As Trains Pass By Read online

  Half the local populace arrived, and people stood chatting in all the rooms and even out in the hall. It was always the case that people found a lot to talk about when they came to the parsonage.

  The Abel family only arrived after the charades had started. They always came late.

  “We didn’t notice the time,” said Mrs Abel. “We simply cannot tear ourselves away from the nest.”

  When the Misses Abel were to go out, they went around all afternoon wearing dressing gowns and quarrelling. Mrs Abel had to dress at the last moment and always looked as though a gale had swept over her.

  They played charades, ensuring that there was not a stitch left untouched in the parsonage wardrobe.

  Miss Agnes played the part of a fat man in the cottager’s trousers and then a Greenlander with Katinka as the Greenlander’s wife.

  “Lovely lady,” she said. “There is nothing fuddy-duddy about you.”

  They danced the pingasut until Katinka was quite dizzy. Mrs Bai was so happy that she was almost giddy.

  Ida was in charge of the next bit. It was mainly something about a harem or a large spa. Whatever it was, the younger daughter Ida was embraced and hugged by a gaunt, fair-haired second lieutenant.

  The older people gathered in the doorways to watch. Outside the hall windows in the garden stood the farmhand and the lads, all laughing at the clever Miss Agnes.

  Old Mr Linde went back and forth:

  “They are having fun, they are enjoying themselves,” he said as he mingled with the older guests.

  Mrs Abel was watching the parson; she was sitting beside the miller’s wife:

  “Yes, it’s all very lively.”

  “Yes,” said the miller’s wife. “A very lively parsonage.” Her voice was a little severe in the way she said “parson”.

  Her Helene stood beside her mother. She preferred not to take part in the games.

  The miller had built a new house and the family were on their way up. They gave two parties a year, at which people sat in circles and stared at the new furniture. Everything continued to be new.

  All the furniture was adorned with bits and pieces sewn and stitched by Miss Helene.

  In everyday life, the family lived in one room in “the old wing”. Once a week they lit fires in the main building so that the furniture should not suffer.

  Miss Helene was an only child. She had been brought up by Miss Jensen with special emphasis on being taught foreign languages. She was the most elegant lady in the district and had a clear predilection for gold jewelry. Whatever her dress, she always wore grey felt shoes and white cotton stockings when she was indoors.

  In company, she was easily upset and took up a position beside her mother with an acerbic expression on her face.

  “Yes,” says Mrs Abel, “my chicks sometimes find it a little on the lively side.”

  “Mother,” says Ida, “give me your handkerchief.”

  “I need it now.” And Ida almost snatches it off the widow.

  Ida is to play a part wearing a nightcap and has discovered that her own handkerchief is rather less than perfect.

  “They put all their hearts into the game,” said Mrs Abel to the miller’s wife.

  The charades are finished, and they have a quick game of blind man’s buff before the meal. There is such a din in the hall and a rushing about sufficient to make the old stove rattle.

  “The stove,” they shriek, “the stove.”

  “Be careful, be careful.”

  Ida is so worn out that she is ready to drop. Her heart is beating so she is unable to catch her breath: “Just feel,” she says, placing the lieutenant’s hand on her breast, “how my heart is beating.”

  Katinka is “it” and is turned around until she can scarcely stand.

  “Oh, just watch the lovely lady,” shouts Miss Agnes.

  “Watch out, watch out.”

  Katinka catches Huus.

  “Who is it?”

  Huus bends down, and Katinka feels his hair: “It’s Huus,” she shouts. Old Reverend Linde claps his hands and announces that dinner is ready.

  “Huus,” says Katinka, “what’s wrong? There’s something the matter with you.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You have not been happy recently, not like you used to be.”

  “There is nothing wrong, Mrs Bai.”

  “While I,” said Katinka, “am just so happy.”

  “Yes,” said Huus, “I can see that.”

  Bai came from the games table: “Good Lord, what a mess you look.”

