Ida Brandt E-Book

Herman Bang

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Ida Brandt is a classic outsider, too moneyed for her nursing colleagues and not quite good enough for the aristocratic circles she grew up on the fringe of. Beautiful and gentle, she is betrayed by the people closest to her.

Leseprobe

Contents

Title

About the Book

The Translator

Quote

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Translator’s Afterword

About the Author

Copyright

Dedalus would like to thank The Danish Arts Council’s Committee for Literature and Arts Council England, London for their assistance in producing this book.

The Translator

W. Glyn Jones read Modern Languages at Pembroke College Cambridge, with Danish as his principal language, before doing his doctoral thesis at Cambridge. He taught at various universities in England and Scandinavia before becoming Professor of Scandinavian Studies at Newcastle and then at the University of East Anglia. He also spent two years as Professor of Scandinavian Literature in the Faeroese Academy. On his retirement from teaching he was created a Knight of the Royal Danish Order of the Dannebrog.

He has written widely on Danish, Faeroese and Finland-Swedish literature including studies of Johannes Jorgensen, Tove Jansson and William Heinesen.

He is the author of Denmark: A Modern History and co-author with his wife, Kirsten Gade, of Colloquial Danish and the Blue Guide to Denmark.

His translations from Danish include Seneca by Villy Sorensen and for Dedalus The Black Cauldron, The Lost Musicians, Windswept Dawn, The Good Hope and Mother Pleiades by William Heinesen and My Fairy-Tale Life by Hans Christian Andersen.

He is currently translating The Tower at the Edge of the World by William Heinesen.

“At times I feel almost as though someone else were adding the figures up.”

I

The porter had come for the three patients who had been working in the basement. He went over and shouted to the second of them, the man with the abdominal support, who was wandering up and down, up and down along the wall by the stove. He gave him a loud shout, straight in his face:

“Time to go.”

“Yes.” Patient number two stopped and looked at the porter. “Yes,” he said again, nodding and spinning around like a dog about to lie down. He always did this before embarking on even the smallest thing.

Then he got his dressing gown on like the others, and the three moved off. The porter’s keys could be heard rattling in the corridor as he locked the door – first at the top then lower down.

Nurse Brandt put the washed cups together in a corner of the small kitchen table and went into the ward to “listen”. But the two old folks in there were asleep, breathing deeply.

And all was quiet in Ward A.

Nurse Brandt climbed up on the chair in the anteroom – she had to do that in order to reach the window – and moved the flowers a little so as to make room and then sat down on the sill.

“Brandt’s quite mad,” said Nurse Brun in the women’s ward. “She flies up like a scared chicken.”

Ida Brandt leant her head back against the wall – she was always rather tired towards evening after her first time on day duty – and she looked out through the big window: the “Lakes” looked so calm, a single strip of red glowing in the sinking sun.

Ida Brandt took out a letter, but she sat there holding it in her hand for a long time as the red flush on the lake gradually slipped away and faded before starting to read:

Horsens, the 1st of October

My dear,

You will receive this letter five days late. I know. But on the other hand, you don’t have five terrible children, two of whom last week broke the front leg off the writing desk. They just wanted to pretend it was a boat, my dear, while I was doing the cleaning. But the leg has been glued on again now, and this morning I managed to hang the last winter curtains, and so now you can have my birthday wishes: God bless you, my dear; you know that all of us here in the “Villa” wish you that.

So you are really twenty-eight now. Oh how time flies. When I pass your old window, I often feel it was only yesterday I used to see you sitting there on the mahogany chair and looking out like the good girl that you were. Everything about you was good, Ida, your eyes, your hair beautifully combed with its two pigtails, and everything. You used to look out at us giddy kids from Miss Jørgensen’s school as we came running down the street with our schoolbags, playing ‘tick’ in the gateways until there wasn’t a whole pleat in our skirts.

At last you would come out on to the outdoor steps and stand holding carefully on to the railing as though afraid of falling into the water until your mother called out ‘I-da’, and in you went with stiff pigtails and a rather old-maidish walk and your mother closed the door.

There was always something about your mother that put a damper on things.

I would pause to catch my breath in our doorway. I knew perfectly well that mother was watching: ‘Oh that’s where you are?’ (I had sidled in through the door). ‘Let me have a look at you’ – and I had to turn around.

‘Take your fingers out of your mouth, Olivia.’

‘Now I’ve told you before, this is the last time you’ re going to have fur edging on your coat…’ I pulled a face; there was always a bit hanging loose here or there; I don’t know how it was, but Regine and I simply became untidy.

‘All right, you can go now.’

I ran with my schoolbag straight into the doorframe.

‘I wonder whether that child will ever learn to walk on her own legs’

And I was out in the street.

‘But…’ came the voice from the window again, ‘you’ d better get Karen to put a brush on your hair…It’s a disgrace to you.’

