II

The short days had come now.

Pouring rain and such tedious slush. But always a grey sky and always wet. Even Miss Jensen’s nicest pupils wore clogs as they came to school across the fields.

At the station, the platform was a lake. The last little leaves from the garden hedge were floating in it. The trains arrived dripping wet; the guards dashed back and forth wrapped in wet cloaks. Wee Bentzen ran around carrying the postbags beneath his umbrella.

Kiær’s grain trucks were covered with tarpaulin sheets, and the drivers sat there in rain capes.

Huus, the new bailiff, drove the first wagon to the station himself. There was plenty to see to with freight and clearance.

“Kiær’s folk are here,” said Bai to his wife.

Huus was in the habit of taking off his raincoat for half an hour and having a cup of coffee with the Bais.

While Mrs Bai went to and fro laying the table for coffee, Huus and the farm workers went back and forth on the platform, loading the sacks onto the goods wagons. Katinka saw them running past the windows. They looked so huge in their oilskins.

Marie, the maid, had a crush on Huus and went on about him all the time while she was at work.

She never tired of talking of his fine qualities. And she always ended with: “And what a voice he’s got.”

It was a soft, honest voice, and no one knew why Marie should have fallen for it.

When Huus had finished outside, they went in for coffee. It was warm and comfortable, and there was the scent of a couple of potted plants still flowering on the window ledge.

Aye, that’s what I always say,” said Huus, rubbing his hands, “It’s nice and cosy in Mrs Bai’s sitting room.”

And Huus brought a feeling of cosiness with him, too. There was a quiet sense of contentment about him; he said very little, and he rarely “told” anything. But he joined so easily in the everyday gossip, cheerful, always in a good mood. And it felt good simply to have him there.

A goods train arrived just at that moment, and Bai had to go out on the platform to attend to it.

It made no difference when he went and the other two were left alone. They chatted a little or sat quietly. She went across to the window and laughed at Bai as he rushed about in the rain out there.

Huus saw to Katinka’s flowers and gave her advice as to how to look after them. Katinka went across to him, and they tended them together. He knew every single one of them, whether it was growing or whether it was dormant, and he knew what to do with them.

Huus was interested in all small things of this kind, in the pigeons and the new strawberry patch that had been planted during the autumn.

Katinka asked his advice, and they went around looking at this and looking at that.

Bai had never been interested in that kind of thing. But with Huus it was as though there was always something new to learn, something to be asked about and something to arrange.

In that way they always had plenty to talk about, quietly and slowly, as was the manner with both of them.

Indeed, there was almost always something waiting for Huus – even if he came virtually every day, as he did just at this time when Rugaard Farm was selling its grain.

Miss Ida Abel also often had a reason for going to the station. She would struggle down the road with a letter she wanted to catch the midday post.

“Heaven help us, what dreadful weather, lieutenant.”

“A cup of coffee, miss? A little internal moisture to help you cope. Huus is inside with my wife.”

“Are the folk from Rugaard here?”

“Yes, they’ve come with some grain.”

Ida had had no idea they were there.

From the elevated ground at the corner of the farm, the “chicks” could keep an eye on the entire area.

Ida spent her mornings there.

She started to take the curlers out of her hair.

“Where are you going?”

Louise had toothache and was countering it with a spice bag.

“To the station with a letter.”

“Mother,” whined Louise, “now Ida’s off again. Hmm, if you think you’ll get anywhere down there…”

“What has it to do with you?” Ida slammed the bedroom door in the face of her fellow chick.

“Good lord, do you really want to make a fool of yourself? But you can put your own boots on. I’m telling you that, Ida.”

“Mother, tell Ida to put her own boots on, she always puts mine on to go to the station.”

“Pooh,” says Ida, who had now finished with the curling tongs.

“And my gloves – for heaven’s sake!” Louise snatches a pair of gloves out of Ida’s hands. And once more a couple of doors are slammed.

