by Herman Bang
“Perhaps, when the sun is shining.”
The doctor did not come, and that afternoon Marie had to go down and ask.
It was dark before she returned. Katinka lay there without a light. She rang the small bell beside the bed.
“Has she not come?” she said.
“She had to walk all that way, you know,” said Bai.
“It’s taking such a long time,” said Katinka. Her cheeks were flushed with fever.
She lay listening for every door that opened or closed.
“That was the kitchen door,” she said.
It was a man selling brushes.
“She’s not coming,” said Katinka.
“You’ll make yourself ill again,” said Bai.
She lay there quietly, no longer ringing or speaking. Then she heard Marie open the office door and lay there with a beating heart under the coverlet and without speaking.
“What did he say?” said Bai out there.
“About half an hour in the middle of the day when the sun is out,” said Marie. “Is your wife asleep?”
“I think so.”
Marie tiptoed in. Katinka lay there for a moment without moving.
“Is it you?” she said.
“Yes, he said you can get up for a time and sit in the sun in the middle of the day.”
Katinka did not reply immediately. Then she grasped Marie’s hand:
“Thank you,” she said. “You are so kind, Marie.”
“Oh, how hot your hands are, Mrs Bai.”
Katinka lay in a fever that night, she lay there with eyes glistening and had no sleep. But it was almost morning before she woke Marie.
Marie looked out of the sitting-room window.
“The sky looks clear,” she said. “Let’s see how the weather turns out.”
“Look out of the kitchen door,” said Katinka from her bed. “That’s always where you can see the clouds coming.”
The sky was clear from the kitchen door too.
“I can manage on my own. I’m all right,” said Katinka. “She supported herself along the corridor walls across to the door and out to the platform.
“It’s lovely and warm,” she said.
“Mind the step now. There, that’s right.” Walking on the gravel was difficult. She put her arms up on Marie’s shoulders. “My head feels so heavy,” she said.
She stopped at every third step to look out across the meadows over to the woods. It was as though the sun was imparting radiance to every leaf.
Katinka wanted to go across to the platform gate. She stood leaning on it for a moment.
“It’s so lovely,” she said, “this little forest of ours.”
Katinka looked right out along the sun-drenched road: “The milestone is over there,” she said.
She turned her head and looked out across the fields and the meadows and the radiant sky.
“Yes,” she said in a scarcely audible voice, “it’s so lovely here.”
Marie went along drying her eyes when Katinka was not looking.
“But see how the leaves are falling,” said Katinka. She turned and took a couple of steps on her own.
They came out into the garden.
Katinka spoke no more. They went round the lawn down to the summerhouse.
“The elder,” was all she said. “I can sit here.”
Marie wrapped the rugs around her and she sat there huddled up, gazing silently across the sun-drenched garden.
The leaves from the cherry trees still lay yellow on the lawn; a couple of small roses were still in flower.
Marie made to pluck them.
“No,” said Katinka, “that would be a pity – leave them.”
She sat again. Her lips were moving as though she was whispering.
“This is where Huus best liked to sit,” said Marie. She was standing beside the bench.
Katinka started. Then, with a quiet smile, she said, “Yes, he liked sitting here.”
They started to walk again.
When they reached the gate, Katinka stood in silence for a moment. She looked back, into the garden.
“I wonder who will walk in there now?” she said.
She was so tired. She leaned heavily on Marie and in the corridor she supported herself against the walls.
“Open the back door,” she said, “so that I can see the forest.”
She went over and leant for a moment on the doorpost, looking out in the direction of the forest and the road.
“Marie,” she said, “I would like to see the pigeons as well.”
Katinka no longer got up. Her strength was deserting her more and more.
Mrs Abel brought her wine jelly.
“It will make your tongue feel fresher,” she said. She sat looking at Katinka through eyes blinded by tears.
“And you are so alone lying there.”
Mrs Abel would send her elder daughter Louise.
“She is as good as a trained nurse,” she said, “my elder daughter, as good as a trained nurse.”
Louise came in the mornings and tiptoed around in a white pinafore. Katinka lay there as though asleep. Louise laid the table for lunch and made the coffee.
And the door to the bedroom was left ajar while they had their meal.
Bai was very grateful. The widow dried her eyes. “You know your friends when you are in need,” she said.
Mrs Linde came in the afternoon and sat knitting by the bed. She had lots of things to tell about the entire neighbourhood, some new, some old. And also about herself and her husband.
Old Linde came to fetch his wife at dusk, and the two old folk sat by the bed in the twilight for another hour.
Agnes was their sole subject of conversation.
“Linde can’t live without Agnes,” said Mrs Linde. She herself wept secretly both morning and evening.
“Aye, my dear, it has to be admitted that she’s the apple of my eye,” said the old minister.
“You’ll see, she’ll come home one day,” said Katinka.
“As an old maid.” Mrs Linde’s knitting needles clicked away.
Mrs Linde could not forget those words about an “old maid”.
They sat chatting, and the old minister had a blackcurrant toddy before going home.
