As Trains Pass By Page 12

  “I can’t stand this any longer.” Agnes tore to bits the leaves that had fallen on the table. “I’ve got to put an end to it some time.”

  Katinka sat staring into space. “Do you think, Agnes, that it’s possible to escape sorrow by going away?” she said quietly.

  “I’ll get some work. I’ll qualify as a teacher. There’s nothing else for it. Sitting behind a glass partition in a post office would be going a bit too far. And it’s too late to do anything interesting.”

  Katinka nodded. “Yes,” she said, “that is true.”

  “Hmm,” said Agnes. “We ‘women’ don’t really have many chances; for the first twenty-five years of our lives we dance around waiting to get married, and for the last twenty-five we sit around waiting to be buried.”

  Agnes put her elbows on the table and supported her head on her hands.

  “Wonderful,” she breathed.

  Suddenly, she put her hands to her face and burst into tears.

  “And how we will eat our hearts out then,” she said.

  She wept for a long time with her face in her hands. Then she dropped her arms on the table. She looked at Katinka; the lovely lady sat leaning forward with her hands on her lap; slowly, the tears ran down her cheeks.

  “How kind you are,” said Agnes, reaching across to her. “Lovely lady.”

  The following week, Agnes left.

  The Abel home was a pure dovecote. They all addressed each other in sentimental aah’s and little squeaks.

  “He calls me pet,” said the old widow. “Yes, he has names for us all.”

  When there were visitors, the engaged couple hung lifelessly over a couple of chairs until one of them said, “Puss puss,” then they disappeared through the door.

  “That’s the way they talk to each other,” said the widow. “Their language is a little difficult for strangers to comprehend.”

  When it was time for the visitors to go, there would be calls for “Pussy” and “Ducky” for a whole quarter of an hour “They must be in the garden,” said the widow. Pussy and Ducky were always in the garden, hiding anywhere where there was a bit of dense greenery.

  When Pussy and Ducky emerged, they looked flushed and confused.

  Louise and the little man spent their time in a series of minor skirmishes and wrestling bouts. The little man gave her brother-in-law’s kisses and tickled her behind the doors.

  When they were in company, they were all sleepy and sat in the corners. At table, the widow used the term of endearment liebling for all three of “her children”. She did not herself know what it meant.

  If they were home during the evening, no candles were lit.

  “We enjoy sitting in the gloom,” said the widowed mother, “all of us.”

  The little man would sit on the sofa between the younger daughter Ida and the elder daughter Louise. Miss Jensen and the widow would occasionally say something in the semidarkness. There were sounds of creaking from over on the sofa. Thus they would sit for hours on end.

  When Miss Jensen arrived home she kissed Bel-Ami on its cold nose.

  Pussy and Ducky would sometimes go down across the fields to meet the evening train. They would walk up and down the platform, looking into each other’s eyes; when they turned, the little man would look deep into Pussy’s eyes.

  Katinka sat on the platform bench wrapped in Huus’ shawl; when the train had left she could hear the couple billing and cooing on their way home along the path across the meadow.

  Katinka rose and went indoors. The days were drawing in, and they already needed to have some light when they had tea.

  “The lamp, Marie,” she said.

  Marie came in and stood with the lamp over by the piano. The light fell on Katinka’s diminutive, narrow face and the transparent white hands which remained there on the keys after she had played the last notes.

  “Call Bai and tell him tea is ready,” said Katinka. She supported herself on the piano in order to rise from the stool. She was always so tired and felt as though she had lead in her legs.

  They had their tea, and Bai read the papers while drinking his toddy.

  Katinka took a book from the bag. They were always the most recent books: Agnes and Andersen had always fought for them.

  The book lay open beneath the lamp. Katinka never got further than twenty pages into them: this was not real life after all, and neither was it really poetry such as could keep her thoughts at bay.