“What was all that about, children?” says Mrs Abel. She enters from the kitchen with wet hands. She has been peeling potatoes.

“Ida’s pinching my clothes.” Louise is weeping with fury.

Mrs Abel, quietly tidies up after her younger daughter and returns to her potatoes.

“My dear Mrs Bai,” says Ida, “I will not come inside. Good day, Mr Huus, I look so awful… I’m just looking in. Good day.”

Miss Abel came in. She had a low-cut dress beneath her rain cape.

“It’s when Christmas is approaching there is such a dreadful lot to be done. Oh, would you excuse me, Mr Huus, if I push past you and join you on the sofa. It’s nice to sit down,” she said.

But she did not sit there for long. There were too many things she had to admire. Miss Ida Abel was so full of youthful enthusiasm.

“Oh what a sweet little rug!”

“Oh, Mr Huus, do you mind?” She had to get past him again.

She felt the rug.

“Mother always says I flutter all over the place,” said Ida.

Mrs Abel sometimes called her daughters her little doves, but the name failed to catch on. There was something about Louise that absolutely excluded the concept of a dove.

And the “chicks” continued to be the term used.

After Miss Abel’s arrival, it was not long before Mr Huus took his leave.

There was not room for so many in a sitting room when Miss Ida was there, he said.

Christmas was approaching.

Huus went to Randers on business once a week. He always had some errand to do for Mrs Bai. Bai must not be told. The two of them would whisper about it for a long time in the sitting room when Huus had come back on the train.

Katinka thought it must have been many years since she had looked forward to Christmas as much as she did this year.

The weather helped as well.

There was a light, tingling frost and snow on the ground.

When Huus had been in Randers he stayed for tea at the station. He came with the eight o’clock train. Mrs Bai was often still sitting in the dark.

“Will you play something for me?” he said.

“Oh, I only know a few pieces.”

“But if I would like to hear them?” He sat on a chair in a corner beside the sofa.

Katinka played her five pieces; they all resembled each other. She would otherwise never think of playing for anyone. But Huus sat so quietly over in his corner that his presence was simply not noticed. And besides, he had no musical sense whatever.

When she had played, they would sit for a time without saying anything until Marie came in with the lamp and the tea things.

After tea, Bai took Huus with him into the office.

“Men must occasionally be left on their own as well,” he said.

When he and Huus were alone, Bai told all sorts of stories about women.

He had also figured in them once, when they were all in the training school.

“And Copenhagen had its women in those days. Oh well. Things have gone downhill since.”

“They say they all go to Russia now. All right, that might well be, I suppose.”

“But things have gone downhill.”

“If you’d known Kamilla – Kamilla Andersen – fine girl – wonderful girl. She came to a sad end – she damn well went and threw herself out of a window.”

“Ambitious girl.” Bai winked. Huus pretended he understood Kamilla’s ambition.

“Very ambitious girl… Knew her well. Brilliant.”

Bai talked all the time. Huus smoked his cigar and did not look particularly interested.

“And,” said Bai, “I ask the young people, you know, in the summer holidays, in the parsonage gardens, ‘What sort of women do you get nowadays?’ I ask them. Are they any good?”

“Little girls, my friend. Little girls.”

“Aye, they say they go to Russia, and that might well be, damn it.”

Huus expressed no opinion as to where they went. He looked at the clock.

“It’s getting on,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

But Huus had to go. The walk would take him three quarters of an hour after all.

They went in to join Mrs Bai in the sitting room.

“Should we not walk some of the way with Huus?” she said. “The weather is so beautiful.”

“Good idea, damn it. Give us a bit of exercise.”

They went with him.

Katinka took Bai’s arm. She had Huus on the other side. The snow creaked beneath their feet as they walked along the road.

“What a lot of stars there are this year,” said Katinka.

“Yes, a lot more than last year, Tik.” Bai was always animated when he had been in his own room.