  Katinka laughed: “Yes, we’ve been doing a Greenlandic dance.” She went to a table accompanied by Huus.

  Bai snatches Ida from the lieutenant, who follows together with the schoolteacher’s son.

  “Hansen,” says the lieutenant, “who is that girl?”

  “Oh, her mother’s that lopsided woman over there with the minister; she’s been pensioned off and given a house to live in up on the farm.”

  “Hell of a girl,” says the lieutenant. “And what a figure she’s got.”

  They are all seated; the minister sits at the top of the table. During the meal he proposes two toasts: “to absent friends” and “to the good spirit among those here present”. People have drunk these very same toasts throughout his seventeen years in the parsonage.

  Finally there is an almond cake and crackers. The minister pulls a cracker with Miss Jensen.

  The lieutenant has managed to wedge a chair in behind Ida. It is such a tight squeeze that she almost has to sit on his lap.

  Talking is out of the question as they laugh and pull crackers and read the mottos out loud.

  “Aye,” says old Linde, “that is youth.”

  “It’s us, Huus,” says Katinka, holding out a cracker.

  Huus takes it. “You got the motto,” says Katinka.

  Huus reads the tiny slip of paper: “Nonsense,” he says and tears it in two.

  “But Huus, what did it say?”

  “Every confectioner’s assistant writes about love,” says Ida across the table.

  “Miss Ida,” said the lieutenant, “shall we too?”

  Ida turns and makes eyes at the lieutenant: “Good Lord, how inappropriate,” she shouts. She receives a motto about kissing, which the lieutenant reads out with his little moustache close up to her cheek.

  The chairs are moved a little further from the table, and the ladies wave their napkins. The young folk are flushed with heat and the milk punch that is being served from large grey jugs.

  A pasty-faced little student calls for people to drink to “the Reverend Linde’s patriarchal home”, and everyone rises and shouts hurrah. The little student chinks glasses privately with the parson.

  “You little red rascal,” says old Linde, “Are you drinking to me?”

  “One has to respect certain people,” says the pasty-faced little man.

  “Aye, aye,” says old Linde. “Aye, youth must have something to fight for, you see madam.”

  Mrs Abel is preoccupied with her younger daughter Ida. Ida is so vivacious. She is almost lying in the lieutenant’s arms.

  “Yes, your reverence,” she says.

  “My dear Ida,” (the dear daughter pays no attention) “Ida, drink a glass with your mamma,” says Mrs Abel.

  “Good health,” says Ida. “Lieutenant Nielsen,” she hands him his glass, “drink with mother.”

  Mrs Abel smiles, “Oh dear, what ideas my little Ida has.”

  The pasty-faced little man wants to know whether Miss Helene has read Schandorph.

  Miss Helene is reading one of his books at present from the lending library.

  “Schandorph has his merits – but he lacks the larger perspective.” The little student feels obliged to say that Gjellerup is his writer.

  Miss Helene cannot recall whether Mr. Gjellerup’s books are available from the lending library.

  “I call that entire movement the most genuine fruit of our mighty critic Br
andes… intellectual freedom,” continued the little student.

  “Brandes, he’s that Jew, isn’t he?” says Miss Helene. That is all the ‘intellectual freedom’ that is left in the mill.

  The student launches into the subject of the mighty Darwin.

  Bai has said something to make Miss Jensen blush.

  “You are so dreadful,” says Little Miss Jensen and raps his knuckles.

  “But Huus,” says Katinka, “you have to take life as it is, and…”

  “And?”

  “And it is really so lovely.”

  “Lieutenant,” shouts Miss Ida, “you are horrible.”

  Old Reverend Linde sits at the end of the table with folded hands, nodding.

  “Shall we say thank you to mother for a lovely meal,” he says and gets up.

  There comes a scraping of chairs and words in praise of the meal throughout the room. In the sitting room, Agnes is already sitting at the piano: they are going to dance.

  “I don’t know whether you have seen Ida,” says Louise to her mother. “She makes me want to sink into the ground.”