  She took her album out, she had written “Marianna” in it and dated it. And when she put the book back once more she stood for a while in front of the drawer before closing it again. The little Japanese tray lay there, packed in her yellowing bridal veil.

  She went out into the kitchen. She had her favourite seat at the chopping block in the corner. Marie was sewing in front of the tallow candle that stood on the table, talking ceaselessly. She was a faithful soul who never forgot old affections.

  She kept on talking about Huus and how lonely it had become now.

  Katinka sat silently in her corner. Occasionally she would shiver as though she was cold, and she held her arms tight across her breast.

  Marie continued to talk with her big red face turned towards the lone candle.

  “I suppose we’d better be getting to bed,” said Bai, opening the door.

  “Yes, Bai.”

  “Good night, Marie.”

  Autumn arrived with its melancholy veil of mist across the meadows. The sky lay heavy above days that surreptitiously moved in semi-darkness from one night to the next.

  “You must pull yourself together, you know,” said the young doctor. “You must get a grip on yourself.”

  “Yes, doctor.”

  “And you must walk. You must have some exercise. There’s no strength left in you at all.”

  “Yes, doctor. I will go for a few walks.”

  “Nothing new otherwise?” The doctor rose. “Have you heard from Miss Agnes?”

  “Yes, I heard the other day.”

  “They say Andersen is applying for a job elsewhere.”

  “I did hear that,” said Katinka. “Everyone is leaving.”

  “Oh no, my dear, some people are staying.”

  “Yes, we are staying, doctor.”

  “Your wife is not well,” said the doctor out in the office, lighting a cigar.

  “No, it’s all a bit of a pickle,” said Bai.

  “She seems not to have any strength. Ah well, good morning, stationmaster.”

  “You must take a walk, Tik,” said Bai as he came in after the goods train had left. “You’re not doing anything to help yourself.”

  Katinka took a walk. She dragged herself across the meadows, fighting her way against the wind and the rain.

  She went down to the chapel-at-ease. Out of breath, she rested on the ancient meeting stone outside the church. The cemetery lay there, flat and flowerless behind the white wall. Only the privet hedges stood straight around the rigid crosses bearing their inscriptions.

  She went home again across the meadows. The midday train came rumbling across the bridge and snaked its way out again. The smoke from it hung there for a time like a darker patch in the grey mist and then dispersed.

  They were ploughing on the other side of the river. The turf was being peeled up in long lines behind the slow-moving plough.

  Katinka came home.

  The miller had been there, or the bailiff from Kiær’s.

  “Nice chap, that man Svendsen,” said Bai to Katinka. “He’s got his head screwed on the right way.”

  “But there’s no knowing what he’s like at his work,” he said to Kiær,

  Kiær mumbled something or other.

  “But he’s a good chap, one of the right sort, old man.”

  Svendsen collected Greek cards and pictures in sealed envelopes. He brought them with him down to the station and he and Bai went through them over their toddies. “We’ll just check the archives,” said Svendsen.

  “Aye, I don�
��t mind that.” Bai was always willing.

  Svendsen had the “latest” sent from Hamburg, C.O.D.

  “Filthy stuff,” said Bai happily. He always spoke in a quieter voice when they were “at the archives”, although the door was closed.

  “Filthy stuff, Svendsen my lad,” he said, holding the cards up to the lamp.

  They continued to look at the cards. Bai rubbed his knees.

  “But this one’s tall,” he said. “And this one looks difficult.”

  Svendsen rubbed his nose.

  “That’s a nice bit of meat,” he said. “That’s meat for you.”

  They had gone through all the pictures and sat quietly over their toddy glasses. It was as though Bai was drooping a little.

  “Aye,” he said, “but what about life, Svendsen? What’s life got to offer, old man, when you have a sickly wife?”

  Bai sighed and stretched out his legs.

  “Aye, old man,” he said. “That’s how it is.”

  Svendsen had kept a philosophical silence. Now he rose:

  “No, we haven’t got a damned idea of what songs were sung at our cradle,” he said.

