Authors: Herman Bang
Your devoted sister
Mille
P.S. If you should see Bruun, perhaps you would ask him whether there could be any question of infection, as the walls are all painted in oil paint. I have been to the Reformed Church. The language was beautiful, but the sermon I thought was bombastic and without the firm, religious train of thought and the solid construction we expect of Petri. Nevertheless, it was a delight, as I say, because of the language. Ask Karl whether he is taking care not to catch cold after riding, as can so easily happen. Anna will be receiving a consignment of the chocolate we drink here every morning. It goes further than that from Cloetta.
∞∞∞
Ida slipped through the corridor in the Rørholm Café; quickly, she dodged into the private room; her shoulders were strangely narrow.
No, he was not there – not yet.
The lady at the counter, still wearing a net over her hair, had seen her come along the corridor:
“Hm, you can bring it all back again now, Ellingsen,” she said.
Mr Ellingsen made no reply. He never indulged in staff conversations, but he had today and for the future decided only to set the table when “the gentleman” had arrived.
“It doesn’t really matter in any case whether he comes or not: we’ re sure of the money,” said the lady at the counter in a shrill voice as Ellingsen went past with a table cloth. In the corridor he encountered a young couple who were fooling around and laughing. The lady, a chubby woman with red cheeks, banged the flap down on the door opposite Ida’s room.
“Occupied,” she shouted.
“Occupied,” said the gentleman, knocking the flap with his walking stick; and the younger waiter, who had already seen them, shouted from the counter:
“Tea, butter, toast, four soft-boiled eggs…”
“Six,” shouted the gentleman, and the door banged shut.
“Six,” the sound was blared out from the counter to the kitchen like a fanfare; while Ellingsen, with a napkin over his arm, opened the door to the private room where Ida hastily hid a couple of small packets under her coat.
“You are busy here today,” she said.
“Yes,” said Ellingsen, laying the cloth on the table and smoothing it with his wrinkled hands so that his celluloid cuffs could clearly be seen: “We must not complain, thank goodness.”
Ida had sat down (it was as though she had felt a kind of stitch recently when entering Rørholm) and Ellingsen said:
“But early spring is always the best time here.”
“Yes,” Ida replied. She seemed not to have heard what he had said, but she had recently talked to all the staff, to Ellingsen and to the lady at the counter, to all of them almost as people involuntarily spoke in hotels when they are frightened of not being able to pay one day.
“It is such lovely weather,” she said.
“It is the season for it,” said Ellingsen. He was about to go when the sound of laughter came from further down the corridor, and Ida said, “They sound happy.”
Ellingsen held his head on one side and smiled. “Yes, it is the young people; they have just started to come here.” He went over to the door and added before gliding out – Mr Ellingsen had a way of opening and closing doors as though all the doorsteps in Rørholm’s were covered with felt:
“We will wait a little, then.”
Ida sat there. Her eyes had taken on a strange stare, and she thought the one thought she had had since arriving: If only he would tell me when he’s not coming. But suddenly she smiled as she envisaged Karl’s ever carefree face.
“But he doesn’t think about it,” she said, continuing to smile.
She started when there came two knocks on the door.
“Is it you?” she said. Her voice broke and there was Karl standing in the doorway.
“So you
are
here?” he said.
“I have someone with me.” And he stepped aside to make way for Knuth. Ida had stopped and turned scarlet, and Karl said – perhaps a little too suddenly and cheerfully:
“Knuth was hungry as well, you see.”
There was a slight pause and Knuth said: “Yes, I’m sorry for barging in, Miss Brandt,” before Ida held out her hand, mechanically, without knowing that she had tears in her eyes.
“I know you of course, Count Knuth,” she said.
And after another moment’s hesitation, she said, as though she simply
had
to get away:
“I will go and order some coffee.” And she went.
Neither of the men said anything before the door was closed and they were alone.
“Oh hell,” said Karl, and it was as though he was shaking something off: “She’ll get over it. Take your coat off.”