“Yes, I think there are,” said Katinka.

“It’s curious weather,” said Huus.

“Yes,” this came from Bai: “All this cold before Christmas.”

“And it is going to last over New Year.”

“Do you think so?”

Then they fell silent, and when they spoke again it was more or less a repeat of the same conversation.

At the turn of the road, the Bais said good night.

Mrs Bai hummed a tune as she walked along. When they reached home, she remained in the doorway while Bai fetched the lantern and went across to see to the track for the night train.

He came back. “Well,” he said.

Katinka breathed out in the air, slowly.

“I do so like this cold weather,” she said, drawing her hand through her own breath as it rose in the air.

They went inside.

Bai lay in bed, smoking a cigar butt. Then he said,

“Aye, Huus is a damn nice chap but he’s a dry old stick.”

Mrs Bai was sitting in front of the looking glass. She laughed.

But Bai told Kiær in confidence that he didn’t believe Huus knew a damn thing about women. “I try to bring him out a bit, you know, in the evenings when he’s down at our house, but by Gad I don’t think he knows much about women.”

“Well, old chap,” said Kiær, and they slapped each other’s shoulders and laughed happily. “We can’t all be connoisseurs, you know.”

“No – fortunately. And as for Huus, I’m damn sure he isn’t.”

They were called in for coffee.

The last days before Christmas were a busy time at the station. There were so many things to be fetched and dispatched. No one wanted to wait for the postman.

The Misses Abel sent small cards with best wishes and enquired about parcels.

Miss Jensen brought a box of cigars with a whole stick of sealing wax spread decoratively on the string around it

“My own handiwork, Mrs Bai,” said Miss Jensen. The handiwork was for her sister.

Mrs Bai said, “Mrs Abel was at Randers yesterday, you know.”

“The interest on her annuity was due for payment yesterday,” said Miss Jensen tartly.

“She was so laden with parcels when she came home.”

“I can well believe that.”

“I suppose you are going to the Abels for Christmas Eve?”

“No. We live next door, Mrs Bai, but the Abels always have plenty to do thinking of themselves. I always used to go to the Lindes, in the parsonage. No, the Abels,” said Miss Jensen, “It’s not everyone who is one’s…”

Mrs Bai asked Miss Jensen if she would perhaps make do with them.

She brought herself to tell Bai when he came home from the tracks that evening.

“Mathias,” she said, she called him Mathias when about to make some dubious communication, “I have had to invite little Miss Jensen here for Christmas Eve. She can’t go to the Lindes.”

“That’s all right as far as I’m concerned.” Bai hated “the little wig stand” as he called her. “You are welcome to your collection of waifs and strays.”

Bai walked to and fro.

“Isn’t she going to the Abels?” he said.

“That’s just the problem, they haven’t invited her, Mathias.”

“Oh, that was probably wise of them, damn it,” said Bai, throwing his boots off. “Oh well, if it makes you happy.”

Mrs Bai was pleased she had managed to say it.

Miss Jensen came at half past five, bringing with her a splint basket and the pug.

She apologized for Bel-Ami.

“He’s at the Abels otherwise – I always leave him with the Abels. But this evening, you see, I didn’t want… but he’ll not do any harm… he’s a very quiet animal.”

Bel-Ami was placed on a rug in the bedroom. And there he stayed. He suffered from sleeping sickness and was no trouble apart from the fact that he snored.

“He is a good sleeper,” said Miss Jensen, taking cuffs and a collar out of the splint basket.

Bel-Ami was only difficult when he was to go home. He had certainly lost all taste for exercise.

At every tenth step he would stand still and howl with his tail between his legs.

When no one was looking, Miss Jensen would pick him up and carry him.

They dined at six o’clock. The “tree” stood in a corner. Wee Bentzen had his hair done in a quiff and was wearing his confirmation suit.

He ate like a horse.