“It does one good,” he said, “and it doesn’t go to your head.”
The two old folk trundled home along a road that was dark in the autumn dusk.
Bai was out quite frequently.
“A little game of Hombre to buck you up,” said Kiær. “It’ll do you good, old man.”
“Yes, old friend.” Bai wiped his hands across his eyes.
“Some time later in the week,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for being such a good friend.” He clapped Kiær on the shoulder and was quite emotional. Bai had become quite emotional recently.
He went out and played Hombre into the small hours.
When he arrived home, he woke Katinka because he ‘couldn’t go to bed without seeing how she was’.
“Thank you,” said Katinka. “Have you had a good time?”
“As good a time as I can have,” said Bai, “with you lying here.” He sat sighing by the bed for some time, until he had Katinka wide awake.
“Good night,” he said then.
“Sleep well, Bai.”
When Marie was outside during the day, the doors were left open into the office. Katinka lay listening for the tapping of the telegraph.
“It’s so busy,” she said. “So much to say.”
“Bai,” she shouted. “There’s one for here.”
Bai swore roundly out in the office.
“Yes, by Jove there is.” He appeared in the doorway. “It’s for the parsonage.”
“The parsonage.” Katinka raised herself up in bed. “It must be from Agnes.”
Bai said nothing, he was all excited, he ran about with his blue pencil looking for his jacket and he wrote the telegram down, in his shirt sleeves, and got it
wrong and tore it up.
“Bai,” said Katinka, “Bai, is it Agnes?”
“Yes, by Gad.”
Bai rushed off personally with the telegram just as the afternoon train was due.
He had never seen such joy before. The two old folk both laughed and cried.
“Oh, thank God. Just fancy that it really is true. Oh dear, is it really true?”
“Yes, my dear. Yes, it really is.” The old parson tried to remain composed.
He patted her head in an effort to calm her down.
But then he folded his hands. “No,” he said, “it’s too much.”
And he wept and dried his eyes on his velvet skullcap.
“Oh dear,” he said, “praised be the Lord, I say. God be praised.”
The old minister wanted to give Katinka the news himself, and he got his coat, his hat and his gloves, and he put them all down again and took hold of Bai with both hands:
“Oh, how wonderful, stationmaster,” he said, “for us two old folk here to have this experience, to experience this, stationmaster.”
“Aye, we all have our way.”
“Andersen had to learn to miss her, yes, to miss her,” said the old minister.
He pottered about but failed to get ready.
His wife came in with strawberry liqueur before they left.
The old minister whistled an old soldiers’ song as he walked along.
He sat by Katinka’s bed.
“Aye,” he said, “God brings the right people together.”
Agnes came home about a week later.
She stormed across the platform and rushed in through the office. From the doorway leading into the house she saw Katinka lying there on the pillow with her eyes closed. Agnes would not have recognised her.
Katinka opened her eyes and looked at her:
“Yes,” she said, “it’s me.”
Agnes went across and took Katinka’s hands. She knelt down by her bed.
“Lovely lady,” said Agnes, fighting to prevent herself from weeping.
She came every afternoon and sat with Katinka until the evening.
They did not speak much. Katinka dozed and Agnes lowered her sewing onto her lap and looked at the poor face on the pillow. Katinka was breathing weakly, and each breath rattled in her breast.
Katinka moved, and Agnes took hold of her sewing again and worked the needle out and in.
Katinka lay there, awake. She was so weak that she was unable to speak. The coughing came and shook her, she rose up in the bed, it was as though she was being torn apart.
Agnes supported her. Katinka was drenched in cold sweat.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”
She settled again and lay silent. From inside the bed curtain she looked at Agnes’ face, so round and strong, and at her hands as they moved resolutely over her sewing.
“Agnes,” she said “will you play something for me?”
“You should get some sleep,” said Agnes.
“Oh no. Play something.”
Agnes rose and went over to the piano. She quietly played melody after melody.
Katinka lay still with her hands on the blanket.
“Agnes,” she said, “Won’t you sing that song for me?”
It was the song about Sorrento. Agnes sang it in her deep contralto voice:
“There the tall and darkling pines
Give their shade to ambrosial vines
There orange grove and luscious lime
Their perfumes give to this sweet clime;
There boats rock gently by the shore
As happy lovers by the score
Loudly the Madonna’s praises sing
And then to her their prayers do bring.”
She stayed by the piano for a time. Then she rose and went into the bedroom.
“Thank you,” said Katinka.
She lay there for a moment.
“Yes,” she said softly. “How lovely life could be.”
Agnes stretched out by the bed. The two of them lay there in silence in the dark, Katinka’s hand stroking Agnes’ hair.
“Agnes,” she said. “I don’t want a funeral oration.”
“But Katinka.”
“Just a prayer,” she said.
She was silent again. Agnes wept quietly. Katinka continued to twist tiny locks of her hair round her fingers.
