As Trains Pass By

by Herman Bang

  Katinka’s eyes closed. Agnes let go of her arms.

  They sat down each on her own side of the bed, listening to her breathing, which was irregular and quite weak.

  “She’s settling,” said the nurse.

  The dying woman dozed, groaning now and again.

  A carriage was heard outside on the road. The door was flung open and the doctor’s voice was heard.

  Agnes rose and hushed him.

  “She’s asleep,” she said.

  The doctor went in and bent over the bed. “Yes,” he said, “It won’t be long now.”

  “Is she suffering?” asked Agnes.

  “There’s no knowing,” said the doctor.

  “She’s asleep now.”

  The doctor and Agnes sat down in the sitting room. They could hear Bai walking up and down in the office.

  Agnes rose and went to him.

  “What does he say?” asked Bai, continuing to walk up and down.

  Agnes made no reply. She sat silently on her chair.

  “I never thought it would come to this,” said Bai. “I never imagined this, Miss Agnes.”

  He wandered up and down, from door to window, stopped again by Agnes’ chair and, without looking at her, said, “I never imagined it, Miss Agnes.”

  The doctor opened the door. “Come in here,” he said.

  The convulsions had started again. Bai was to hold one of her arms.

  But he let go of it again.

  “I can’t,” he said and went off with his hands to his face. They heard him sobbing in the office.

  “Wipe her forehead,” said the doctor.

  Agnes wiped the sweat from her forehead.

  “Thank you,” said Katinka, opening her eyes. “Is it Agnes?”

  “Yes, Katinka, it’s Agnes.”

  “Thank you.”

  Then she went off again.

  Towards morning, she woke. They were all sitting by her bed.

  Her eyes were glazed.

  “Bai,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Ask her to play for me.”

  “Do play something,” said the doctor.

  Agnes went into the sitting room. Her tears ran down on to the keys and onto her hands as she played without hearing what she was playing.

  Katinka lay there in silence. There was a rattling in her chest as she breathed.

  “Why isn’t she playing?” she said.

  “But she is playing, Tik.”

  “She can’t hear any longer.”

  The dying woman shook her head, “I can’t hear it,” she said.

  “The hymn,” she whispered. “The hymn.”

  She lay for a time again, quite quiet. The doctor sat there, taking her pulse, and looking at her face.

  Then she sat up and tore her hand free.

  “Bai,” she screamed. “Bai.”

  Agnes rose and rushed into the office. They all stood by the bed. Bai knelt, sobbing.

  Then they all started. It was the telegraph that could be heard in all the rooms as it announced the arrival of the train.

  Katinka opened her eyes. “Look, look,” she said, raising her head.

  “See, the sun,” she said. “See the sun over the mountains.”

  She raised her arms; they sank again and slipped down the bedspread.

  The doctor quickly bent down over the bed.

  Agnes knelt at the foot with her head against the bed alongside Marie.

  All that was to be heard was loud sobbing.

  The doctor raised the hanging arms and folded her hands over the dead woman’s breast.

  “Hmm, you don’t look as though you’ve had much sleep, Bentzen.”

  The guard leapt from the train.

  “How is she doing?”

  “She’s dead,” said Wee Bentzen. He spoke as though he was cold.

  “What? Good God!”

  The guard stood for a moment looking at the little station building, everything seemed to be as usual.

  Then he turned round and quietly climbed the steps.

  The train was hidden by the winter mists over the meadows.

  VII

  It was the first day of winter. The air was clear and a thin layer of snow lay on the slightly frozen ground.

  Outside the church, the men were beginning to congregate, solemn, wearing silk top hats of many vintages. They stood whispering in small groups, and one by one they went and looked down in the empty grave by the wall.

  Inside the church, four or five were moving silently around the coffin, quietly feeling the wreaths. The parish clerk and little Miss Jensen were putting the hymn numbers up.

  They were ready. “And hymn number 753 at the graveside,” said little Miss Jensen.

  Little Miss Jensen was a kind of funeral director on this occasion. She had immediately taken charge of the body both at home and in the church. The institute had been closed for the ‘autumn holiday’ since the death.

  Miss Jensen looked around the church and approached the coffin accompanied by the parish clerk. The garlands were draped in regular arches above the choir and lengths of crape had been draped around the altar candles.

  “Nice coffin, considering the time of year,” said the parish clerk.

  They stood looking at the wreaths.

  “They make nice wreaths in the mill,” said Miss Jensen

  “Some are quite different though,” said the parish clerk, shrugging and looking down at a wreath from the Abels.

  “Yes,” said Miss Jensen, “they take very little interest there.”

  Miss Jensen retired a little and considered the coffin with a critical eye.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m glad we decided on oak.”

  “It is, if I can put it that way, cleaner for the body,” said the parish clerk.

  The bells began to ring, and Miss Jensen went out into the churchyard. She greeted her pupils’ fathers and took a head count.

  Bai came in through the gate with two gentlemen wearing foot muffs; all hats were raised. Little Miss Jensen shook hands with people in the porch.