Hair was the worst thing. It always ended with Karen having to stand with the brushes in front of Mamma, brushing and brushing:

‘No,’ Mamma would sigh. ‘It’s impossible to make that hair look tidy. Just you look at Ida Brandt, she can keep hers in order.’

I stood there as stiff as a poker, and Karen brushed away: you were always the paragon of virtue.

And do you remember when Mamma visited your mother together with me – I don’t think they had really known each other very well before that – and they were talking in the living room and we were sitting in your two little chairs in the bedroom between your mother’s bed and the window and I suddenly took hold of both your pigtails and banged your head against the edge of the bed?

You didn’t resist and you didn’t make a fuss, but you simply started to cry – quite gently…Do you know what, my dear: I think I was fond of you from that moment because you had cried so quietly…

Ida Brandt lowered her friend’s letter to her lap. She gazed out at the Lakes without seeing them. It was as though she could see everything at home, the house, the living room where the furniture had never been rearranged, and the bedroom with the two small chairs on which she was to fold her clothes, garment by garment, before going to bed; and her mother, calm and broad with the heavy curls in her hair and the gold chain around her neck.

Then she read on:

I so well remember the Wednesdays, when I used to come across to your house at five o’ clock to fetch you out. Once I was indoors, your mother would call from her window seat into the bedroom, where you were doing your homework:

‘Ida…’

‘I-da.’ You always stuck you fingers in your ears when you were reading, you were so keen: ‘It’s Olivia Frank.’

Continuing to knit with her big needles, your mother would nod and say, ‘Sit down, dear.’

And I would sit down by the door – in your home one always sat in the middle of the chair – until you had all your clothes on – your waistcoat and your little scarf and then your cape and big scarf – and then we curtsied to your mother.

‘Have you a handkerchief, Ida?’ she would ask – I always felt for my own handkerchief – ‘Take care of yourselves…’

And we went past the window, side by side.

In the evening, the cloth was taken off the table – I can see your mother moving the lamp from one table to the other – a job she always did herself and then we played patience while your mother had a game of whist with the maiden ladies. At half past eight, when I was to go home and your Sofie came in with the redcurrant wine, we were given an apple each while my outdoor clothes were brought into the warm room…

Mamma used to say, ‘Olivia is better behaved for a whole day when she has been at Ida Brandt’s.’

But on Sundays you came to our house from first thing in the morning. Do you remember how Sofie used to bring you and say that ‘madam sends her compliments’ as she took your outdoor clothes off one by one as though she was undoing a bundle? No one scared Mamma like your Sofie.

‘I don’t know,’ she used to say, ‘but her eyes are everywhere as though she is looking for the tiniest speck of dust on the furniture.’

Mamma had a tendency to become flustered in the presence of other people’s maids.

In her most polite voice, Mamma would say, ‘Could I offer you a cup of coffee, Sofie?’

And Sofie would drink it, sitting primly on the chair near the black bookcase, without saying a word.

Do you remember the day we were out playing and you tore your blue muslin dress on a nail?

You simply sat there, quite quietly, all the time smoothing the tear over your knee without saying a word, and I stood just watching and then I started to help you, with both my thumbs, as though we could glue the tear until I whispered, ‘We must tell Mamma’.

And we ran up to Mamma, and when we were just inside the doorway I said:

‘Ida’s torn her dress.’

When I said ‘torn’ I started to cry, but you stood there as quiet as ever.

‘Where?’

Mamma took hold of your dress by the seam and held it out from you like a banner:

‘Yes, what did I tell you?’ She let go of the skirt. ‘What must Mrs Brandt think about this crazy family?’

You stood there, trembling but not crying, and Mamma loosened the hair behind her ears with her crochet hook:

‘We must send for Miss Finsen,’ she said, just as dismayed as we were. ‘Take your dress off…’

Karen ran to fetch Miss Finsen and you put on one of Mamma’s nightdresses while you waited, and Mamma went on about ‘this house’ and my dress, which I could tear without there being a problem…

‘There’s Mrs Brandt,’ I shouted from the window.

Mamma let go of the dress:

‘She’s going to church,’ she said, as though relieved. And we both watched your mother’s straight back as she crossed the market place.

‘It’s Mr Hansen preaching the sermon,’ said Mamma.

‘No,’ you said in a weak, thick voice – it was about the first thing you said – ‘It’s Mr Schmidt’.

Mamma put her hands down on her lap.

‘In that case they won’t be going home before half past twelve,’ she said with conviction.

When Miss Finsen came, she declared that she could take half a width out and then alter the pleats in the back.

‘It won’t be seen,’ she said as she measured and examined the blue material. Miss Finsen, poor woman, had a pair of eyes as though she was always wondering how best to cut a length of material of difficult material.

‘No, you won’t be able to see it.’

‘Do you think not? Do you think not?’ said Mamma, who always listened to Finsen as though she was speaking in Latin: ‘Well, provided it won’t be seen…’

It was not to be seen.