  Bai rose and opened the door to the sitting room.

  “What on earth?” he said. “Are you sitting in the dark?”

  “Yes.” Katinka rose from her corner. “I was just sitting in the dark for a few minutes. Do you want anything, Bai?”

  “I’m going to go a little way with Svendsen,” said Bai.

  Katinka came in to say goodbye.

  “Your wife’s still a bit pale around the gills,” said Svendsen, feeling his pockets to make sure he had his collection with him.

  “Good heavens, ma-am, you’d better stay inside. It’s far too cold.”

  “I’m only going as far as the gate,” she said.

  They went onto the platform. “A lovely starry night,” said Bai.

  “That suggests it’s going to be cold. Good night, Mrs Bai.”

  The gate closed.

  “Good night.”

  Katinka stood there leaning against the gate. The voices died away.

  Katinka raised her eyes. Yes, the sky was clear and all the stars were out.

  As though she wanted to pour out her heart to the dead tree, Katinka bent down and threw her arms round the damp trunk.

  The Lindes often came of an evening. The two old folk were missing Agnes.

  And Andersen was leaving as well.

  “He wanted to leave,” said the old parson. “And now we risk being saddled with one of those evangelicals.”

  Mr Andersen had found a parish on the west coast.

  Mrs Linde sat in the corner, weeping.

  “Oh, heavens above, I could see it all coming,” she said. “I saw it perfectly well. But they can’t make their minds up, Mrs Bai. They can’t make their minds up, my dear.”

  “That’s young people today, completely different from what it was like in our day, my dear Mrs Bai. They go around wondering whether they are in love until they break off with each other and go their own way and are unhappy for the rest of their lives.”

  “I had my fortune told, my dear, before Linde proposed to me, and we have taken the good with the bad for thirty years.”

  “But now we might be leaving Agnes behind as a lonely old maid one day when we two old ones close our eyes.”

  The gentlemen came in. The old minister was to have his game of whist.

  Katinka was happiest when the old minister was there. It was as though he brought such a sense of peace with him.

  When he sat there with a small glass, wearing his skullcap, playing a shrewd game and with a happy look on his old face.

  “There we are, my dear,” he said as he took the tricks.

  The two old folks would argue a little.

  “It’s as I say, Linde.”

  “Well, just look, dear.” And he would spread his tricks out on the table.

  “It’s you, Mrs Bai, it’s you.”

  Katinka’s thoughts drifted away. She sat there watching the two old people.

  “Queen of diamonds. There you see, dear.”

  They played the last rubber with a dummy hand. Katinka went around preparing the table. They dined increasingly well at the Bais. Bai had so many favourite dishes and Katinka prepared them for him.

  There were many days she spent in the kitchen from early in the morning, boiling and frying from recipes and cookery books. Difficult complicated dishes requiring both scraping and peeling.

  Quite worn out, Katinka sat down on the chopping block and coughed.

  “You’ll be getting consumption the way you put yourself out to make sure they’ve got plenty to stuff themselves with,” said Marie.

  “Would you like a glass of gin?” says Katinka.

  “If you’ve got some.”

  When he nodded, it could be seen that Bai had acquired a double chin. In general, he was putting on weight. With a coquettish little swelling beneath his waistcoat and dimples on his knuckles.

  “It’s ready now,” says Katinka.

  “Thank you, dear,” says Bai.

  Bai had recently taken on something of the quality of a sultan. Perhaps it was a result of his corpulence.

  “Thank you, dear, we’ll just finish the game,” he repeats.

  Katinka sits down on a chair near the table and waits. The old minister looks from Bai across the well-laid table to his quiet wife. Katinka is resting her head on her hand.

  “It’s you, sir,” says old Linde to Bai.

