Ida Brandt (28 page)

Ida left; from the kitchen she could hear Bertelsen constantly talking in something resembling an irritated and suppressed snarl and his mother’s nervous: “Yes Jakob, but, yes Jakob, but…”

The door to the women’s ward flew open. It was Nurse Kjær, who first looked round the anteroom and then ran out into the kitchen.

“Good Lord, nurse, when is it going to be?” she said. “You’ re going to rent a flat?”

She had to hear it all at breakneck speed, and Ida told all about it again although it was as though her own words encircled her as she spoke; and Bertelsen went on talking, louder and more intensely, scarlet-faced, holding both his clenched fists out in front of him, at the same height all the time, as though they were bound by a chain.

“But Jakob dear, Jakob dear.”

“You’ll be having quite a doll’s house,” said Nurse Kjær out in the kitchen. “My word, how I’m looking forward to it.”

Suddenly, nodding her head and in a different tone, she asked:

“Is she here to say goodbye?”

“Yes, poor thing.”

Bertelsen pushed the chair away and got up; through the doorway they could see his mother grasp his arm, but he shook her off.

“You bloody bitch,” he screamed. From the door to the Hall he continued to pour a stream of abuse at her, while the emaciated mother stood there, motionless in the centre of the ward, trembling a little, like a target in a hail of bullets.

Then she turned round – Nurse Kjær had gone and quietly closed the door – and Ida went across and took her hands.

“Yes, Mrs Bertelsen,” she said, “but it will be better out there.”

Mrs Bertelsen made no reply. What had once been a breast rose just a little, and she started for the hundredth time, for the thousandth time, to tell how it had come over this son in the same way as over his two elder brothers.

“He was in an office, you know, like his brothers. And everything was well until one day he
left
his office and came home, just like his brothers: he had left; he’ d got up from his chair; he had put all his pens carefully in place (I saw it myself) and the ruler was in its place and his books had been made up (I saw it myself) before he left and came home, and it was all finished for him like it was for his brothers.”

She was unable to weep, but it
sounded
as though she was weeping.

“Just like his brothers.”

“But it will probably be better out there,” said Ida again.

But Mrs Bertelsen merely shook her head, and with an expression in her eyes as though they were blind, she said:

“And it’s all my fault.”

These words had been Mrs Bertelsen’s first and last thought ever since the day when the consultant had said to her in anger: “Why on earth do people have children when their husband’s a drunk?”

“And it’s all my fault…”

Ida had not heard the door open, but suddenly she turned round and found the gentleman from Ward A standing in the doorway: he was smiling and looking at them both.

Mrs Bertelsen freed her hands from Ida’s and went towards the door to the corridor.

“Aren’t you going to say goodbye?” asked Ida, and Mrs Bertelsen looked into the main ward, where her son was huddled on the edge of a bed.

“No; leave him,” she said. And Ida closed the door to the corridor while Mrs Bertelsen turned round at the last moment with her eyes on the door to the main ward and went.

“Do you want anything, doctor?” Ida asked.

But the gentleman from Ward A merely stood there with the same smile on his face. (Yes, I’m sure he’s mad after all, thought Ida).

“No thank you,” he said, though he did not move.

Dusk fell.

Throughout the day, the ladies had rattled their keys and had been rushing in and out to ask about the flat, and Ida had replied almost hectically, describing everything,
first
this and
then
that.

Now Nurse Kjær was sitting at the table with Ida for a moment, and, with interruptions, they were discussing the same subject.

“Hm,” said Nurse Kjær: “Then you’ll get somewhere where you can sleep.”

Ida nodded. Today, she was constantly catching herself sitting with her eyes closed. Now she opened them. Bertelsen was drifting past the door to the main ward, backwards and forwards like a shadow, and suddenly, far inside her head, she heard Mrs Bertelsen’s voice again, a sound that had pursued her all day.

“Poor Mrs Bertelsen,” she said.

They sat in silence for a while. From the noisy ward there came the same dull groaning as had been audible throughout the day like some indeterminate, distant complaint, while Bertelsen continued to glide past the door like a shadow that was being washed away in the darkness.

“Yes, I wonder what a woman like her does with her life?” said Nurse Kjær, thinking of Mrs Bertelsen.

And then she was silent for a while again.

“Oh, she’ll die some day,” she said in reply to her own question.

The gentleman in Ward A went about as usual. It was as though the subdued groans from below were heard in waves coinciding with his steps.

“It’s miserable in here today,” said Nurse Kjær, getting up.

Ida shuddered involuntarily.

“Yes,” she said: “Let’s get some lights on.”

Nurse Kjær went, and the patients from the basement came back, and some time later Josefine hurried in with the food, while Ida knocked on Nurse Petersen’s door to wake her.

Josefine was simply in a bad mood these days. Not so much as a snatch of a melody was heard on the stairs, and now she stood there deep in her own thoughts as she dished the food up.

“No, nurse,” she said: “You ought never to do anything for a man.”

“For they’ re dogs, the lot of them,” she declared, and she set about the unpacking.

When Ida came down to the dining room, Nurse Friis was there alone. She was turning some old black lace into ruches for a silk underskirt. Nurse Friis attached increasing importance to modern, up-to-date underclothing.

While Ida was drinking her tea, Nurse Friis said:

“Oh, I hear you’ re going to have your own home; when are the banns going to be read?”

She started to laugh as she pulled at the ruches.

“Well, I assume it will be from a pulpit.”

Nurse Friis hummed as she went on working with the ruches.

“I must say I hadn’t thought you were so sensible,” she said suddenly, nodding to Ida. Then she said no more. But the cup shook in Ida’s hand.

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 came 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.