into the schoolroom and stood in front of the glass-fronted cupboard, and he came after me.

  “We must talk,” he said.

  “No, you must go,” I said.

  “Do you really want me to go?” he said, and tears welled in his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “If only this had happened three weeks ago — a fortnight ago.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it,” I said.

  “I didn’t think you cared for me.”

  “Please, no excuses.”

  “I only wanted to be with you.”

  “Then break off your engagement.”

  There was a pause.

  “Is it your cousin?”

  “She and I have known each other since we were little.”

  “I’m sure she’ll make a good wife on a farm like yours.”

  “How did you know?” he asked, surprised.

  And before I answered he buried his face in the hollow of my shoulder, and I curled my arm around his neck, and my other arm around his back, and both of us wept.

  * * *

  As I sat at the table there was a knock on the door. It was almost twelve o’clock and I felt no inclination to see who it was. But it turned out to be none other than Peder Møllergaard. He stood leaning on his walking stick on the step. He had walked from Lunds Farm into the town and had decided to stop by on his way back. He declined coffee and preferred not to sit. He glanced around the living room and must surely have noticed the remains of my breakfast. “Bright and unpretentious,” he said appreciatively. I coaxed him into sitting down despite his reluctance. He asked if I was happy with the house.

  “For we are indeed happy that you chose to stay, Fru Bagge.”

  I have no idea what would make him say such a thing.

  He told me that the parish book collection, housed at the Young Men’s and Women’s Christian Association, is at present without supervision, and asked if the position could interest me.

  “I don’t think there’s much of a salary,” he said, with his back half turned.

  I made no comment.

  “It would please me,” he said, “if you would take it on.”

  I have written him a few lines and dropped the envelope through the letter box at the savings bank. The bells were ringing for afternoon service. I went in and listened to that peculiar verse about the seed falling in the stony places and on the good ground. I have always found it odd, since it seems to me to be one of the easiest to understand. And yet the disciples ask what it means, and Jesus becomes so impatient when prompted to explain it to them that his explanation ends up in the most impenetrable riddles, those unknowing of the kingdom of heaven are to be addressed in parables, he says, so “that seeing they may see, and not perceive; and hearing they may hear, and not grasp; lest at any time they should be converted, and their sins should be forgiven them.” But why should they be kept from forgiveness?

  We sang “Come, Rain from the Heavens.”

  Vigand would say I was a fool.

  Peter Carlsen was there with Dagmar, Inge, and Carl. All four in heavy overcoats. When I thanked him for the seeds, he said there were more where they came from. I walked home, and am now exhausted.

  February 13

  The wind has raged without pause for thirty hours, and I am queasy and out of sorts. I went out along the road with both hands on my hat and was almost tossed into the ditch. No visitors today, not even Rosenstand. I have a small dried sausage for my dinner, but the wind has taken away my appetite. This afternoon I thought of going to see Hilda, but would she care for a visit? I am sure she would be more flustered than glad. Often, when one is most in need of company, one hesitates at the thought of appearing to be in straits. Imagine, if one were unable to let go again.

  I am waiting for Vigand to make himself known. Where are you, Vigand? Say something. Box my ears!

  * * *

  —

  The lawn is strewn with fallen branches, a rather large one and a lot of smaller ones. The wind huffs and puffs at the house, the electricity went out quite some time ago. Now, as darkness comes, I light the lamp. I place it in the window. The panes rattle, the flame flickers.

  February 14

  When Peter Carlsen married Henriette it happened so quickly that people in the town said there was a reason. I am sure there was, but not the one they meant. It was a Saturday in spring. I had my singing duties to fulfill and was standing in the choir loft. There was a drizzle in the air, spring rain. I sang facing sideways and without looking down, for I imagined he felt the same as I did, and I did not wish to embarrass him with my own embarrassment and grief. My voice was pure and clear in those days, unerring. But when I got home I went into the kitchen, drew out a chair, flopped forward on the table, and fell asleep. I was wakened by a hand stroking my hair.

  It was a hand unaccustomed to caressing. It was fearful, afraid of causing me harm. I thought, has all the badness gone away? I sat up and turned my head, then leapt to my feet at once, because the hand caressing me belonged to Jens Kristian Andersen. Petting-Jens. I got up so quickly the blood rushed to my head and I fainted.

  I came round to find his beard against my brow. I had no sense of what was going on, and no realization that it was Jens Kristian. I heard a groan, and something being dragged over the floor. Later, I understood it to be my own feet, my heels were rubbed white by their passage across the floorboards. He freed an arm so as to open the door of the chamber and laid me down on the bed. He was all in a tizzy, made to loosen my dress, but decided against it, went to fetch some water and then spilled it on top of me, causing me to sit up with a jolt; he pressed me down again and dried me with a pillow, and urged: “Lie still, lie still.” I could not have found a clumsier attendant. He stayed at my side in the chamber, seated on a chair. I was ill at ease with the situation and pretended to sleep. Whenever I peeped he was still there. Sometimes he was staring out the window. Sometimes he was staring at me. I was so exhausted that I did not have the strength to ask him to leave.

  And now Hilda, who came here this morning, tells me he died in the storm that blew across the land the day before yesterday. His mother’s house fell down on top of him, and hours later he expired at the hospital in Give. The funeral has been arranged for the day after tomorrow. No doubt there will be many in attendance, if only because he was his mother’s son. However, the circumstances of his death will also surely swell the numbers.

  I wonder if he ever received any of Vigand’s clothes? A comfort to think that he wouldn’t have cared two hoots.

  * * *

  —

  One cannot do without a single soul. And yet it is not true. Now and again, a rage flares into my throat.

  VB

  VB

  VB

  He knew I was angling for a tender word that I might go on. A whole life together had taught him as much.

  But if you only knew, Vigand, that I walk the floors of my nice new home and spit the words out loud: You Bloody Bastard. What would you say then?

  Promptly comes the answer: “Frankly, you can do as you want.”

  His voice is not arrogant, but tired.

  He is dead. He has reason to be tired.

  * * *

  —

  It comes over me in fits that rattle my frame. I am sitting on the sofa with the newspaper. It is afternoon, and the sun has come out. Its light is feeble and grey. Hares in the garden.

  February 18

  The sun has
been out for several days, and in the night the temperature has dropped to fifteen below. I was at the churchyard yesterday, the headstone has arrived and I wanted to go and see it. For some reason, the mason has carved the name in the middle, as if the stone were for him only. I asked for the name and title to be prominent, but not for that. And yet I must say that a relief came over me, and I am rather uplifted still, not at the thought of escaping death — no one could be that silly — but at not having to be put there beside him. It is only a thought. I will be put beside him.

  * * *

  I went outside and tidied the garden after the storm. One of the branches that had fallen down was so big I had to saw it up just to shift it. It was quite a job, the saw was too small. I think I would like a pet to keep. A dog or a cat, perhaps also some hens for the hen-house, something to attach me to the place. For dinner I made stuffed cabbage leaves. I played Patience at the table in the living room, relieved that not a soul had come to see me all day.

  * * *

  —

  There is something wrong. I have moved away from others. Society does not exist here where I am. Which is how things become heedless.

  February 25

  After a period of fatigue and listlessness so compelling that I would not go to the door when anyone knocked, I lay in my bed this morning and thought of how little it mattered whether I got up or not. If I wanted, I could stay there all day. It was lovely to be in bed. I had drawn up the blind and the air was clear. The light is returning in the mornings.