‘Turn round, dear,’ Mamma said to you once you had the dress on again. ‘Once more…No, it can’t be seen.’

‘Thank goodness for that, Finsen.’ Mamma put her hands down on her lap.

‘Let’s have a cream cake now.’

Cream cake was Mamma’s regular treat for seamstresses. A tiny bit of pastry was always left behind on Finsen’s lower lip, in the crack she had acquired by biting threads.

I went with you that evening when Sofie came. You grabbed my hand rather tight when we got to the street. When we reached the cellar steps, I said: ‘They are playing cards; I saw the ladies’ shadows on your white curtain.’

‘Yes,’ you whispered in a tiny, frightened voice.

We went inside and you took off your outdoor clothes and we curtseyed to them all, first I and then you, and your mother said over the cards: ‘Has Ida behaved herself?’

‘Yes.’ That was the first lie you ever told, my dear.

‘Good, then you can go to bed. You know that you have to do your practice at seven o’ clock on Mondays. Good night.’

You received a kiss on the forehead and then went off.

‘Goodbye,’ I said almost like an explosion. And I ran home to Mamma so that I was quite out of breath:

‘They didn’t see anything.’

‘Oh, thank goodness for that,’ said Mamma, sitting down heavily on the sofa.

‘Well, it does Ida good to be a bit naughty occasionally,’ she said. I had surreptitiously taken hold of my homework from by the window.

‘I say, Olivia,’ said Mamma, ‘are you starting on your homework now?…Do you think Ida Brandt steals candles to read in bed?’

∞∞∞

Ida Brandt closed the letter and sat for a long time smiling and leaning her head on the window frame. The street lamps were being lit one by one over on the other side of the Lakes. She heard Josefine bring the supper and then go again, and she heard the old people in Ward A starting to turn in their beds.

She sat there for just a moment longer.

But suddenly, the keys rattled in the door in the women’s ward, and she jumped down with such a start that she overturned the chair. It might be the professor: he came at so many different times and the lamps were not lit.

But no, it was Mr von Eichbaum from the office, who said:

“May I go through, Nurse?”

“Yes, do.”

She lit the lamps; she had been so scared that she was quite out of breath.

Mr von Eichbaum stayed while she lit them.

“You know it’s damned curious,” he said in his slightly nasal voice, “how much I’ve been thinking about Ludvigsbakke since I ended up in this confounded office.”

“Yes, but it was so lovely there,” said Ida in a voice almost as though she were looking at it. “There was such a beautiful view over towards Brædstrup.”

“Yes, it was nice,” he said, smacking his lips. “Those were the days.”

He remained there while she fetched the ladder and climbed it to light the gas lamp above the door to Ward A.

“No,” he said as he watched her; there aren’t many to compare with His Lordship.”

They exchanged a few more words as she came down again and went into Ward A. The gentleman in there, who was sitting in the black easy chair, raised his head and watched her through his big, gloomy eyes as she lit the lamps on his table.

“Who is he really?” asked von Eichbaum when she returned.

“I don’t know,” she said. “A doctor.” And half laughing she said: “He is the only one I am frightened of.”

Eichbaum laughed. “But damn it all, he looks pretty quiet.”

“Yes, but I don’t know, he’s almost like a ghost.”

“A ghost?”

“Yes,” said Ida, apparently slightly embarrassed. “The ghost of somebody or other.”

Mr von Eichbaum continued to laugh; he did not take his eyes off her.

“Oh well, good night, nurse.”

Mr von Eichbaum nodded and let himself out, and Ida crept up the ladder to light the lamp above the door to the “Hall”. The sound of a high-pitched plaintive voice could be heard from the women’s ward. It was Miss Benjamin; she was always restless as evening approached.

Ida Brandt could not refrain from smiling as she stood there, humming gently as she divided up the butter for supper: she was thinking of Olivia’s letter.

And of Ludvigsbakke.

The patients working in the basement came up again and started wandering around in the anteroom, going to and fro in some curious way without heeding each other, while their clogs clattered ceaselessly across the floor.

Bertelsen, a tall man who had “come to a standstill”, went over to the washbasin in the kitchen to wash his hands, a pair of reddish, clammy hands – he had to wash them every ten minutes as though to cleanse them of some thousandfold sin.

“Come on, Bertelsen, you’ re clean,” said Nurse Brandt.

“Yes,” he said, suddenly stopping washing as though no longer remembering to do it. He went over to the table, stood there and looked at her for a while – as far as he was able, for his eyes never rested on one single thing:

“But what am I supposed to be here for?” he said suddenly.

“Will you tell me, what I am supposed to be here for?” His voice was raised as he repeated his words.

“You have to get better, Bertelsen,” said the nurse as she continued to prepare the sandwiches.

