Ida Brandt by Herman Bang

Rosenfeld,” he said, not taking his eyes off Ida, “this is where I am.”
    “Yes.”
    The sick man continued to smile and moved his burning hands over to where Ida sat.
    “But won’t she be creasing her dress?” he said, shutting his eyes.
    They heard the clock strike, slowly, as though not in a hurry, and Miss Rosenfeld gently took Ida’s hand out of that of the sick man. They tiptoed out, Ida holding on to Miss Rosenfeld’s dress, and they sat down on the sofa. There was nothing to be heard. Only the solid ticking of the clock.
    “Miss Rosenfeld,” whispered Ida, “Is father going to die?”
    “Oh dear, child, my dear child,” said Miss Rosenfeld. She stroked Ida’s hair; the child had started to weep, without a sound.
    They heard footsteps on the garden path. It was Mrs Brandt, who entered in front of His Lordship. He was wearing the decorations betokening his knighthood and his cheeks were flushed.
    “What’s this I hear?” he said in a rather loud voice. “Have we someone ill here?” And Mrs Brandt, who preceded him to the sickbed, said as though to wake her husband (there seemed to be a trace of anger in her voice throughout that day):
    “Brandt, it’s His Lordship.”
    Miss Rosenfeld heard His Lordship say, in a festive tone:
    “My dear Brandt…” But then he suddenly lowered his voice; he sat down on a chair, moved a little way away from the bed, vaguely troubled as all old people are when confronted with illness:
    “But what on earth is wrong? What on earth is wrong?”
    “Well…I suppose the pharmacist has presented the candlesticks,” said Brandt, attempting to take hold of his hand.
    Ida had tiptoed gently out. Miss Rosenfeld was out among the redcurrant bushes and called softly to her, but there was no reply. Then she found her sitting on a wooden bench just outside the window, huddled up and quiet like a little dog. And Miss Rosenfeld sat down beside her, crouching in almost the same way.
    They heard His Lordship return through the garden and Mrs Brandt go into the sickroom. Now she sat down at the foot of the bed, holding her broad cloak out in front of her as though in an attempt to block the way.
    There came the sound of gentle footsteps in the living room, and Mrs Brandt rose. It was Mrs Lund, who came on tiptoe, hesitating at every step.
    She stopped again and put her hands on Mrs Brandt’s hips.
    “Lund and I think it’s so dreadful,” she said.
    And when Mrs Brandt said nothing, she went on: “Couldn’t we help with something?”
    “No, thank you,” said Mrs Brandt, who was still thinking of Miss Rosenfeld as she had sat over in the sofa before. “I think we can manage it ourselves .”
    Mrs Lund left in a curiously hasty manner and went along the garden path to find her husband the forester waiting for her.
    “Did you see him?” he asked.
    “No,” was all she said; it was as though she was shedding silent tears. And (the two of them always understanding each other without uttering a word), Lund said:
    “Yes, she’s as stiff-necked as they come.” He felt something like a desire to hit something with his clenched fists.
    Mrs Lund had her handkerchief out.
    “Oh, Lund,” she said. “I suppose that’s just the way she is.”
    Mrs Brandt remained in the sitting room. She then closed all the windows firmly and went inside again – on guard.
    Evening had fallen and it was dark in the sickroom, where a small lamp burned and the doctor came and went; there was a striking red glow on the curtains.
    “It’s so bright,” said the sick man as he turned his head.
    “It’s the torches,” said the doctor.
    “Aye, it’s lovely,” said Brandt.
    The forester was sitting outside on a bench. He had got himself drunk on the twentieth of August.
    “How’s it going?” he said.
    “Not very well,” said the doctor.
    When they reached the avenue, they met Miss Adlerberg with Mr Feddersen from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
    “We are taking a walk,” said Miss