“But there is just,” she spoke quite quietly and almost hesitantly, and her hand fell from Agnes’ hair, “one hymn that I would very much like to have sung over my grave.”
She whispered in a voice that was scarcely audible. Agnes lay there with her head buried in the pillow.
“The wedding hymn,” said Katinka quite quietly, like a child scarcely daring to ask for something.
Agnes was racked with weeping and she took Katinka’s hands and kissed them as she sobbed.
“But Katinka, my dear Katinka.”
Katinka put her hands round her head and leant forward a little.
“Now you two are going to be so happy,” she said.
She lay there silently. Agnes continued to weep.
The following day, Katinka was given the last rites by the old minister. Bai was in town.
Agnes was awakened during the night by a frightened maid holding a tallow candle. “There’s a message, miss, from the station. You must come straight away.”
“A message?” Agnes was up immediately.
“Who is it?” she said.
She shouted down through the corridor.
“It’s me,” said Wee Bentzen.
Agnes came out, wrapped in shawls.
“She’s dying, miss,” said Wee Bentzen. He stood there pale and with teeth chattering. Wee Bentzen had never seen anyone die before.
“Have you sent for the doctor?” said Agnes. “Give me the lamp, Ane.”
“There was no one to send.”
Agnes lit the lamp and went across the courtyard. She knocked on the door to the farm hands’ room. It echoed in the barn.
“Lars, Lars.”
The horses grew restless in their stalls.
Lars emerged at the half door in the light from the lamp, heavy with sleep.
Agnes went back across the courtyard to the front door. Wee Bentzen had gone out onto the steps, afraid of standing there in the dark.
“You come with me,” said Agnes and went past them.
A couple of frightened maids came out into the corridor. “Make some coffee,” said Agnes. “Be quick.”
She went in to dress. Wee Bentzen was left alone in the corridor. The doors were open throughout the house, creaking in the dark. The maids were rummaging around, half dressed and sleepy, each holding a tallow candle. They forgot a candle stick on the table. The light was flickering in the draught.
Out in the courtyard, the lad came along with the stable lantern. He put it down on the stones and went again. A ring of light was created around the lamp in the darkness.
The coach-house door was opened, and they emerged with the horses. Every sound was loud and frightening in the night.
Agnes came out and passed Bentzen in the corridor.
“I’ll go down,” she said. “Is she having convulsions?”
“She was crying out,” said Bentzen.
Agnes looked out into the yard. “Hurry,” she shouted. The boy ran across the yard with the lamp.
A couple of flickering candles were put in the kitchen window so that the light fell on the horses and carriage,
Old Mrs Linde appeared in the dining room, wearing a dressing gown belonging to the old minister. “Go back to bed, mother,” said Agnes.
“Oh, Lord help us, Lord help us,” said old Mrs Linde. “So it’s come all of a sudden, all of a sudden.” And she started wandering around with a candle in her hand like all the others.
The boy opened the gates. The noise made them all start. And Lars emerged in the kitchen door and was given a cup of coffee.
Wee Bentzen came out and sat up on the bo
x. He saw Mrs Linde’s face: she was weeping gently in the sitting room and rocking to and fro in front of the flickering candle.
They set out through the gate, down the road, through the darkness, trotting so that the willow hedge flew past them like dancing ghosts.
Lars held tight onto the reins.
“The animals are nervous when they’re going to a death,” he said.
They said no more. The willows were restless as the lights from the carriage flew past them.
Bai was walking up and down in the hall, up and down along the wall.
“Is it you, is it you?” he said. “Oh, she is shouting so.”
Agnes opened the door to the office. She could hear Katinka groaning and the night nurse’s voice saying, “There, there, there.”
Marie appeared, “The doctor,” she said.
“He’s gone for him,” said Agnes.
She went in. The night nurse was holding Katinka’s arms above her head. The spasms were convulsing her body beneath the blankets.
“Hold on to her,” said the nurse.
Agnes took hold of her wrists and released them again when she felt the cold sweat.
The dying woman was flailing around in the bed curtain with arms twisted in convulsions.
“Keep hold of her,” said the nurse. Agnes took hold of her arms. “Her tongue, her tongue,” she said. “Get a spoon then, her tongue.”
Katinka sank back. Bluish white foam appeared over her lips, which were opened over her clenched teeth.
Marie dropped the spoon and could not find it on the floor and rummaged around with the candle searching for another.
“Keep hold of her head,” said the nurse. “Keep hold of her head.” Marie held it, trembling all over.
“Oh, heavens above, oh Jesus,” she repeated. “Oh Jesus, dear Saviour.”
Agnes pressed Katinka’s arms down. “Keep her head back,” said the nurse. She stretched across and pressed the spoon down between the dying woman’s teeth.
Foam came and covered the spoon, “Good,” whispered the nurse, “good.”
Katinka opened her eyes. She fixed them on Agnes, huge and afraid.
Katinka continued to stare at her with the same look.
“Katinka.”
The dying woman groaned and sank back. The spoon fell from her mouth.
“She’s quietening down,” said the nurse.