“Better!” His laugh was more by way of a snarl, and all his compact teeth could be seen. They gleamed, and it was as though they were the only things in his face with any colour to them:

“Better here, where I’m locked in.”

“And you must have something to eat,” she said. “And then that will be another day gone, Bertelsen.”

“Yes, I’m coming,” she shouted into the “Hall”, where the two patients had already seated themselves at the tables at the end of the beds, impatiently banging on the floor with their clogs. “I’m coming.”

She listened first at Nurse Petersen’s door; she was still fast asleep, and her breathing could be heard even out there.

“Nurse Petersen,” she shouted. “Time to get up.”

The loud breathing stopped, and at long last there came a sleepy, “All right.” Nurse Petersen was the night nurse. Ida took the food into the ante-room, where the man with the abdominal support was still shuffling around.

“You must have something to eat, Schrøder,” said Ida, facing him directly as though speaking to someone who was deaf.

“Hm.” He merely looked at her.

“You must have something to eat, Schrøder,” she repeated.

“Hm.”

“I mean now.” She continued to speak clearly, as though the man had difficulty in hearing. “Because the doctors are coming now.”

And, holding him in front of her, she guided him over to the table.

The doctors could already be heard on the stairs, and the keys sounded in the door. It was the registrar and two junior doctors, followed by Nurse Helgesen carrying the case notes. She carried them like an officer in a court of law clutching some legal document.

The patients rose from the table, and the three old bedridden patients watched the doctors through strangely half-glazed eyes.

“Nothing to report?” asked the doctor.

“No, doctor.”

The doctor went into Ward A alone and shut the door.

Quam, one of the junior doctors, sprang on to the table in the ante-room and brought his feet together.

“Heaven preserve us – what a shift – eleven new admissions and one of them pumped.”

“Was it opium?” Nurse Helgesen spoke to the junior doctors in a businesslike manner as though to colleagues.

“Yes, he’s a locksmith’s apprentice. They say it’s a love affair, and now they’ve dragged him up and down the floor for almost five hours – two men. Heaven preserve us.” Quam yawned: “Just fancy, human beings can’t learn to take things calmly. What do you say, Nurse Brandt?”

Quam jumped down, for the registrar was emerging.

“You can let the patient have a little fresh air,” he said; he was already at the door to the women’s ward.

Quam followed him at the end of the procession; he always wore white sports trousers on the days when he was on duty, and on reaching the doorway he shook his legs as though he wanted to shake the dust off his feet.

Ida provided the three old men with food; she had a gentle way of her own when raising them up in bed.

Nurse Petersen came out of her room, energetic and out of breath.

“What time is it, nurse?” she said to Ida – the lower part of Nurse Petersen’s body performed ten elegant oscillations at every step she took.

“My watch has stopped.”

“It’s getting late,” said Ida. It was always getting late when Nurse Petersen emerged in the evenings.

“Oh yes, thank you for waiting.” Nurse Petersen took out her keys – she was for ever making small movements with her fingers – “I’ll be quick with my tea.”

Ida just nodded; she was so used to having to wait for the others for half an hour after her duty. She sat down under the light in the Hall and started to sew.

How well she remembered him, of course, now she thought about it, at home in Ludvigsbakke – him and his mother, who always sat right up at the end of the table – she always sat up beside His Lordship at table.

And she went for walks on the dot, and had the two stone benches in the approach to the steward’s house where she rested.

“Hm,” she always said: “And here we have little Miss Brandt,” as though she discovered her anew each time.

The three patients sat playing cards at the end of the bed with their woollen trousers concertinaed high up on their legs. But Schrøder wanted to go to bed.

He was sitting in his bare shirt on the edge of the bed, his legs hanging down as though his bones were all loose.

“Bedtime, Schrøder,” said Ida.

“Yes,” he replied, though he continued to sit there with his head drooping down.

Ida had to get up before Schrøder managed to lift his legs with some difficulty, as though this was something that required serious thought. “There,” she said, smoothing the blankets with both hands. “It’s a lot better when you lie down, isn’t it?”

She continued to help with the blankets while hushing Bertelsen; he was always so aggressive when playing cards. Then she heard Nurse Petersen’s keys and started putting her sewing away; all she had to do now was open the door to Ward A.

The gentleman in Ward A was sitting by the table and only looked up briefly to start writing on his big papers again. He wrote nothing but numbers and more numbers, slowly as though he were printing.

“I will just open the shutters,” said Ida, as she opened the big window.

But he made no reply and just went on writing. Here, in Ward A, Miss Benjamin was the patient who was heard most clearly, for she was right up against the wall.

Nurse Petersen was standing outside at the peephole when Ida came out.

“He’s one I wouldn’t mind getting rid of,” she said. She came from Flensburg and still spoke with an accent – and they both remained at the peephole. The gentleman in there rose slowly, and he seated himself quietly up on the windowsill.

He sat there without moving, staring out into the night, at the stars.