  Katinka rises. She has forgotten something for the table. The door closes behind her and the old minister looks again across the illuminated table at Bai, who is holding the cards over his coquettish bulge:

  “Yes, inspector,” says the old parson to Bai, “you are a fortunate man.”

  Afterwards, they sit over their milk punch and cakes. “It’s the good husbands who like sweet things,” says Mrs Linde. Bai helps himself to more vanilla biscuits out of the box.

  And they chew away as they sit there around the lamp.

  “Won’t you play something for us?” says Mrs Linde.

  “Or sing something, one of Agnes’ songs?” says the old minister.

  Katinka goes over to the piano. And in her weak voice she quietly sings the song about Marianna.

  The old minister listens with his hands folded and Mrs Linde lowers her knitting.

  “Deep down below the grass asleep

  Lies poor, dear Marianna

  Come now, oh girls, for we must weep

  For poor, dear Marianna.”

  “Thank you,” said the old minister.

  “Thank you, Mrs Bai,” said Mrs Linde.

  She could not really see the stitches until she had dried her eyes.

  Katinka remained seated there with her back to the others. The tears slowly fell from her cheeks down onto the keys.

  “Aye, young people nowadays have a lot of ideas,” said the old minister. He was staring vacantly in the air and thinking of Agnes.

  They rose and prepared to leave, and Mrs Linde fetched her coat from the bedroom. The two candles by the looking glass were lit. It was so light and cosy in there with all the white bedclothes and the looking glass on the dressing table.

  “Aye,” said Mrs Linde, “if only we could see Agnes in a home like this.” She was still sniffing while she tied her hatband.

  “I’ll go a little way with the minister,” said Bai. “It’s important to have a little exercise.”

  “Yes,” said the minister. “One needs a little exercise after all that jellied eel. You eat too well here at the station. Mother here has forbidden me to set foot here on a Saturday.”

  “I won’t come any further,” said Katinka, standing at the door. “The doctor wants me to take care of my cough.”

  “No, go inside. Autumn is the worst time.”

  “Good night. Good night.”

  Katinka went inside. She took out an old letter from Agnes, it was crumpled and had been r
ead time after time, and she spread it out beneath the lamp:

  “And then I had hoped that the first days would be the worst and that time would heal all wounds. But the first days are easy and nothing compared to now. For then it is a pain in which everything is near. But as everything is fading now, day by day, every new morning that wakens us is simply going to move us further and further away. And nothing new comes, Katinka, not even a shadow, but simply all the old things, memories that we rake up over and over again and ponder over… And then it is as though there were some great beast sucking the blood out of our hearts. Memories are a disaster for both body and soul.”

  Katinka leaned back with her head against the cold wall. Her face was pale in the light from the lamp. She had no more tears.

  Bai came home.

  “It got rather late,” he said. “Time really does pass damned quickly… I came across Kiær somewhere or other on the way. It was Kiær who wanted to have a drink… I met him… on the way home.”

  “Has it really got so late?” was all that Katinka said.

  “Yes, it’s past one o’clock.” Bai started to undress. “That’s what comes of walking people home, damn it,” he said.

  Bai had recently always walked people “home”. He went as far as the inn: “Well, I’d better be getting home to keep an eye on things,” he said as he took leave of his guests.

  He kept his eye on things in the inn in the company of a girl who during the summer had had short puff sleeves over a pair of soft arms. One o’clock came and then two o’clock as he “kept an eye on things.”

  “But you could have gone to bed, you know,” he said to Katinka. “All you do is sit up and get cold.”

  “I didn’t know it was so late.”

  The bed creaked under Bai as he stretched himself.

  Katinka put the flowers in a row down on the floor. She coughed as she bent down.

  “Blast this rheumatism,” said Bai. “It hurts like hell.”

  “I could rub your arm for you,” said Katinka.

  It had become a regular evening ritual that Katinka rubbed Bai’s arms with some miracle cure for rheumatism.

  “Oh, never mind,” said Bai. He turned over a couple of times and fell asleep.