  Ida leads with the lieutenant.

  “Put some life into it,” shouts Miss Agnes from the piano. She plays a polka with such energy that the strings vibrate.

  Bai dances with Katinka until they have to do a round of the rooms; holding each other by the hand, they dance out through the doors.

  Old Linde leads the dance with a gasping Jensen.

  “Linde, Linde,” shouts Mrs Linde, “Remember your old legs.”

  Miss Agnes bangs the keys enough to make the rafters ring.

  “Good Lord, this will be the death of me,” says Helene from the mill.

  Suddenly, the chain breaks and the couples, out of breath, sit down on the chairs round about.

  “Wow, that warmed us up,” says Bai to the lieutenant, wiping his brow.

  “Let’s see if we can find a beer.”

  The lieutenant agrees. They go out through the rooms. The beers are all arranged by one of the windows.

  “Is it a local beer?” says the lieutenant.

  “No, it’s a Carlsberg.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  “There’s a nice cosy corner here,” said Bai. They went into the minister’s study, a small room with the collected works of Oehlenschläger and Mynster on green-painted bookshelves and Thorvaldsen’s Christ on the writing desk.

  They settled down at the table with the beer.

  “Aye, I could see it all,” said Bai. “I could see what was going on. But I thought, let him have his fun, that’s what I thought, and her, too.”

  “Aye, hell of a girl. She’s got damned fine breasts. And she does go it when she dances, stationmaster. Leans on one rather nicely.”

  “Aye, what the hell’s she to do, poor girl,” said Bai, emptying his beer.

  “But what sort of a girl is she?” said the lieutenant. He meant Miss Agnes.

  “Nice girl,” said Bai.

  “No, nothing to be had there,” he added. “Friend of my wife.”

  “Oh, I see,” said the lieutenant. “Yes, I thought as much: talks a lot. One of those.”

  The conversation moved onto more general topics: “These village girls, generally speaking,” the lieutenant thought, “they’re alright. But you see, stationmaster, they’ve no culture. Now, town girls, you know, they are something quite different.”

  The lieutenant had “got hold of something”.

  “You see, we live in the right district. That’s where they have put the castle. You have to live there, either in Frederiksberg or Vesterbro.”

  “But what kind of girls are they?” said Bai.

  “Nice little lasses, by Gad, nice little lasses.”

  “Well, I don’t know. I’m a married man, you know, lieutenant. Goods just to look at, you know, goods just to look at even if one were over there for a couple of days.”

  “Goods just to look at,” he repeated once more.

  “Believe me, nice little lasses,” said the lieutenant. “Educated girls.”

  “But they are all said to go off to Russia.”

  “Yes, so they say.”

  Mr Linde came in now. “Oh, this is where you are sitting, stationmaster,” he said as he walked through the room.

  “Yes, vicar, we are sitting here philosophising a little, just quietly over a beer we have stolen.”

  “Help yourselves; it’s nice in here.” The minister turned around in the doorway: “They are playing forfeits in there,” he said.

  Bai and the lieutenant joined the game of forfeits.

  They were playing a kissing game.

  The little student won and fell for Katinka.

  “The forfeit’s a kiss,” shouted Miss Agnes.

  Katinka turned her cheek so that the “fruit” could be kissed. His cheeks went very red and he virtually kissed her on her nose.

  Katinka laughed and clapped her hands: “I’m falling, I’m falling.”

  “For Huus,” she said.

  Huus came and bent. He kissed her hair.

  “I’m falling for Miss Jensen,” he said. His voice broke as though he was hoarse.

  Miss Jensen was still thinking about that kiss when she was back at home in bed with Bel-Ami.

  Katinka supported herself by letting her thoughts rest a little on the radical student.

  The guests had left.

  Miss Agnes stood in the hall surveying the battleground. Not a single thing was where it should be. There were glasses standing in the corners on the floor. And pudding plates had been put out of the way on the bookcase.