“Good heavens, he just always sits there working things out,” said Nurse Petersen.

“Dr Quam says he wants to discover the laws,” said Ida.

“Poor man,” said Nurse Petersen, who understood nothing at all, and she gave a maidenly toss of the head before leaving the peephole.

Ida opened the door to the noisy ward and went in. Two porters were supporting a lifeless body between them; its arms were draped over their shoulders as they dragged him along.

Josefine, sitting on the bench beneath the windows and trying to get two men to eat something, nodded in the direction of the porters.

“What a job! They’ve been at it for five hours.”

The porters turned just by the door leading to the “good” ward, as Ida came in, and one of them, looking at the hanging head, said:

“He’s actually quite a respectable chap.”

“Yes,” said Ida, looking at the face with lips open like those in a mask – and the porters turned round and continued to drag the body around.

In the quiet ward, the doors to the individual rooms were open, and the patients were dozing on their beds. In the dining room, with her opera glasses before her and buttoning her gloves, sat Nurse Friis, who was off that evening and going to the theatre.

“Ah,” she said. “There we have our assistant nurse.”

“Give me a hand, will you?” she held out one hand towards Ida, who always had to “give a hand”. “I’m going to be far too late.”

Ida buttoned the glove while Nurse Helgesen, who was sitting, arms crossed, in her favourite position behind the urn, said in her very clear voice:

“What did that blouse cost?”

“Thank you, nurse.”

Nurse Friis looked at herself one last time in the little mirror in the corner; she was still wearing the coat she had received as a twenty-two-year old ten years ago, and her hair had to be waved in her own quite special way around her temples.

“I got it from a cousin in Aalborg,” she said, referring to the blouse.

Nurse Krohn and Nurse Berg, who were drinking their tea at the other end of the table, said: “Oh dear, now we shall have to start thinking about winter clothes.”

And they started to talk about hats.

“I make my own,” said Nurse Helgesen behind the urn.

Then a large female figure appeared in the doorway.

“There’s a fine smell in here,” she said, putting a white hand up to a broad nose while looking at Nurse Friis. This was Sister Koch, the senior nurse in the women’s ward.

“Yes,” said Nurse Friis, who was ready at last and had taken hold of her opera glass. “I don’t like to smell of carbolic outside the hospital.”

“Good night.”

Sister Koch came in and sat down over in the corner with her hands on her knees like a man.

“May I be here for a bit?” she said.

And Nurse Helgesen, who had nodded to her, said from behind the urn, “Nurse Friis is very fond of clothes.”

Nurse Berg and Nurse Krohn continued to talk about hats, and Nurse Koch, scratching the grey hair tied up at the back of her neck in the much same way as one ties a piece of rope said:

“Buy yourselves a couple of fur hats, ladies, they don’t wear out.”

The two laughed and went on discussing hats: they had more or less to suit the way you did your hair; and they started to talk about hair while the two senior nurses asked about the new patients.

“There were eleven today,” said Nurse Helgesen.

“Yes and quite a lot of bother,” said Sister Koch.

Nurse Berg could not imagine herself without a fringe.

“Aye,” she said, “if one had Brandt’s hair. Good Heavens, Brandt, I can’t understand you don’t try to wave it a bit.”

“It’s always been like this,” said Ida.

But Nurse Berg wanted to try to wave it and started to ruffle Ida’s fringe with a pocket comb. “I can hardly recognise you,” she said, going on ruffling: “otherwise you just look as though your hair’s been plastered down with a wet comb.”

Nurse Krohn, sitting watching, with both arms on the table, said: “Oh, did you see the new man in the office? My word, that’s some back parting he’s got.”

They discussed Mr. von Eichbaum, and from over in her chair Nurse Helgesen said: “Mr. von Eichbaum seems to me to be a very nice person…”

Sister Koch pushed her glasses more firmly on her nose as though to see better.

“Well,” she said, “he gives me the impression of being something of a philanderer.”

“I know him,” said Ida, sitting there quite quietly with her ruffled hair. “I knew him at home in Ludvigsbakke.” She always said “Ludvigsbakke” rather more gently than the other words she spoke.

But, drumming her fingers on the table as though dancing a waltz with them, Nurse Krohn said:

“The man wears straps on his trousers.”

Sister Koch spoke about Ludvigsbakke, which was in the part of the country from which she came, and about His Old Lordship and Her Ladyship.

“But surely she was already dead by that time.”

“Yes,” replied Ida. “Her Ladyship was dead.”

“She was a lovely woman,” said Sister Koch. “She still used to hoe her own flowerbeds when she was eighty, with farmhand’s socks pulled up over her shoes.”

Sister Koch laughed at the thought of Her Late Ladyship and her woollen socks.

“But that must be almost thirty years ago. Well…” – Sister Koch shook the front of her skirt. This was a habit she always had when she rose – “we all of us come to that.”

