Ida Brandt (19 page)

“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 Eichbaum, “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.

“Oh, beautiful, simply beautiful. I sat on deck with my coffee while Kate fed the gulls.”

Mrs Mourier, who gave the impression of being as broad as the two sisters together, had a rather more powerful diction, stemming from country estates in Jutland.

Julius brought out all their luggage on to the platform, finally a large woven basket with a huge handle.

“My dears,” said Mrs Mourier, “this is for you from Mourier. He came with us as far as Fredericia…his orchids are his pride and joy.”

“Then you’ll take it, Julius,” said Mrs von Eichbaum. “But where is Kate?”

“Oh, she is fetching the dogs,” said Mrs Mourier.

“The dogs,” said Mrs von Eichbaum. “Heavens above, Mine, have you brought those animals with you?” Mrs von Eichbaum had a nervous fear of all dogs.

“My dear, otherwise I would never have persuaded Kate to come.”

The general’s wife could see Kate approaching now, struggling with two frisky greyhounds on a double lead.

“There,” said Kate, who was wearing a black costume resembling a riding habit and had an array of silver rings up her arm: “Come and say hello to your aunties.”

On this command, the two hounds started to jump up at the general’s wife and Mrs von Eichbaum, who defended themselves with their hands.

“Kate dear, they are a little rough.”

They all emerged on to the square in front of the station, and Mrs Mourier and the sisters climbed into the cab, while Miss Kate stayed outside.

“Then I’ll come with Victoria and the dogs,” she said.

Victoria, a lady dressed in a grey costume and standing beside the carriage, was the “lady’s maid”.

The general’s wife nodded “Good morning” and Mrs von Eichbaum said:

“Julius will bring the animals.”

But Miss Kate was already over at another carriage, which she entered with Victoria at her side and both dogs on the back seat.

Mrs von Eichbaum looked at this arrangement rather nervously and said:

“Good heavens, Vilhelmine, you are going to have a problem with those animals here in a town apartment.”

“But,” said the general’s wife, “they are two lovely animals.”

The two cabs moved off, Kate’s bringing up the rear. She sat looking forward at the vehicle in front, with Julius sitting straight-backed on the box.

“There,” she said, “now we’ re in.”

When they reached the apartment, they surveyed the rooms while the sisters explained and demonstrated how things worked. Mrs Mourier said: “It is really delightful here,” and immediately sat down on the sofa together with the general’s wife while Kate, having first gained an overview from the dining room door, continued to go around with Mrs von Eichbaum.

“There is just room for my washstand here,” she said as they stood in her own room. “And where is Victoria to sleep?”