Free Ida Brandt by Herman Bang

its stem was almost like that of a tree. It looked so healthy as it stood there. And Ida plucked every dead leaf off it. She did not know why, but she thought that myrtle was like a reminder of her father.
    “Ida, Ida.”
    Mrs Brandt was awake, and Ida put the plant down.
    “Yes, mother.”
    “I’m lying here awake ,” said Mrs Brandt.
    Out in the kitchen, Sofie poured some warm water into two dishes.
    “I suppose you do intend to get me up,” said Mrs Brandt.
    “Yes, mother.”
    Ida started to turn her attention to her mother, tending her and talking to her, tying and untying and telling her the news as she dressed her: they could expect the Lunds today – for they were coming from the wedding – and the pond was frozen solid now according to Hans Christensen.
    Ida continued to recite the news; Mrs Brandt simply looked down at her nervous hands:
    “You’ve got your father’s fingers,” she said: “they are all thumbs.”
    When her hair was set – Mrs Brandt still had a full head of hair – all the food in the house was brought up so that she could inspect it, in bed. Sofie went there, slow and sullen and brought it in, dish after dish, while Mrs Brandt sat up in bed, with her thoroughly padded hair, carefully inspecting the leavings.
    She said nothing, but merely sat silently calculating – Ida looked like a customs officer during an inspection of the cashbox – while Sofie stood by the bed, straight as a pole. Mrs Brandt watched every dish that Sofie took out again as though she wanted to follow its way through the door when it was closed.
    “And then we must do the joint, mother, for the Lunds…”
    “If they come,” said Mrs Brandt.
    Ida had again started to attend to her: “But you know they always come when they are in town,” she said.
    “Yes,” said Mrs Brandt. “It’s cheaper than eating at the inn.”
    She had got out of bed and wanted to go into the sitting room. Ida and Sofie had to support her, one under each arm, (Mrs Brandt was never so heavy as when she had to be moved), and she managed to reach the chair by the window. There all her gold trinkets lay waiting for her on the table. Ida hung the watch chain around her neck.
    “The watch,” said Mrs Brandt.
    “Here, mother.”
    She wanted to have Ida’s watch in front of her on a frame, beside her purse. They finally had her settled down. The door to the kitchen was left slightly ajar so that she could “listen”.
    Her mother could not stand a warm room, so Ida was wearing a shawl as she bent over the three new sets of sheets, for the linen was taken care of as it used to be in the “old bailiff’s wing”.
    “Your threads are always too long,” said Mrs Brandt.
    Ida pulled at the thread.
    “Mrs Muus is waving,” said her mother.
    Ida looked out and flushed as she nodded. Mrs Muus always took a quick and deliberate path close to Mrs Brandt’s window and only waved to Ida.
    Mrs Muus was the judge’s wife, and Mrs Brandt continued to follow her in the mirror and watch her fur coat bouncing against her energetic little backside.
    Ida also looked out and smiled. Mrs Muus never reached the corner. She stopped in front of every other house as she went by, swinging her hips and stamping and showing all her friends’ windows that she was wearing fur boots.
    “Have the Muus’s got a housekeeper?” said Mrs Brandt, continuing to watch her.
    “I don’t know, mother.”
    “I thought she would be going to the Jørgensens,” said Mrs Brandt. “She’s a Copenhagener.”
    And as though in defence of the judge’s wife, Ida said:
    “But of course, they haven’t any children, mother.”
    Mrs Brandt merely shut her eyes, said nothing and nodded. Sørensen, the local treasurer had appeared at the window of the house opposite and was nodding. Mr Sørensen was going downhill, very much downhill; he could hardly manage to open the newspaper when he wanted to read it.
    Mrs Brandt continued to look across at Mr Sørensen. She had the