Ida Brandt (15 page)

“He was here the other day,” she said. “And good heavens, he is a really nice person – you know, considering – and
there
he sat, very politely on a chair…they always receive some sort of upbringing in the naval dockyard.”

“He,” was Julie’s fiancé, an excellent young man who was an engine room artificer in the navy.

The general’s wife sat looking at her sister’s work – a very big undertaking, a bed curtain with netted middle sections, the finished areas being wrapped in a great deal of clean tissue paper – and thinking of Julie’s illegitimate origins, said:

“Yes,
I
consider it
extremely
honourable of him.”

As though they had read each other’s thoughts, and as though the distance could be thought to have lessened the illegitimate nature of the relationship, Mrs von Eichbaum said:

“Of course, he is from Ringkøbing.”

The mention of this provincial town started a train of thought in the general’s wife, and she suddenly said:

“By the way, I have had a letter from Vilhelmine. She writes that they are going to be here this winter.”

“All of them?” asked Mrs von Eichbaum.

“No, Mourier is going to stay at home, so only Mine and Kate. But they have thought of renting an apartment, my dear. They can afford it.”

Mrs Vilhelmine Mourier was the wife of a merchant from Aarhus, one of the group of friends, whose husband had made a huge fortune by exporting butter to England.

“And Kate,” said the general’s wife, “is about twenty now.”

Mrs von Eichbaum, who had not seen Kate Mourier for two or three years, asked:

“What is she like now she has grown up?”

“Fair-haired and quite pretty…a bit full of herself, I suppose, but that is how they easily turn out in the provinces where they are among the leading families.”

“My dear,” said Mrs von Eichbaum, “she will get over that with a mother like Vilhelmine.”

“A good figure,” said the general’s wife, who was still thinking about Kate Mourier’s exterior.

Mrs von Eichbaum was thinking that she would nevertheless write to Mine Mourier and say how delightful she thought it that they could be living close to each other throughout the winter.

“I think they are going to travel around in Jutland a little first,” the general’s wife went on. “Mourier wants to look for an estate… somewhere to spend the summer months. That is only reasonable, considering that Vilhelmine has been accustomed to country living since she was a child.”

Mrs von Eichbaum made no reply, but a new association of ideas persuaded her to say:

“Did you know that the little Brandt girl, the bailiff’s daughter, you remember, is working in the hospital?”

“Oh,” said the general’s wife, “so that is where she has ended up.”

And in a quite indifferent tone she added:

“Does she really need to do that?”

“Good heavens, Lotte, she inherited over eighty thousand,” replied Mrs von Eichbaum. The mention of this sum seemed to occupy her mind for a moment, and after a brief silence she added, almost thoughtfully: “Her father was an excellent man.”

The general’s wife prepared to take her leave and asked to be remembered to Karl; but after she had put on her outdoor clothes in the vestibule, she said:

“By the way, Emilie, could you possibly lend me Petri’s sermons?…The roads leading to the chapel are all muddy, and I no longer know anyone there.”

Mrs von Eichbaum fetched the sermons, and the general’s wife said:

“Thank you, dear…yes, one longs for Petri in the summer. The others do not have the same clarity of thought as he does.”

Mrs von Eichbaum nodded.

“My dear,” she said, “it is the serenity that he has inherited from his father.”

As she opened the main door, a young man in uniform was on his way up the steps.

“Is it for me?” asked Mrs von Eichbaum.

“Yes, it’s a bill for you, madam.”

Mrs von Eichbaum took it, the corners of her mouth trembling imperceptibly, and the general’s wife quickly glanced at her sister through the mirror.

“Oh,” said Mrs von Eichbaum as she opened the bill. It is from Mrs Cohn. I have had my grey silk dress cleaned. With some black trimming on the front it can still look quite smart.”

“Goodbye, Charlotte.”

“Goodbye, Emilie. Well, I will see you on Sunday. I am going to borrow Julius, you know.”

When members of the family were giving dinners, they borrowed Julius in turn.

“Goodbye.”

The general’s wife had descended the steps, and Mrs von Eichbaum went inside to her writing desk in the sitting room, while the messenger waited in the entrance.

