Ida Brandt by Herman Bang Page A

Adlerberg – it was rather dark in this avenue – “How is he?”
    The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
    “But it’s very unfortunate,” said Feddersen, “for His Excellency. In some way or other you can sense it everywhere in the house.”
    It was quiet in the sickroom, and the only sound to be heard was that of Mrs Brandt’s knitting needles, as regular as the ticking of the clock, and occasionally the music from over where they were dancing.
    Then Brandt called out.
    “Mariane,” he said, taking her hand:
    “It’s a pity for you…”
    But it was as though his wife’s hand with her countless rings had weighed his down, and he let go of it as he closed his eyes.
    “Sickness will take its course,” said Mrs Brandt as she tidied the sheet; Brandt still lay there clutching it with his thin fingers.
    “I’ d like to speak to the lieutenant,” he said.
    “Yes, all right,” said his wife, feeling down his legs, which were cold up above the knees. She stood there for a long time, motionlessly looking at the old man whose body was seen to be so thin beneath the blankets, and then she sat down again.
    So now she was going to be left on her own.
    …The lieutenant was running around down on the lawn; he was busy with the rockets. They were to be set off now after they had finished dancing. The music came to an end and Falkenstjerne shouted up to the bailiff, who was standing at a window: the first rocket went off like a thin red line that divided into two…
    The guests stood at the open windows as the rockets whistled and made slender tracks up in the air, and the gentlemen from Horsens, standing with their hands in their trouser pockets and smoking big cigars, exclaimed in admiration and a dumpy little lady who had tied a handkerchief around her bare neck to protect her from draught, said:
    “Good heavens, fancy stopping dancing just for that !”
    At the upstairs window, Miss Rosenfeld had lifted Ida up in her arms. Ida stayed with her throughout the day, saying nothing, just following her, with cold hands, like a weak little shadow:
    “Ooh, just look,” she said.
    Another rocket went up as Feddersen came past with Miss Adlerberg.
    “They are not going very high,” he said.
    And Miss Adlerberg, laughing as she walked, with her train over her arms, said:
    “They are a country product.”
    Miss Rosenfeld turned round quickly with Ida, and she heard His Lordship say from over by the window:
    “It is delightful, really delightful…” and, looking up in the air, he added:
    “And he was such an excellent man.”
    Miss Rosenfeld was walking with Ida across the open space when she suddenly felt tears on her hand.
    “Why are you crying?” she asked.
    The child made no reply.
    The forester was up in the ballroom, standing in the corner by the bottom window: the rockets were still being let off in the night, for there were many of them, though they were only small.
    “Oh dear, love,” he said. “How sad it all is.”
    Quite quietly, Miss Rosenfeld took Ida into the sick man’s room, where Mrs Brandt sat enthroned in the same place.
    “We just wanted to say good night,” she whispered.
    And while Mrs Brandt got up, Ida bent down over her father (her eyes had the same expression as those of a sick child). Brandt opened his eyes.
    “Is it Ida?” he said.
    “Did she see the fireworks?”

    ∞∞∞

    Ida slept in Miss Rosenfeld’s bed that night.
    Miss Rosenfeld sat at her window. The guests had gone, and the night was dark. Then a carriage drove rapidly out of the bailiff’s gateway down over the road, through the darkness, like a shadow…
    All the dogs barked furiously.
    When they came down in the morning, His Lordship went across to the piano and quietly closed it and took away the key.
    Old Brandt was dead.
    All the guests dispersed, far into the woods and the garden. Miss Rosenfeld sat alone with Ida on her lap.
    Over in the bailiff’s house, Mrs Brandt went around and took a large number of sheets