  When all were seated in the pews, the Abel family arrived. The widow headed them; she looked as though she had been hurrying. The two chicks were veiled like two widows.

  Louise placed a cross of ivy on the coffin.

  Agnes sat beside the old minister. She did not hear the singing and did not open her hymn book. She just sat there, staring through misty eyes at the lovely lady’s coffin.

  The singing came to an end. The old minister rose and went forward.

  When he saw him standing there before the coffin with his hands folded, Bai burst into tears and sobbed loudly.

  The old minister waited silently, with his eyes trained on the coffin. He spoke in a soft voice. The wintry sun shone in through the choir windows on the coffin and the flowers.

  The old minister spoke of those whose lives were quiet and lived in obscurity.

  She was quiet, her life was quiet, and she would be brought quietly to her final resting place. The Lord God, who knows His flock, had given her a life in quiet happiness with a good husband. He gave her a death in peace supported by the Holy Spirit. May He receive her spirit, He who alone knows hearts and reigns. May He, the sole comforter, give comfort to those who now mourn. Amen.

  Old Linde fell silent. There was silence everywhere.

  The pall bearers came forward with the parish clerk and Little Miss Jensen, who removed the wreaths from the coffin.

  And everyone, standing in the pews, watched the coffin being carried out to the sound of the wedding hymn.

  “How fair it is to walk as one

  For two who fain would share their morrow

  Their blessed joy is never done

  And halved is the weight of sorrow.

  Aye, bliss it is

  For two to walk

  When linked by love.”

  Agnes continued to watch the coffin. The doors had been thrown open wide to the brightness of the day.


  “When linked by love…”

  They came to the grave. It was heavy going for the pall bearers. The grave digger fumbled with the rope, and it dropped down into the grave.

  Everyone stood and waited for them to get hold of the end of the rope and fix it round the coffin.

  Bai held onto a bush as though he intended to break it in two as the coffin was pushed forward and sank into the ground.

  Agnes had closed her eyes.

  “How sad it is but then to part

  For two who fain their days would share

  But God be praised, in His own heart

  Awaits us all a dwelling fair.

  Aye, bliss it is

  For two to walk

  When linked by love.”

  “Come on now, brother-in-law.” The two men wearing foot muffs were supporting a sobbing Bai.

  The hymn came to an end. All was silent. There was not a sound. No wind blew over the bared heads.

  The sand was heavy as it fell from old Linde’s shaking hands.

  “Our Father, who art in Heaven…”

  It was all over. The two gentlemen in foot muffs shook people’s hands and thanked them for “their profound sympathy”.

  Mrs Abel stopped them at the gate. She had a small table at home laid ready for Bai and his brothers-in-law.

  “Just a modest little bite so that you don’t have to eat on your own.”

  Mrs Abel dried her eyes.

  “I know what it is to lose someone,” she said.

  The mourners had left.

  Agnes stood by the grave alone. She looked down on the coffin with its wreaths all discoloured by the sand.

  And she stared out across the roads where all the people were going back to their lives at home.

  There was Bai between the two ladies in their mourning veils, those long veils, and the two gentlemen with the foot muffs, Katinka’s brothers, who had thanked the assembled mourners on behalf of the family.

  Little Miss Jensen was to eat in the mill after all her efforts. Miss Helene complained about her boots being too small.

  There they went, all of them.

  Hurrying away.

  Agnes bent her head. She felt a kind of angry revulsion at all this petty life hurrying off in all directions to get home.

  She heard someone approaching from behind. It was Wee Bentzen, carrying a large box.

  “It’s a wreath, Miss,” he said. “I wanted to bring it myself. It came by the midday train.”

  Wee Bentzen took the wreath out of the box.

  “It’s from Huus,” he said.

  “From Huus,” said Agnes. She took the wreath and looked at the partly withered roses, “It must have been very beautiful.”

  “Aye,” said Bentzen. “It must have been pretty.”

  They stood there for a moment. Agnes sank almost to her knees and gently lowered the wreath onto the coffin. The rose petals were scattered by the fall.

  When Agnes turned round, Wee Bentzen was weeping as he stood there.

  A workman approached.

  “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I need to close the churchyard.”

  “All right, we’re coming.”

  “I’m sure the parish clerk will not object to my staying here,” said Agnes.

  Agnes and Bentzen walked quietly along the path. The workman was already standing by the gate, waiting for them.

  With her hands in the pockets of her cape, Agnes stood there and watched the workman as he closed the gate and locked up.

  Wee Bentzen was still sniffing a little as he said goodbye.

  Agnes stood for a long time before the locked gate.

  Bai spent a lot of time at the Abels.

  Mrs Abel could not stand the idea of his being down there alone, in all those empty rooms, “when they themselves were able to sit around a cosy lamp,” she said.

  She and Louise called for him after the eight o’clock train had left.

  “Just to sit around the lamp at home,” said Mrs Abel.

  Louise was quite at home at the station. She had to rush around and water the flowers before they left.

  Mrs Abel stood and watched.

  “They were the dear girl’s favourites,” she said in a gentle voice.

  The dear girl was Katinka.