  “Ugh,” she said, “it looks a bit like the entrance to a certain place down below.”

  Mr Andersen, the curate, had entered. “Well,” she said, “You have been rather nice this evening.”

  “Miss Agnes, do you find it amusing?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “I’ll tell you why I do it. It’s because it amuses the others. But you always want to have fun on your own.”

  “Give me a hand now,” she said, “so we can tidy things up a bit.” And she started moving the furniture back into place.

  “Mother, I’m never going out with Ida again,” said Louise. “I just won’t, and I’m telling you that now. It’s a scandal, the way she behaves in front of others.”

  “Just because you’re a wallflower, I suppose you think I should keep you company, don’t you?”

  The widow never interfered in their quarrels. She knew there was nothing she could do about it as she put her curlers in her hair. Then she went around quietly, folding their clothes. “Carrying on like that makes you damned tired,” said Bai. His legs were quite stiff as they walked along together.

  Katinka made no reply. They walked along the road home in silence.

  III

  Spring had arrived.

  One afternoon, the parson’s daughter fetched Katinka and they went for a walk along the river. Wee Bentzen had knocked up a bench under a couple of willows close to the railway bridge. They sat there and worked until the afternoon train came. The guards on this stretch knew them and waved to them.

  “The best thing would be to leave,” said Agnes Linde, watching the train as it moved away. “I think about it every day.”

  “Oh, but, Agnes…”

  “Yes, that would be the best thing – for both of us – that either he or I should go away.”

  And they discuss this eternal subject for the thousandth time.

  It was a day in the middle of winter. Agnes Linde and the curate went past on their way from the pond, where they had been skating, and the curate had to go into the station to send a letter and he fell into conversation with Bai.

  Agnes came into the living room with her skates over her arm. She was very brusque and simply replied “Yes” and “No” to whatever Katinka said. Then, after standing over by the window and looking out, she suddenly burst into tears.

&n
bsp; “What is it, Miss Linde? Are you ill?” said Katinka going over to her and putting an arm round her. “What on earth is wrong?”

  Agnes Linde battled with her tears. But her weeping only increased. She moved Katinka’s arm.

  “Let me go in here,” she said, moving over towards the bedroom.

  There she threw herself on the bed and told Katinka all about it in a torrent of words, how she loved Andersen, but he only played about with her, and she could take no more.

  Since that day, Katinka had enjoyed the confidence of the parson’s daughter.

  Katinka was used to being taken into people’s confidence. It had been like that when she was a young girl at home, too. Bleeding hearts would all come to her. It was presumably because of her quiet manner and because she herself never said much. She was the ideal person for listening to others.

  The parson’s daughter came almost every day and she spent hours with Katinka. It was the same thing time after time: her love and him. And every day she told things as though they were new, even though she had already told them a thousand times over.

  Then, when she had sat talking for three or four hours and had finally started to weep, Agnes packed her sewing up:

  “Yes, we are indeed an odd couple,” she said in conclusion.

  Now that spring had come, they sat down by the stream.

  Agnes talked and Katinka listened. She sat with her hands on her lap, looking out across the meadows. There was a slight haze out there, and the hollow looked like a big, blue lake. There was no seeing what was lake and what was sky; it was all just like one dawning blue. With the groups of willows like islands in the sea.

  Agnes told about the early days when she had come home from Copenhagen and met Andersen. Months had passed, and she had simply not realised she was fond of him.

  Katinka listened and did not listen. She knew the theme and she nodded silently.

  But bit by bit she had learned of the other’s love. She knew it and all the emotions that accompanied it. She shared them as though they were her own. Of course, they never talked about anything else.

  And she felt comfortable with all these words of love. Her thoughts became so familiar with everything that belonged to love, at least in these two strangers.

  After accompanying Agnes Linde part of the way and then returning home herself, she could sit for half an hour at a time in the summer house by the elder tree out in the garden. And it was as though all those words of love floated in the air about her, and she heard them again and reflected on them.