“Are you going upstairs, Brandt?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll go up with you,” said Sister Koch. “Good night.”

They let themselves out on the stairs near the quiet ward and stopped at Sister Koch’s door.

“Yes,” said Sister Koch in a quite different tone, and they stood by the door for a moment. “It was a splendid place.” She was thinking of Ludvigsbakke. “Good night, Brandt.”

“Good night.”

Ida went up and made her way across the loft to her own room. She lit the lamp, which was covered by a butterfly-shaped cloth (there were so many little things scattered about in the room that she and Nurse Roed made while on night duty to decorate their rooms), and she stood for a time in front of the chest of drawers looking at the picture of Ludvigsbakke with the tall white house and the lawn in front of it with the new flagpole, and all the children sitting on the steps all the way up.

There was Mr von Eichbaum as well. Yes, it was he, she thought it was a long time since she had noticed him. But she could well remember that the picture was from the year when he had come home from some school in Switzerland and spent his time stretched out on the lawn.

And His Lordship was standing by the flagpole.

She went across to the writing desk and let the flap down and took out a couple more pictures. That was the one of the lake and she stood there holding it and smiling: hmm, it was from when it was dry and the water was low as well, and all the gentlemen and Agnes Linde waded out with bare legs, splashing around among all the fish. How they enjoyed themselves. But a pike had once bitten Agnes Linde on the calf so that they had to send for Dr. Didrichsen.

There was Mrs von Eichbaum sitting under the white parasol.

She closed the drawers again; they were full of so many of mother’s old things, and while she undressed she took Olivia’s letter out and put it over by the bed. She had a habit of taking letters to bed and keeping them under the pillow as though to have them with her.

She sat up in bed and looked through all the sheets of paper. Olivia always started with quite small writing, which then became bigger and bigger and went all over the place:

Aye, those were the days, and who can understand what became of them…Here I can see us in church, at our confirmation, when we all wore white dresses and were flushed with crying and with our hair all smoothed down. Old Mr Bacher, poor thing, he’s going downhill, and they all go to Mr Robert for their confirmation classes now; he had twenty-seven last time round.

But goodness knows how often you had to test me on hymns.

Mamma always said: ‘I always think that Ida is the smartest of the confirmation candidates…there is something special about that girl with the way she holds her head, looking down a little…rather different from the others.’

And the dress you wore the next day was blue with tiny white dots.

We attended our first ball that Christmas. I had slept with gloves on for three weeks:

‘You simply can’t go to a ball with those hands,’ said Mamma. ‘Ida helps in the house, and yet she has nicer hands than you.’

We went there in Jensen’s carriage, you and I on the back seat, with two skirts up over our heads, sitting on the canvas ones while Mamma squeezed into the front seat and your Sofie sat proudly up on the box with your shoes, all wrapped in paper.

Every mother gave her own orders and tidied us up. And there we stood, in the middle of the floor with red arms and all frightened and smiling, while Mrs Ferder rushed all over the place:

`My word, Mrs Franck, yours are lovely,’ she went on; she had an open packet of pins fixed on her breast to straighten up Inka’s dress. There was a loud knock on the door: ‘Open up, open up’. It was Nina Stjernholm in her fur coat.

‘Good evening, good evening, children, children, I’m far too late,’ she shouted, shaking her head and making her curls fly all over the place, and then she shouted to Mamma:

‘Dear Mrs Franck, where are the fillies?’ And she scrutinized us and pushed fat Mrs Eriksen aside: ‘Charming, charming,’ she said as she bustled about.

‘Have you a partner for the first dance?’ she said turning to us.

‘Ida hasn’ t…’

‘Good, then stay with me, Miss Brandt; I’ve got a couple of new lieutenants from Fredericia…and I will take His Lordship.’

The master of ceremonies knocked on the door and asked whether the ladies were ready, and the music started.

We danced. I heard Captain Bergfeld say to Mamma:

‘That quiet young lady is so charming.’

That ‘quiet young lady’ was you, my girl, and the captain was a connoisseur.

Oh, yes, those wonderful early days: when summer arrived and the ‘sewing club’ moved out into the grove and we sat there in a circle, behind the pavilion, beneath the trees, while one of us read aloud.

But then came the autumn when your mother was taken ill.

You were over at our house, I remember, when Sofie came running across and shouted for you from out in the corridor. You had got up from the table and you left, without a word, without saying goodbye, running along the street after Sofie. You met Miss Fischer and took hold of her and spoke to her and then went on, faster and faster.

I stood at our window and wanted to go after you, but I don’t know…I was afraid, so frightened…that perhaps she was dead already, and I said to Mamma:

‘Are you not going to go with her?’

And we put on our coats and went along and arrived in your living room, where all the furniture had been moved because they had had to lift your mother and carry her; and the doctor came and the room was full of people until the doctor said they should go, and Miss Fischer came running in with a bowl full of ice, and she was crying and kept on saying:

‘But she would never do as anyone advised her to do; she would never follow anyone’s advice.’