Mrs von Eichbaum’s money was in the writing desk drawer, divided up into various envelopes, where she had it ready, each for its own purpose. She took fifteen kroner out, and the messenger left. Mrs von Eichbaum seated herself again at the desk and calculated.

After buying an annuity three years ago with the money not used up by Karl, Mrs von Eichbaum had to be very careful with everything.

But at least she still had
the home
.

Mrs von Eichbaum remained seated at the desk.

It was a good thing it had been the account from Cohn and that Charlotte had seen that that was what it was.

But Karl was really settling down now – it was to be hoped – out in that office of his.

Mrs von Eichbaum rose and started on her bed curtain. Her expression was different now; she looked more careworn and older when sitting like that, working and alone.

Julius came into the dining room with the polished knives on a tray and set them out.

At half past four, Julius came in to light the stove, and Mrs von Eichbaum asked:

“Have you lit the fire in my son’s room?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Thank you.”

Mrs von Eichbaum rarely went to her son’s room. The only door into it was from the hallway. When Karl came home from Switzerland four years ago, while she herself was at Aix, she had had the door to Karl’s room from the sitting room bricked up,

When there were visitors, the gentlemen smoked in there of course.

“And,” Mrs von Eichbaum had explained to Mr Petersen, the family builder, “by bricking it up, you avoid exposing your good furniture to all that smoke.”

Mr Petersen had bricked it up, and when Karl von Eichbaum came home, the only entrance to his room was from the hall.

Mrs von Eichbaum heard that Karl was in the small drawing room, and she nodded to him from the doorway.

“Aunt Charlotte has been here,” she said. “She says it is so lovely out there. She sends her love to you.”

She did not speak with such a distinguished voice when addressing her son and the words became as it were narrower in her mouth.

“Thank you,” said Karl, sitting down on a chair by the desk. He never stood for long at a time; and then he asked:

“When are they moving in?”

Mrs von Eichbaum was talking about this when Julius opened the door to the dining room with a hushed: “Dinner is served, madam,” and they went to the table, where the bottle of red wine, on which there was no label, stood at Karl’s place.

“May I pour for you, mother?” said Karl, leaning forward.

“Yes, please. So it is going to be red today?”

There were days when Karl dined out and Mrs von Eichbaum only drank water.

She served the food while continuing to talk about the country seat and the lovely mornings.

“Yes,” said Karl in a rather different tone, and he sat for a moment with the glass of wine in his hand.

“The mornings are jolly beautiful.”

And they ate a little until Mrs von Eichbaum stumbled on the Mouriers as a subject to talk about. They always had to
find
a subject to discuss.

“They are coming to town this year, according to my sister Charlotte. You know, the Mouriers from Aarhus.”

“Oh,” said Karl, “the butter merchant.”

“My dear Karl,” – Mrs von Eichbaum left her spoon in the soup for a moment – “trade is extremely respectable these days.”

“Yes,” murmured Karl. “They make money, of course.”

He had an indolent, troubled antipathy to people who went around making money.

“And Vilhelmine, who is back from Unsgaard – that lovely home of hers.”

Mrs von Eichbaum took another bite: “But they are travelling around in Jutland first, looking at country houses.”

Nothing more was said for a while until Karl, in order to say something, commented indifferently as Julius was offering him the second course.

“Well, they could buy Ludvigsbakke.”

His Lordship’s heirs were still lumbered with the estate, which they were unable to sell at a reasonable price in these difficult times.

“I think it would be too big for them,” said Mrs von Eichbaum.

“Well, they have the money,” said Karl. “And most of it would stay invested in the place.”

And Karl suddenly became quite enthusiastic as he poured himself another glass, and he went on talking about “Ludvigs”.

“They will never find a better place,” he said, thinking of the broad approach road across the fields and the great poplars along the drive and the lawns where the sun shone straight in his face, and the stables where the two horses were left loose in their big stalls.

They’ll never find a better place,” he said again. “And it’s all well kept, both the buildings and the lot.”

“Yes, the house makes a good impression,” said Mrs von Eichbaum.

Karl thought of the white main building, the steps and the drive down past the bailiff’s wing, and suddenly he laughed.