Ida had gone. For a moment, only very briefly and only with her elbow, she supported herself against the wall. But when she reached the counter and saw the waitress’ rat-like eyes looking at her, she suddenly said in a happy voice:
“There are three of us today, Miss…”
And there she stayed, talking and laughing, without thinking, until Ellingsen started to take the food in and she followed him, into the private room, where Karl and Knuth sat waiting. Sometimes looking up and sometimes with his eyes turned down, Knuth started to talk in a quiet, respectful voice about the lovely mornings and the barracks. “Of course, you also live in a kind of barracks, Miss Brandt,” he said. “Yes,” Ida murmured. Although rather more hesitantly, Knuth continued speaking in the same respectful tone about the theatre, which would soon be closing, and spring, which would soon be coming.
Ida answered yes and no. And no sound was to be heard other than the chinking of their cups as Ellingsen served them and the sound of a silver bracelet that Knuth was turning round his wrist.
“Now let’s see about getting some of this food down us,” said Karl even before Ellingsen had gone.
And they started to eat while Ida held her egg cup up from the table as though she was afraid that her spoon would not reach her mouth, and Knuth continued to sit rather far away from the table, in the same respectful manner. But Karl felt for Ida’s cold hand under the table and pressed it.
“Are there no cakes?” he said, speaking almost as though caressing her and, although not aware of it, he avoided calling her by her Christian name, “Miss Brandt always has cakes with her.”
Ida rose and took the parcels from under her coat.
“Oh, of course there’s a cake by Gad,” he said, and while Ida was cutting it he put his hand on her wrist still in an attempt to be kind to her, but Ida took her hand away.
“Do have a piece,” she said, handing the plate to Knuth, who took it with a sudden rather jerky movement.
“The cake’s lovely,” said Karl, “but we need some port wine with it; it clears the throat.”
Knuth stood up, a little too quickly, to order it. “May I?” he said. Hardly had he gone before Karl rose and stood behind Ida.
“Surely I can bring someone with me,” he said, bending over her.
Ida made no reply. Framed by his hands, her face was as pale as a sheet.
“You don’t need to be so damned upset about it, chick,” he said, continuing to look down on her until he suddenly kissed her behind her ear.
Ida had not made a move, but suddenly she rose and, trembling all over as though she was cold, she clung to him.
“But I’ve given you everything,” she said. There was something about her tone like a shriek that had not been uttered.
“There, there, there.”
The tenderness in his voice was genuine, and there was something in it that almost sounded like pain:
“There, there.”
A smile passed over Ida’s face. “I’m all right again now,” she said, drying her eyes. “It’s all right.”
And she suddenly ran over to her coat and took the purse out and put it down in his pocket.
“I’ve got enough,” he said and seemed almost to shake himself.
But Ida stroked his hair.
“He is very charming,” she said.
Karl laughed:
“He’s one of those who start behaving like a woman when they are in love.”
Karl continued to laugh. “And it’s damned obvious he’s in love,” he said.
Knuth returned with Ellingsen carrying the port wine, and Karl said:
“We’ re laughing at you, Knuth.”
“What for?” said Knuth.
“Cheers,” was all Karl said, and he emptied his glass while Ida, too, said: “Your health, Count Knuth,” and Knuth drank his wine, jerkily as before. “Thank you, Miss Brandt,” he said. Karl laughed again, winking at Ida and stretching his legs out:
“It’s lovely here, by Gad. To hell with the ride.”
Ida poured more coffee, taking the cups and handing them round. The sun fell on the tablecloth and on her hair as she bent down, and she started to talk about Jutland. About Aarhus, where “Count Knuth used to live, of course.”
She had been there the year before last, for two days with Franck and Olivia, during the holidays. Oh, it was so beautiful in Riis Forest.
As she herself started to drink, Ida went on talking about her visit to Aarhus and about the Francks and about the esplanade. She probably did not herself realise that she was perhaps looking to these memories as though for a little social support.
“Yes,” she said, “it was lovely on the esplanade. We used to go there in the evenings, Olivia and I.”
“Oh,” said Karl. “Now we’ve got to Olivia.”
But Knuth, who probably did not hear much apart from the sound of her voice – as his eyes seemed to confirm – and for whom the mention of Aarhus only produced a vision of the dry, sun-drenched cobblestones in front of the cathedral, said quite absent-mindedly:
“Aye, I spent a couple of years in that place.”