Bai filled the glasses and chinked with Miss Jensen and Wee Bentzen .

“Well, cheers, Miss Jensen.”

“Cheers, Bentzen my boy. It’s only Christmas once a year,” he said. He poured more into the boy’s glass.

Wee Bentzen blushed and his complexion was that of a lobster.

“We’re drinking like they did in heathen times,” said Miss Jensen.

The door was open to the office. The telegraph ticked ceaselessly.

Colleagues were telegraphing Christmas wishes to each other. Bai went back and forth to answer them.

“Give them my best wishes,” said Katinka.

“Greetings from Mundstrup,” said Bai from the apparatus.

“Yes,” said Miss Jensen, “that is what I say to my pupils: I often tell them that our age has overcome the bounds of space.”

When the time came for cakes Miss Jensen became quite lively. Like a child, she nodded to herself in the mirror and said, “Cheers”.

Miss Jensen was wearing a new chignon that she had treated herself to for Christmas. Her hair was now in three different shades.

Bit by bit, Miss Jensen became rather happy.

After the meal, while the candles were being lit on the tree, Bentzen tried to play leapfrog with Marie the maid out in the kitchen.

Katinka went quietly around and took her time in lighting the candles. She probably also wanted to be on her own for a while.

“I wonder whether Huus has received our parcel,” she said. She was standing on a chair, using a wax candle to do the lighting.

At the last moment she took a muslin scarf from her table, it was one she had received from a sister, and put it among Miss Jensen’s presents. There were so few in her place; she was sharing the sofa with Wee Bentzen.

Katinka opened the door to the office, and they came in to see the tree.

They went around and looked at their presents, saying thank you for them and looking slightly embarrassed. Miss Jensen took out some small tissue paper packages from the splint basket and distributed them.

Marie the maid came in wearing a white apron. She went around with her own presents in her arms and felt the various objects scattered round about.

The eight o’clock train was dispatched, and they were again in the sitting room. The candles on the tree were still burning over in the corner.

It was very warm and stuffy in there because of the candles on the tree.

Bai made a show of fighting with sleep and said, “One is soon check-mated by all this festivity, Miss Jensen. All this Christmas jollification is pretty tiring.”

They were all sleepy and were eying the clock. The two ladies insisted on talking about the presents again and saying how good the work on them was.

“I think I’ll go and reflect a little on the state of the world,” said Bai. He escaped into the office. Wee Bentzen sat sleeping in a chair beneath the pipe rack.

The two ladies were left alone. They sat in a corner near the piano, in front of the tree, and were very sleepy.

They had been dozing for a time and suddenly jumped up in alarm at the sound of crackling in the tree. A branch had caught fire.

“It won’t burn much longer now,” said Katinka as she put out the fire.

The candles started to burn out one by one, and the tree grew dark. They sat there, quite awake again, looking at the darkening tree, there were just a couple of candles left burning low.

They were both overcome by the same quiet sense of melancholy as they looked at these last little candles. It was as though they only served to emphasize the dark, dead tree.

Miss Jensen started to speak. Katinka scarcely heard at first what it was she was saying, deeply absorbed in her own thoughts about the family at home and about Huus.

Katinka did not know why she had been thinking so much about Huus throughout the evening. He had been in her thoughts all the time.

All the time.

She nodded to Miss Jensen and pretended she was listening.

Miss Jensen was talking about her youth and suddenly plunged into telling the story of her love. She was already well into her account when Katinka became aware of it and she was surprised that Miss Jensen came to talk about it now and to her.

It was quite a simple story about unrequited love. She had believed it was her who was the focus of affection, and then it turned out to be her friend.

Miss Jensen spoke quietly, all the time in the same hushed voice. She had her handkerchief out and occasionally she would sniff a little and dab her cheeks with it.

Katinka gradually became rather moved. Then she thought of how this wrinkled little person would have looked as a young woman. Perhaps after all she had had a neat little figure.

And there she sat now, deserted and alone.

Katinka was quite affected, and she took Miss Jensen’s hands and gently patted them.

The caresses made the old woman weep still more. Katinka continued to pat her hands.

The last stumps of candle burned down, and the Christmas tree stood there quite dark.

“And a maiden lady has to get through life,” said Miss Jensen, “Whatever traps are put before her.”

Miss Jensen was back on the subject of the parson and his “words”.

Katinka released Miss Jensen’s hand. She felt it had grown quite cold and unpleasant around the tree now the candles had died.

Bai opened the door to the brightly lit office. A messenger had arrived on horseback bringing a parcel from Huus.

“Lanterns, Marie,” shouted Katinka, running into the office with the parcel.

It was a very finely woven shawl with gold threads in it, a big one that could be folded tight and almost into nothing.

Katinka remained standing there with the shawl. She was so pleased with it. She had had one quite similar to this, and a couple of weeks ago she had had an accident and burnt it.

But this one was much more splendid.

And she continued to stand there holding the shawl.

Bai was in a merry mood again. He had had a sleep and got over the dinner, and they all had some real rum in their tea.

Wee Bentzen became so high spirited that he ran over to his room and fetched some poems he had written down on a variety of paper scraps, the backs of old price lists and bills.

He read aloud so that Bai had to slap his thighs and roar with laughter. Katinka sat smiling, wrapped in Huus’ splendid shawl.

Miss Jensen finally played a Tyrolean waltz, and Wee Bentzen rushed into the kitchen, just a little embarrassed, and waltzed around so eagerly with Marie that she gave a little shriek.

They all had to help to wake Bel-Ami up again when Miss Jensen was to leave; he simply refused to leave his rug. Bai trod on its stub of a tail when Miss Jensen turned away.

Wee Bentzen was to take her home, but Miss Jensen, who was as scared as could be of the dark, insisted on going alone.

Miss Jensen refused to carry her Bel-Ami when anyone was watching.

They all went with her as far as the platform gate and shouted “Happy Christmas”, “Happy Christmas” over the hedge.

Bel-Ami set up a howl on the snow-covered road. He refused to move.

When Miss Jensen was sure they had all gone inside, she bent down and took Bel-Ami up in her arms.

Miss Jensen was wrapped up like an Eskimo woman as she walked home that Christmas night.

Katinka opened the windows to the living room, letting in the piercing cold air.

“Hmm, that little fraud knows how to put it on,” said Bai. He felt a measure of benevolent pleasure at having had little Miss Jensen there this evening.

“The poor little thing,” said Katinka. She remained at the window, looking out across the white field into the night.

“No one would think you were complaining of a cough,” said Bai. He closed the door to the bedroom.

Bentzen went over the platform to his room.

“She carried the pug,” he said. He had hidden behind the hedge to see this event. “Happy Christmas, Madam.”

“Happy Christmas, Bentzen .”

A couple of doors were closed, and then all was quite silent.

Just occasionally there was a fine humming sound in the telegraph wires.

Katinka was outside feeding the pigeons before going to church. The air was clear and there was no sign of a breeze, and the bells could be heard from the other side of the woods. All around in the white fields, the farmers could be seen trudging to church in single file along paths that had been cleared of snow.

They waited together outside the church, wishing each other a Happy Christmas. The women touched the tips of each other’s gloves and spoke in whispers.

Then they stood in silence and looked at each other until someone else joined the group.

The Bais were rather late and the church was full. Katinka nodded “Happy Christmas” to Huus, who was standing close to the door, and went up to her place.

She shared a pew with the Abels, just behind the minister’s family.

The Abel chicks were hidden in veils and fantastic lacework.

Mrs Linde had eyes in the back of her head on the major offertory days. She dressed herself and her daughter suitably on the days when there was a collection for the clergy.

Her daughter never went to church on the days when “the plate was passed round”.

They sang the old Christmas hymns, and bit by bit they all joined in, big and small. The vaulting was filled with an ample happy sound. The wintry sun shone in through the windows on to the white walls. Old Linde preached on the shepherds in the fields and the people for whom a Saviour was born this day, speaking in quiet, simple words so that it was as though the peace of simplicity descended on his church.

Katinka fell into a Christmas mood as the long procession to make the offerings slowly moved around the altar. The men walked stiffly, tramping heavily on the tiles and returned to their seats with completely expressionless faces.

The women sat shuffling a little, embarrassed and red-faced, their eyes stiffly directed towards the folded cloth.

Mrs Linde had her eyes on people’s hands at the altar.

Mrs Linde had been a parson’s wife for thirty-five years and had sat through countless offertory days. She could see from their hands what sort of contribution everyone was making.

Hands moved differently on coming out of pockets according to whether they were giving a small or a larger amount.

Mrs Linde estimated the offerings to be average this year.

The Bais met Huus outside the church. People were catching their breath out in the fresh air, and once more everyone wished everyone else a happy Christmas.

The minister came with the offertory money tied up in a handkerchief and everyone greeted him and curtseyed. “Well, Miss Jensen, I suppose we must all wish each other a happy Christmas,” said the “old minister”.

Katinka went out through the churchyard gate together with Huus. Bai stayed behind for a while with Kiær, so the two of them walked down the road alone together.

The sun was shining on the glistening fields; farms here and there had their flag flying high up on the flagpoles.

Churchgoers were drifting off home here and there together.

Katinka could still hear the hymns ringing in her ears, and she felt it all as a happy, solemn occasion.

“Christmas is a nice time,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied, putting all his conviction into that one word, “yes”.

“And he also preached quite well,” he added shortly afterwards.

“Yes,” said Katinka, “it was a really nice sermon.”

They walked on a little.

“But, you know, I haven’t thanked you for the shawl,” Katinka said.

“Don’t mention it.”

“But yes, of course… I was so delighted. I had one almost like it and had managed to burn it badly.”

“Yes, I know… You were wearing it the day I arrived.”

Katinka was on the point of saying, “How did you notice that?” But she refrained. Nor did she know why she suddenly blushed and for the first time noted that they were walking along without saying anything and tried to find something with which to break the silence.

They came down to the woods, and the bell from the chapel of ease rang out. It was as though the bells simply refused to stop ringing today.

“You will come in, won’t you,” said Katinka. “That will let Christmas into the house.”

They stood on the platform and listened to the bells while waiting for Bai.

Huus spent the rest of the day there.

When Bai sat down at a table resplendent with its damask cloth and an array of glass plates, he said, “Aye, it’s nice to have your family round you.”

Wee Bentzen shouted, “Yes, it is,” and laughed delightedly.

Huus said nothing. As Katinka said, he simply sat there and looked so content.

And throughout the day it was as though the house was suffused with a quiet happiness.

That evening, they played whist. Wee Bentzen was the fourth hand.

In the parsonage, they counted the offertory money. Mrs Linde was disappointed. The offerings were far less than average.

“What is the reason for it, Linde?” she asked.

The minister sat looking pensively at the large number of small coins.

“The reason for it? These people think we can live like the lilies of the field.”

Mrs Linde paused for a moment and then for the last time counted the number of krone coins.

“With a family,” concluded Mrs Linde.

“Well, my dear,” said old Linde, “let us at least be grateful for the fact that the price of corn has risen, that after all is what the tithes are based on.”

The parson’s daughter and Mr Andersen the curate were having fun overturning the furniture in the hall: they were playing indoor croquet.

“I’m keeping out of mother’s way,” said Miss Agnes. “All her less noble qualities are in turmoil on the big offertory days.”

Christmas came and went.

Katinka thought that she could not recall having such a lovely, homely Christmas like this for a long time, not since she was at home. Not that anything special happened, nothing more than usual; they visited the Lindes together with Huus and a couple of other people, and Miss Linde and the curate came to them one evening with Kiær and Huus. The Misses Abel were there for the afternoon train and they were also invited inside. And after the eight o’clock train they danced in the waiting room and sang a few songs as well.

There was nothing special. But it was as though everything had gone off so happily.

The only person to upset things a little was Huus. He had frequently of late just sat dozing.

“Huus,” said Katinka. “Are you asleep?”

Huus started as he sat there.

Bai was captured by the general sense of contentment in the house.

“I must say the weather makes a hell of a lot of difference,” he said, standing on the platform after seeing the afternoon train off; “I’m feeling fine at the moment – damned fine, amazingly fine.”

And during these days their entire marriage seemed as if it had been moved years back in time. Not in any insistent or excited manner, but in a way that was both intimate and cheerful.

It was approaching midnight on New Year’s Eve. The Bais were up to let in the New Year.

A great banging was heard on the paling.

“What the hell,” said Bai. It gave a shock to both him and Bentzen, who were playing cards, “There was no need for Peter to make such a din.”

Someone knocked on the window, and Huus’ voice could be heard shouting, “Happy New Year.”

“What the Devil – is it Huus?” said Bai, getting up.

“That was my first thought,” said Katinka. The din had given her palpitations.

Bai went out and opened up. Huus was in a sleigh.

“Good heavens,” said Bai. “Won’t you come in and have a drink.”

“Good evening, Huus,” Katinka came into the doorway. “We’re having a drink to welcome the New Year.”

They tethered the horse in the storehouse, and Katinka gave it some bread.

They drank to the New Year and decided they would stay up until the night train went by. That would be at two o’clock.

“Play us a tune, Tik,” said Bai.

Katinka played a polka, and Bai hummed along with her.

“Aye,” he said, “I was a good dancer in my day, wasn’t I Tik?” He tickled her neck.

They went out onto the platform. The sky was dark for the first time for ages.

“There’s more snow on the way,” said Bai. He took a little loose snow and rubbed it in Wee Bentzen’s face. The result was a momentary general scuffle.

“There he is,” said Bai. They could hear the distant rumble of the train.

“It’s damned dark tonight, though,” said Bai.

The noise came closer. Now the engine was rumbling across the bridge. The tiny light came closer and grew bigger; then the engine emerged suddenly from the darkness like some huge, bright-eyed beast.

And they all four stood still while it quickly rattled past. Steam rose from the track while lights from the coaches reflected across the snow.

It rattled away, off into the darkness.

“Hmm,” said Katinka. “That’s the way we greet the New Year.” They had stood silent for a time.

She leant against her husband and stroked her hair against his cheek.

Bai was also moved by the situation. He bent down and kissed her.

The train could be heard rumbling far away. They all turned round and went inside.

Huus was hard on the horse as he drove home in the sleigh. He lashed it cruelly and swore at it for good measure.

It was dark and a gale was approaching.

Katinka could not sleep. She woke Bai.

“Bai,” she said.

“What is it?” Bai turned over.

“It’s dreadful weather…”

“Well, we’re not at sea, are we,” said Bai, half asleep.

“But it’s drifting so,” said Katinka. “Do you think Huus has got home by now, Bai?”

“Oh, good Lord…”

Bai went back to sleep.

But Katinka did not sleep. She was worried about Huus on his way home in that weather. It was so dark and when all was said and done, he was new to the area.

How strange it was to think that it was only thirteen months since Huus had arrived.

Katinka wondered whether he really was home by now. She listened to the wind again; it was growing stronger. And he had been sad this evening, just sitting there – she knew him – and looking dejected. There must be something wrong.

There had been something wrong with him recently.

But would he have reached home by now? The weather was getting worse.

Katinka dropped off and fell asleep beside her husband.

On the second of January there was a party at the parsonage.

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 Brandes… 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.