“And Recks could perfectly well get out now,” he said, “now that Mrs Reck has got Konstance married.”

“Karl,” said Mrs von Eichbaum, and then paused. “I do not think Mrs Reck is one of those mothers…”

But Karl continued to talk about “Ludvigs” as he cracked walnuts and peeled apples, and Mrs von Eichbaum sat there animated and with a red patch in her cheeks. She was always so happy when they sat at table for a time.

“And the hunting’s fine,” said Karl as they left the table.

“I hope you have enjoyed your dinner, my boy,” said Mrs Eichbaum, holding his hand in hers for a moment.

Karl remained in a good mood and went on talking, and in the sitting room he said:

“Let me have my coffee in here, mother.”

“Mrs von Eichbaum hurried to open the door to the dining room again.

“Julius, my son would like his coffee in here,” she said in a clear voice.

“I am sure you want to smoke?” she said.

And as they sat down, each on their own side in the corner sofa, and Karl lit his cigarette, she told him:

“I have heard that Schrøder is in a bad way. I believe she has dropsy.”

Karl looked up from his smoking and said:

“You might invite Ida Brandt down here some time, mother. She doesn’t know anyone, of course.”

“Yes, of course I could,” said Mrs von Eichbaum more eagerly: “Some time, she is really quite nice.”

Karl looked at the smoke.

“She’s sweet,” he said.

And shortly afterwards:

“She’s really sweet.”

Julius brought the coffee, and Karl sat watching him until he had gone again.

“Mother, couldn’t you tell Julius to wear some decent boots?”

The prunella boots worn by Julius were a constant source of irritation to him. It was impossible to hear the man coming.

“Good Heavens, Karl,” said Mrs von Eichbaum as she poured the coffee. “I think it is delightful that the person waiting on us cannot be heard.”

The fact was that Julius suffered from bad feet, which in recent years had prevented him from taking a better post.

“Dear Emilie,” said the general’s wife to her sister, “we would never keep that excellent man otherwise.”

Karl’s cigarette went out and, half smiling, he sat there looking at his own reflection in the mirror on the étagère.

Oh, how well he knew that étagère. It had stood in that very place ever since his childhood, with the same Meissen dishes in the same places.

And with a smile, he said:

“Your things keep well, mother.”

“Yes, when one looks after them,” said Mrs von Eichbaum.

Karl made no reply; but, suddenly overcome by a sort of sense of all the tenderness hidden in this home, which, in spite of him and in spite of everything, had
remained the same
, he reached out for his mother’s hand and pressed it gently.

Then he rose.

“I’ll stay at home this evening,” he said. “I can read something.”

When he had gone, Mrs von Eichbaum got up and, as was her custom when Karl was at home, closed the door to the small drawing room. Her hands shook a little as she pushed the bolt down. It was a curious feature about Mrs von Eichbaum, who was otherwise so composed, that her hands trembled a little if she was happy. But that was the only sign that she was growing older.

Karl went into his own room and lit the lamp before putting on a smoking jacket from behind the curtain hiding the bed. It was a large, French bed. Mrs von Eichbaum had bought it when Karl was due to come home.

“For,” she said to the general’s wife, “people who have been in France…”

“My dear,” replied the general’s wife, “it is only reasonable. Everyone needs a good night’s sleep.”

The bed was bought.

Karl seated himself in the easy chair and raised the footrest and took one of the French books. His room did not look as though it was occupied except just in the mornings before it was tidied up, for then there was disarray in plenty with the rifles, some pictures of horses and a couple of old Eichbaum sabres on the walls and the yellow books on the table, which Ane tidied up each day into two piles of equal height.

Karl did not manage to read much. He sat with his pipe and continued to think about the “estate”.

Of course these Mouriers could buy “Ludvigs”, because they had been fleecing the Brahers and the Vedels of their butter for the past twenty years.

Karl wrinkled his nose as always when he felt some repugnance or surprise.

“It’s incredible,” he said.

That was his favourite expression. That people could undertake anything at all was to Karl von Eichbaum a matter of such amazement that a large proportion of life’s phenomena and results naturally had to seem “incredible” to him.