Karl, sat rocking astride his chair, in front of the two of them, with his cigarette between his lips, glancing at Knuth and winking at Ida.
Then he said:
“By Gad, you’ re quite one for the ladies, Knuth,” and he laughed in a profound sense of wellbeing.
Ida blushed but managed to smile as she hurried to say:
“But we didn’t get as far as Marselisborg.”
And Knuth, who was perhaps blushing more than she, said:
“Aye, we often went there from the barracks.”
Karl went on rocking on his chair, his eyes directed contentedly across the table at Ida, who was shading herself a little from the sun with her hand; there was always a maidenly beauty about her when she talked about the Francks.
And Karl, suddenly nodding and pursing his lips at the same time as his eyes were smiling, said:
“
Mais il n’ a pas tort, monsieur le comte; madame est bien jolie.
”
She did not realise it, but a cloud suddenly passed over Ida’s face at the sound of the French words (Karl had been using so many French expressions recently), but then she smiled again, happy in front of Karl’s eyes, which “encompassed” her, and she raised her glass and took a sip with her eyes lost in his.
Until (after all three had been silent for a moment) she spoke again, the final three syllables came suddenly and with an almost melancholy ring:
“But that was so long ago.” She had again been thinking of Aarhus.
Karl, who was also lost in a completely different train of thought, was brought back by the mention of Aarhus and, blowing out his smoke through his nose, said:
“But those Aarhus merchants are a damned clever bunch.”
Ida did not register this, but she turned a pair of radiant eyes towards Karl and said:
“I wonder where the next holiday will be.”
And, as the smile returned to his eyes, Karl replied:
“Aye. God knows.”
But Ida had to go. It was getting far too late. Knuth rose. “Thank you, Miss Brandt,” he said, chinking his glass against Ida’s. There was something strange about Knuth’s movements, almost those of a jumping jack, when he was suddenly called back from whatever was preoccupying him.
Karl, too, rose.
“Oh well,
allez-y
,” he said, and while he helped Ida on with her coat, he said to Knuth, perhaps continuing the train of thought from Aarhus or perhaps simply because of the French expression:
“Hell, the way she made Beauté jump yesterday in the Deer Park.”
He stood there with his cigarette hanging from his lips.
“Aye, she’s got steel in her back, by Gad.”
Knuth went out into the corridor, and Karl put his overcoat on. He held Ida before him for a moment. “Well, chick,” he said and his voice suddenly became tender when he saw the expression in her eyes: “That was a lovely day.”
“Yes.”
She leant against him.
“If only you come,” she said, and with a smile she whispered, though the corners of her mouth were trembling a little:
“Because it is so difficult to go out of that door when I have been waiting here alone.”
It was almost as though Karl suddenly blushed. But all he said, very gently, was:
“Thank you for a lovely time today, chick.”
And quickly, with the same look of fear in her eyes as before (but perhaps only because they were each going off in their own direction now), Ida flung her arms round his neck.
“Oh Karl…”
Then they went out. In the street they all three walked side by side. Ida was pale, as could clearly be seen now she was out in the open. But Karl, who was whistling gently as he walked, said happily:
“Now we could have a look at the flat.”
Ida blushed and made no reply; but Karl continued in the same tone:
“Miss Brandt has rented a flat. We could go up and have a look at it now.”
“It’s not been done up,” said Ida; her voice so harsh that it broke; Karl looked at her in amazement:
“All right, then we can leave it.”
They separated soon after this.
“Thank you Miss Brandt,” said Knuth as he released her hand.
Karl and he walked along the pavement side by side. Karl was smoking and Knuth was chewing at his walking stick.
“You’ re a fortunate man, Eichbaum,” the lieutenant said.
Karl puffed his cigarette smoke out, but Knuth said in the same dreamy tone:
“You see, it’s the gentle girls one should have.”
Karl went on a bit before saying:
“Aye, they’ re probably the best to have.” He placed a hesitant emphasis on “have” as though he was stopping before some unspoken “but” and they went on a little before he said in that drawling voice of his: