Ida Brandt (16 page)

“But good heavens,” he said.

He continued to think of “Ludvigs”.

If he had become a gentleman farmer instead of failing all those examinations, then he could perhaps have become the butter merchant’s tenant.

Karl pursed his lip.

Hm, the last summer they had spent at “Ludvigs” was the year Ida’s mother died.

There was a knock on the door, and Julius entered with a bottle on a tray.

“Madam asked me to bring the Madeira,” he said.

Karl nodded as he poured himself a glass: the Madeira was good. Damn it all, it came from the place itself.

Mrs von Eichbaum’s Madeira was brought home by naval officers in the family.

“It’s no damned good running around to all those hostelries,” said Karl.

With his glass before him, he started to read again. But before long he put the yellow book down on his knee and smiled. He thought that it would really be fun to take Ida Brandt to one of those places, for she had naturally never seen anything of the kind.

Mrs von Eichbaum was sitting at her desk. She had as it were immediately felt a desire to write to Vilhelmine. For the day was passing, and she was in danger of not doing it. And today she had been thinking so much of her and of the time she had spent up at Unsgaaard.

“Dear Vilhelmine,” she wrote. “How lovely it is to think we are going to be together again, and not only for a couple of weeks in an hotel, which only makes one feel restless. But to have you here in peace and quiet. I hope you will be able to find something near here. I am thinking of the Lindholms, who are going to Nice with their sick daughter Mary – they always go away with their consumptives when it is too late. You could perhaps rent
that
apartment if we get it well aired and thoroughly cleaned. You know it is quite close to us, and it would be good for Kate so, being close to Grønningen and Langelinie and you must also think of your health. I am really looking forward to the winter, also to seeing Kate; it is so good to have a few young people around us. “

Mrs von Eichbaum had closed the letter and was sitting staring into the candles. She was thinking of Karl. Now that he was busy for a specific time every day with something like an office that demanded his attention, he had quite calmed down. But the fault had always been hers. She should never have sent him away from home. Karl, who was so easily swayed.

Mrs von Eichbaum heard Julius in the dining room. She felt it was a long time since she had so looked forward to a cup of tea.

∞∞∞

On the Sunday it was warm enough for the general’s wife and Mrs von Eichbaum to take coffee on the veranda. The general’s wife said: “You only need a shawl across your shoulders, Mille; you are accustomed to the air in town.”

Julius brought the shawl, and the sisters sat together looking out across the Sound. “My nephew does not require coffee,” said the general’s wife. Karl von Eichbaum had gone down to Bellevue to play billiards.

Mrs von Eichbaum was talking about Vilhelmine Mourier.

“I wrote to her,” she said, “and I wonder if they could not rent the Lindholms’ apartment…”

“Good heavens, Emilie,” said the general’s wife. “Do you really think so – in a house where there is consumption?”

“My dear,” said Mrs von Eichbaum, “where on earth could one live if one were so nervous? I am used to travelling, and I can only ask you where can one avoid infection? Naturally not using the same bedclothes, and
provided
we make sure beforehand that the house has been properly aired.”

“Yes,” said the general’s wife.

“And it would be nice if they were close to us so we could visit each other.”

Mrs von Eichbaum looked out over the water for a moment.

“And lovely for Kate with Grønningen – it would be nice for her when she is so fond of riding.”

The general’s wife nodded.

“She is a superb horsewoman,” she said. (In the family the
e
in superb tended to be pronounced as an
a
).

And shortly afterwards, looking out across the water:

“She has just the same figure as Vilhelmine had in her youth.”

The sisters went on to talk of other things.

∞∞∞

That Sunday was the last warm day of the year.

On the Monday it was wet and dirty underfoot, and Ida struggled to make her way on her last morning walk – for she was no longer on night duty from today – up against the wind along the lakes.

When she arrived back home, she came across Karl von Eichbaum, who had just got off the tram.

He was drifting along over on the pavement with both hands in his pockets and the oilcloth briefcase held tight under his right arm.

“Ugh,” he said discontentedly, but suddenly he smiled:

“Spring didn’t arrive then.”

“No, I don’t think we shall be going on any picnics in the forest.”

“Well in that case,” said Karl, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, “let’s go out and enjoy ourselves.”

Ida laughed.

“How?” she said.

“We’ll go out somewhere one evening to eat. We can take someone else with us…”

“That would be worse,” Ida said hurriedly.

Adding, as she blushed deeply:

“With someone I don’t know.”

“Oh, all right,” said Karl in a voice that was suddenly transformed and gentler:

“Then we’ll go alone.”

They went in through the entrance and exchanged a few more words.

Then, already on the big steps leading up to the office, still with his hands in his pockets, but in the same gentle voice as before, Karl said:

“How old are you, Miss Ida?”

“You know perfectly well.”

But Karl said:

“No, I’m sure you’ re just seventeen.”

Ida merely laughed – that was the youngest feature about her, her brief, little, gentle laugh; and they each went their way.

Ida went up to her room. By the time she was in bed, the sun had come out behind the dark green curtains. The room was filled with a gentle, quiet light like that from a matt, green lamp. Ida lay with her eyes half closed.

But she suddenly thought that Karl Eichbaum had been wearing a summer overcoat even today.

Two days later, when she had to take an admission slip across to the office, she met Karl von Eichbaum coming in through the door dressed in a splendid new overcoat. He had been out to lunch. When he had any money at his disposal, Karl von Eichbaum gave “Ane’s handiwork” to a porter and had his lunch at “Svendsen’ s”.

They exchanged a few words and Ida gave him an admiring look.

“Yes,” said Karl, sticking out his chest, “I’m looking smart today.”

“Terribly,” she said, suddenly reverting to a Jutland accent. She had been so pleased to see the splendid new coat.

But Karl said:

“You should throw some salt over my shoulder, Miss Ida.”

“Yes,” said Ida, “that’s what we girls always did at home in Horsens.”

They were still laughing when a lady entered.

“Hello, mother,” said Karl, taking a couple of steps away from Ida.

Then he said: “This is Miss Brandt.”

Mrs von Eichbaum held out her hand.

“I am pleased to see you, Ida. Karl has told me of course that you have a position here.”

“Yes,” said Ida, blushing slightly as she hurried to add: “I have an admission slip to hand in.”

“Well,” said Mrs von Eichbaum, “you must come and visit me one day – now (she said with a slight smile) that you are working in the same building as my son. He can always let me know one day when you are free.”

Mother and son remained down in the doorway while Mrs von Eichbaum gave a message to Karl. Mrs von Eichbaum preferred to go herself rather than send Julius. “One should not,” she said to her sister, “send Julius and his like to an office where the other employees, you know, might be in less important posts.”

When Karl accompanied her back to the door, Mrs von Eichbaum said:

“I really do think it is delightful that you have the little Brandt girl here, you can always exchange a few words with her. Goodbye, Karl.”

As Karl went back up the stairs he met Ida emerging from the office.

“Have you given it any more thought, Miss Ida?” said Karl.

“Any more thought to what?”

“To the idea of going out for something to eat,” said Karl. “Because, by Gad, this winter overcoat” – he said, tapping the new garment – “needs to be christened.”

∞∞∞

Ida turned out the lamps in front of her looking glass and tried to find the door in the dark. She did not herself realise she was walking so carefully on tiptoe. But she did not wish to meet anyone now just as she was going out.

She ran on down the stairs, and suddenly she started: the door to the ward with the restless patients had been opened and closed.

“Ugh,” said Quam, as he emerged. “We are never left in peace.”

“Well, I’m off duty,” said Ida as she ran off.

She went out through the courtyard and the entrance hall, where she nodded to everyone: two porters who were standing by one door, and one in the middle of the room and Josefine who was coming down the stairs.

“Oh, nurse,” said Josefine as she eyed her new coat, “so you are off to enjoy yourself now.” And she nodded, like the others.

“Yes,” said Ida with a smile.

She went out into the street. She could see him over by the lamp post:
there
he was already, on the corner by the Botanical Gardens.

“Here I am,” she said, looking up. She was almost out of breath.

“Yes,” said Karl. “You are in good time. Good evening.”

And they shook hands.

They walked along, while the tramcar bells clanged and the cab horses trotted.

“So what did you say, then?” asked Karl in the rather drawling voice he was fond of using when he was not pleased. “Where did you say you were going?”

“Oh, I said something or other.”

“Yes,” said Karl. “One can always tell the odd fib or two.” And he gave a little laugh.

“For that’s something you learn to do already as a child, God help me.”

Ida suddenly assumed a serious expression.

“Oh yes.”

But her mood changed again, and she exclaimed:

“It was as though they were all saying they hoped I would enjoy myself.”

She was thinking of those who had nodded to her in the doorway.

And Karl, walking along with his cigar hanging from the very extreme tips of his lips, said:

“Well, now we’ d better give a bit of thought to what we’ re going to have to eat.”

They both laughed.

They had reached the entrance to the Ørsted Park.

“We can go through the park; there’s plenty of time,” said Ida.

“But they’ll be closing it,” said Karl, following her.

They walked over the last fallen leaves, but there were still a few flowers left in the various beds.

“It’s so beautiful,” said Ida.

There could not be anyone else in the entire park, not a soul on all those paths, and as they walked along beside each other they could hear the sound of their own footsteps.

“They’ll be going to sleep now,” said Karl as he pointed to one of the silent statues.

They went over to a small terrace beneath a huge tree. Below them lay the slopes down to the dark, shining water.

Ida spoke more quietly:

“This is such a lovely place,” she said.

Karl blew the smoke from his cigar in long rings, and neither of them spoke. It was as though the sounds of bells and carriages faded into the distance, and the light from the street lamps hung over the wrought iron gates like some resplendent wreath.

“Is this what it is like in big cities?” said Ida quietly.

Her eyes followed the slopes and the bridge down to the silent water.

“Yes,” said Karl, and the rings from the cigar were dispersing.

“Nowhere more beautiful?”

“No,” he said.

A swan silently made its way forward in the dark waters.

They stood there for a moment longer.

“But we are going to be late,” said Ida in a quite different voice, and they turned to leave.

“Ah, good evening, old boy!” Karl nodded up to Ørsted’s statue as they went past it, and they laughed again.

Ida was still a step in front of Karl now as they went through the park.

“We don’t need to hurry,” said Karl, who loved the “dusk” in the streets.

“Yes, but then we can see everyone arriving,” said Ida, continuing to hurry.

But when they reached the theatre and entered dress circle, there was not a single person in the stalls.

“Well,” said Karl. “Was this early enough for you?”

People gradually began to arrive, and they could hear the cheerful sound of seats being dropped and of the attendants’ keys in the doors to the boxes, and from the foyer all the happy sounds of pushing and talking.

Ida raised her shoulders with a feeling of wellbeing as she shook her sleeves a little.

“Oh,” she said, “it’s the first time this play has been on.”

“Yes,” said Karl; “that’s what is exciting about it.”

There were gentlemen in tails standing in the stalls, and elegantly coiffured ladies were moving quickly to take their places. Karl recited their names: critics and authors and people she had read of in the newspapers.

Ida sat chatting, full of delight, and followed every name he mentioned. But suddenly she half rose and looked up towards the balcony with a little toss of her head.

“That’s where we usually sit,” she said and quickly sat down again.

“Who?”

“We,” she said.

Some nurses had had subscriptions to the theatre last year.

As the noise increased, Ida sat down again smiling, with her back leant right back against her seat. But all at once, she said, quite frightened and turning scarlet.

“Oh, but suppose Mrs von Eichbaum were here.”

“She isn’ t,” said Karl. “She never goes to these private theatres unless she gets a decent ticket from someone she knows, and she hasn’t got one this evening.”

They again watched people continuing to stream in. Ida caught Karl’s arm.

“Look, there’s Mrs Lind. She’s been in the ward.”

That was the only person she knew.