I stayed with you that night, and we sat and kept watch in the living room and heard all the clocks ticking and announcing the slow hours with the bell whirring and striking.

And we heard the night nurse whisper to Sofie and change the ice, and we sat there again, listening to the clocks.

But you, poor thing, sat up for many nights after this.

Goodbye for now, my dear. May the new year bring you much joy. You know that we in the Villa all wish you that.

And then a kiss to mark the occasion, although you know how I hate all this kissing between friends. The children are shouting to me to give you their love.

Yours,

Olivia

Ida turned round and was about to put the letter, which she had slowly folded, under her pillow when she heard three sharp knocks on the door.

“Open up,” said a voice from outside.

It was Nurse Kjær and Nurse Øverud from the women’s ward, who darted in and quickly closed the door again.

“We’ve got something to drink,” said Nurse Kjær in little more than a whisper; she was carrying a brown bottle: “to celebrate her sister.”

“Of course,” said Ida. “They were getting married today.”

“Yes,” said Nurse Kjær. “She’s married now,” (they all three continued to speak quickly and in subdued voices as though the crème de cacao was something they had stolen): “Well, Sister Koch had gone to bed…”

Still in a half whisper, she said: “Øverud, where are the glasses?”

Nurse Øverud carefully took three small glasses out of her pocket, and the two sat down on chairs in front of the bed with the light shining down on Ida’s duvet.

“Good health,” said Kjær.

All three of them took a drink, while keeping the bottle on the floor as though to hide it, and Nurse Kjær said slowly as she sat there holding her glass, “There are forty of them there today.”

“Well,” she continued (she had acquired the same habit of moving her hand up towards her nose as Sister Koch), “it was certainly about time they got married…they’ d managed to stick together for five and a half years now while Poulsen was working in the post office…Then last summer while I was at home I was sent up into the woods to find them. Poulsen had the Sunday off (Kjær laughed), as he had every third Sunday, and there he was, asleep with his head on Marie’s shawl, while Marie, poor creature, was tiptoeing quietly around picking raspberries, aye, aye,” she said and chinked glasses with Nurse Øverud, who was laughing.

“It’s not easy to stay awake when you have had to drool over each other for five years.”

“But is it right they are going to move to Samsø now?” asked Ida.

“Yes, with sixteen hundred and a pension.”

They sat for a while, and then Nurse Kjær said in a quite different tone:

“Henriette wrote that the girls were going to decorate the church. It is so beautiful” – she paused for a moment – “that church at home, when it is decorated.”

The last time Nurse Øverud helped to decorate the church, she told them in her Funen lilt, was for Anna Kjærbølling’s wedding.

“Anna Kjærbølling, you know her, of course, Nurse Brandt. She comes from Broholm.”

“Yes,” said Ida. “She has two delightful children.”

“Yes, two lovely children.”

Nurse Kjær still sat looking at the wall.

“And I think, too,” she said slowly, “that children are the best thing of all.”

There was a moment’s silence while they all three stared into the light with changed and, as it were, sharper faces.

“Oh well, let’s wish them all the best,” said Nurse Kjær as she emptied her glass.

“Yes, all the best,” said the others, chinking their glasses with hers.

Nurse Kjær suddenly rose:

“We must go over,” she said, walking across the floor with the bottle; but her thoughts were still with her sister, and in the same voice as before, as though she was watching them go, she said: “And they will be on Samsø tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

Ida locked her door again, and she heard them hurrying across the loft as she returned to her bed. She was so wide awake now, although her head was heavy. She was thinking of Olivia and her children and of Nina with her four tall boys, whom she had seen last year, and about her father and her home – at home in Ludvigsbakke.

She could see the big white wing of the bailiff’s farm and the rooms in which everything was so clean and tidy and so quiet, and then there were the flowers, four in each window and four in the painted flower pots; and father’s shells, which she was never allowed to touch, were resplendent in the corners.

And she saw the office as she knocked on the very bottom of the door when she was quite small and went in and said that dinner was ready. Her father was sitting at the green table in his long canvas coat and wearing his old straw hat – for he always “covered up” when he was in the office – and she clambered up in the big armchair and waited: all “father’s birds” were perched around them, in their big cases, behind glass.

Until mother opened the door:

“Brandt, dinner is waiting.”

“Yes, dear. Is Ida here?”

And he absent-mindedly caressed Ida with a pair of loving hands:

“Yes dear, yes my dear.”

They went in. Ida toddled along beside her father, who held her so close to his knee that she stumbled over his boots.

“Brandt,” said her mother, “that’s no way to walk with the child.”

After dinner, father sat down in the sofa with a handkerchief over his face; mother sat in her chair by the window. Before long they were both asleep.