  “What about the hanging basket?” said Louise. “That gets thirsty as well.” She nodded in the direction of the hanging basket.

  Bai had to hold the chair when Louise watered the hanging basket. She stood on her toes holding the watering can and revealing her beauty.

  “She doesn’t forget anything,” said Mrs Abel. The hanging basket was watered so profusely that it splashed down onto the floor.

  “I’m sure Marie will wipe it up,” said Louise in a sharp voice in the direction of the kitchen. She always stood for a second or so in the doorway to the larder to “take stock”. Louise had extremely quick fingers when something sweet had been left on a plate.

  They went home to sit round the lamp.

  Dressed in a white pinafore, Louise poured the tea.

  Ida had to be called time after time.

  “She is writing,” said the widow, from her corner.

  Ida always wrote in a curious state of undress.

  “I think you’ve forgotten your cuffs, dearest,” said the widow.

  “Oh,” said Ida. Dear little Ida was generally somewhat disorganised.

  “He’s simply not here,” said the widow.

  After tea, Bai was given his toddy while he read The Morning Telegraph. Louise did some embroidery. The widow sat and looked “tenderly” at them.

  “You must simply feel you are at home. That’s all we want.”

  When Bai had finished his newspaper, Louise played the piano. She finished with one of the little melodies Katinka had been fond of playing.

  “Your dear wife used to play that,” said the widow, looking at the portrait of Katinka surrounded by a wreath of everlasting flowers hanging beneath the mirror over the sofa.

  “Aye,” said Bai. He sat with his hands clasped. Up there by the lamp, after his toddy, Bai always felt some gentle emotion deriving from his “loss”.

  The widow understood him.

  “But one has the glorified memory,” she said. “And the promise of meeting again.”

  “Yes.”

  Bai wiped two fingers over his eyes.

  They spoke about “his dear late wife” while Bai drank his second glass.

  Little Miss Jensen sat by her window listening in the dark, to discover when he left.

  Little Miss Jensen had spent most of her time at the parsonage recently.

  “I don’t think the Abels want to be disturbed,” said Little Miss Jensen.

  Miss Jensen had frequently visited the station during the first weeks after the death.

  “A woman helps where she can,” she said at the mill.

  “Yes,” said the miller’s wife.

  Miss Helene stretched out her legs and looked at her felt slippers.

  “Oh, that dear Katinka spoiled him so dreadfully.” Miss Jensen had taken to calling her Katinka since she had died.

  Little Miss Jensen assumed a kind of supervisory function at the station.

  “What need do you have of a maid?” she said.

  She would come after school with a basket and Bel-Ami. Bel-Ami had his own basket near the stove.

  She went around noiselessly making Bai’s favourite dishes.

  After the meal, she put on her coat. But Bai said she should stay and share the last bit of food with him.

  “Yes, if you would rather I stayed,” said Little Miss Jensen.

  “At least it is a living person near you,” she said modestly.

  Bel-Ami was returned to his place, and they had their meal.

  Little Miss Jensen did not force conversation on him. She sat there silent and sympathetic while Bai saw to his favourite dishes. He had started to recover his appetite.

  After the meal they played an almo
st wordless game of piquet.

  Miss Jensen left at ten o’clock.

  “I will go by way of the grave,” she said, “and put a flower on it.”

  Miss Jensen tended the grave.

  She heard Bel-Ami whining as she went along the road home. She did not pick him up.

  Miss Jensen walked deep in thought. She was thinking of selling her school.

  She had always been more suited to a post in which an educated lady played the part of the lady of the house.

  But for the past two or three months Miss Jensen had not been coming to the station very frequently.

  She did not wish to be considered pushing.

  She simply did not understand Mrs Abel.

  She would sit at the window of an evening, listening to hear whether he was allowed to go home at all.

  “I look after the grave,” she said in the mill.

  “Good Lord, those women are all over the place.” Kiær waved his hat around in the office as though to keep the flies away. Louise had darted past him in the doorway.

  “Good God, they do scuttle around,” said Kiær.

  Kiær was going to Copenhagen and wanted Bai to go with him.

  “You need to, my lad. Damn it all, you really do need to. To get some air in your lungs. Like a young bachelor. Off to the skittle alley,” he said.

  Bai could not really make up his mind to go, so soon after.

  But it would be good to have some fresh air in his lungs. Yes, he certainly needed that.

  They left a week later. Mrs Abel and Louise packed his suitcase.

  Bai stretched out in his seat and tensed the muscles in his arms as they started out.

  “Out on your travels?” said the indiscreet guard. They came across him at a station.

  “A trip for the squires. Two cheerful young bloods.” The indiscreet guard produced a loud click of his tongue.

  Bai said, “Aye, we’re going to see how things are rubbing along.”

  He slapped both Kiær’s knees and repeated, “Rubbing along, old man.”

  The train started to move and they waved to the guard, who shouted something after them.

  They suddenly grew quite merry, breaking out in coarse language and slapping their thighs.

  “Well, here we go again, we’re off once more,” said Bai.

  “Well, what else are we here for?” said Kiær.