Ida tiptoed around quietly – she wore carpet slippers at home – and left the doors ajar. Then she sat down on a stool while her parents slept.

After dinner, Ida went with her mother to have coffee at the Madsens in the school. This was up by the main road to the north, along which carriages would be driving. One of them was that of the pharmacist’s wife from Brædstrup.

She had bought herself a sewing machine in Copenhagen now.

Yes, Mrs Madsen had been over to see it. But she thought that things would last better if they were sewn by hand.

Her mother nodded.

“But you know they have to try everything out at the pharmacy,” she said.

Ida sat on a small chair, learning to knit, and she had her own little cup.

When Ida and her mother went home, they took the road leading past the farm. Only two solitary candles were burning, one in Miss Schrøder’s room and one in the steward’s wing.

There was the sound of a voice: “Good evening.” It was Lars Jensen, the farm foreman; he rose from a bench.

“Good evening,” replied mother.

And they went on their way into the dark avenue leading to the bailiff’s house.

At home, they could hear laughter in the hallway. It was the forester and his wife who had come over for supper. Mother went in to prepare things, and Ida curtsied first to Mrs Lund, quite a small, frail lady who had given birth to eleven boys and whose eyes had grown bigger at every birth, and then to her husband.

“Well, and how is the young lady?” he said, lifting her up in both arms just in the midst of her curtsey and swinging her in the air. Lund was a man of enormous girth, and he laughed until he turned red right up to the back of his head.

“Lund, Lund, you’ re so rough,” said his wife. “You’ re only used to romping about with boys.”

“Oh,” said Lund as he continued to swing her around, “It’s good for her, so it is. It gets her blood circulating.”

They went in to have something to eat. “Oh,” said Mrs Lund (for nowhere were there so many beautiful things on a table as at the bailiff’s). “How wonderful it must be to be able to look after everything as you do, Mrs Brandt.”

Things were rather all over the place at the forester’ s; eleven was a somewhat large number of heirs to see to.

They exchanged news from the neighbourhood and talked about the sewing machine. Lund had been in to see how it worked.

“You must go and have a look at that great work of art,” he said.

“But surely it works by hand?” said Mrs Brandt.

“Yes, but heaven knows how long it will last.”

“You know, Lund,” said his wife with a faraway look in her eyes, “it must surely be lovely to have one of those in a home where there are so many to make clothes for.”

Lund just laughed:

“Aye, née Silferhjelm,” – the pharmacist’s wife had her distinguished maiden name placed below Mogensen on her cards – “could surely manage to sew the few skirts she needs by hand.”

“But there are people,” said Mrs Brandt as she handed a dish around, “who must be the first to have things.”

“And then when you haven’t anything else to think about,” said Mrs Lund, “it is quite reasonable.”

Mrs Lund, who always spoke in a tone as though she were trying to quieten someone down, changed the subject to the price of butter:

“Now Levy has reduced his price by four skillings.”

Mrs Brandt failed to understand that, for she had maintained her price all the time.

“Well,” said Mrs Lund, shaking her head – she had four small curls at the back, tied with a velvet ribbon – “but it is presumably because things do not always turn out like that for us at home… heaven knows how that happens.”

“Let’s have a schnapps, Lund,” said Brandt who was doing little but look, first at one and then at the other. “Has Ida got anything to eat?”

Ida was allowed to spread her butter herself with a blunt-edged knife. “You have to accustom children,” said her mother. “It is good for them.”

“Cheers, Lund,” said the bailiff, and they went on to wonder when His Lordship could be expected. It would scarcely be before the end of June, in a couple of months.

“When the woods are past their best,” said the forester.

Ida was to go to bed after the meal. Her father put her on his knee when she said good night and bounced her up and down.

“My, you do bounce that child around,” said Lund with a laugh, and Ida said good night to the others, one after the other in turn.

The forester and his wife left at ten o’ clock.

“Let me take your arm,” said Lund, for it was dark.

“She’s a prickly one, you know,” he said. “She can’t forget we’ve known her as the housekeeper…and all that went with it.”

“But they’ re very helpful, Lund,” she said.

The forester said nothing to that. His only comment was: “She takes up a lot of space at the end of the table.”

“And how nice everything is,” said his wife. She was always full of profound admiration when she was in other people’s homes.

The Lunds made their way home.

But Mrs Brandt went around putting away the silver.

…Ida was to have a children’s party, and that must be now, before His Lordship came.

The children had chocolate to drink on the Mound adjoining His Lordship’s garden.

The girls sat in a row, all in starched dresses – with the two from the inn at the end of the table in tartan winter dresses and wearing earrings – all drinking and eating.

Mrs Brandt, who was going around, wearing a white shawl and pouring out the cocoa, said:

“I don’t think you have anything, have you Ingeborg?”

Ingeborg was the judge’s only child and she was wearing net mittens decorated with small bows.

Not a sound was to be heard.