The guard dog was asleep on its chain in the hot yard and was not to be awakened. A couple of scrubbed tubs had been put out to dry in the sun.
Katinka opened the parsonage front door; all that could be heard was the buzzing of the flies in the cool light rooms.
She went in through the summerhouse and out into the garden. There was no one to be seen and all was quite silent. Balls and mallets lay abandoned on the croquet lawn. The rose bushes were drooping in the heat.
“Is it you, my dear Mrs Bai?” The words issued quietly from the summerhouse. Mrs Linde nodded: “Linde is preparing his sermon.”
“They are all out in the back garden. The Kiærs came, you know, a whole crowd of them with some of their friends. And that’s not really convenient when Linde is preparing a sermon.”
“Are the Kiærs here?” said Katinka.
“Yes, they came for coffee. They are in the back garden along with the new doctor. And what about you? You’ve been to the fair. Huus told me all about it.”
“Yes, it was a lovely day,” said Katinka. She found it difficult to speak these words, her heart was beating so.
Old Mr Linde appeared at the garden door. He had a handkerchief on his head. The handkerchiefs came out every Friday evening when Mr Linde started working on his sermon.
“Is it our dear Mrs Katinka,” he said. “And are you well?”
The old minister came across to the summerhouse door. He wanted to hear about the fair.
Katinka scarcely knew what she was saying. While speaking she suddenly felt an indescribable longing for Huus.
“Yes, he is a really good man,” said Mrs Linde after Katinka had said something or other, and Katinka blushed scarlet.
“Yes,” said the old minister, “he’s a nice man.”
He removed the handkerchief and laid it before him on the summerhouse table. He went on asking about the fair: “It was getting on for morning before the people here came home,” he said.
“They must be allowed to enjoy themselves occasionally.” The old parson continued to make the odd comment, and Katinka replied without having understood a word of what he had said.
“Linde, my dear – what about your sermon?”
“Yes, dear. Yes, Mrs Bai,” he said. “It’s Saturday evening already.”
The old minister shambled away with his handkerchief in his hand.
“Would you not like to go down to the others, Mrs Bai?” said Mrs Linde.
“Are you sure I cannot help you with anything?”
“No, thank you. I’m only going to give them what I have ready, a few peas and some ham.”
Katinka rose.
“Go through the courtyard,” said Mrs Linde.
Katinka had not seen Huus for the three days since the fair, during which time she had both waited and hoped. And feared what she was hoping. Now she was to see him again.
Laughter and noise from the back garden could be heard far out across the meadow. Katinka opened the gate and went in.
“There’s our lovely lady,” shouted Agnes. They were playing odd man out on the big lawn.
Katinka had only seen Huus, standing there in the middle of the group. How pale and sad he looked.
It struck Katinka that perhaps he had been unable to sleep, just as she had. And she smiled nervously at him, with her head bent like that of a young girl.
Agnes joined her, and they came to stand in front of Huus.
“Oh, come on,” said Agnes to Huus, “We know what’s wrong: you’ve had a hangover of course. And so no one has set eyes on you for three days.”
“And we have missed you.”
“Mrs Bai wouldn’t let us have our coffee yesterday because we were to wait for you.”
Katinka turned her eyes down to the ground, but she made no effort to stop Agnes. She felt as though it was she herself who was saying how she had been waiting for him.
“And what sort of a way is this to behave when one is supposed to be responsible for a couple of chicks?” said Agnes.
The other two said not a word. But Katinka felt Huus looking at her, and she stood there with her head bowed before him.
They went on to play postman’s knock. He was all she saw. They only exchanged the words of the game in low voices. Neither of them would have been able to speak aloud in a normal voice.
Katinka did not realise that in the game her hands were lingering in his and only reluctantly releasing them.
The table was to be laid for supper in the summerhouse. The old minister and Mr Andersen came with Louise and Little Miss Jensen.
“Well,” said Agnes, “we were allowed to have a smell of the ham at last.”
Before going to table, Louise had already been skipping in front of the new doctor and displaying her ‘beauty’.
When they were all seated in the summerhouse, old Mr Linde called in through the door to ask whether a couple out on the lovers’ bench had not been forgotten. The ‘lovers’ bench’ was an old mouldering bench between two trees down by the pond.
“It is so lovely and dark there,” said Mrs Linde. “In the old days, when our sons were courting, there was always a couple that emerged from there, that’s to say each on their own side of the summerhouse here. Aye, in those days…”
The ‘lovers’ bench’ was Mrs Linde’s favourite subject.
“Aye, Linde, some people have been very happy.”
She started to count up all the people who had become engaged in the parsonage. So-and-so and so-and-so… It turned into a happy conversation across the entire table about all that courting and all those engagements.
“Yes, there was that summer when both Rikard and Hans Beck got engaged.”
“Agnes knew of course; she had always rattled the catches before opening the doors.”
“And then the path through the hazels.”
“Of course, there was always the risk of disturbing someone.”
“You could always hear the rustling through the branches as someone ran off.”
“Miss Horten had a horrid yellow skirt. It simply shone.”
“Yes,” said the old minister, “you have to be careful of gaudy colours.”
“Oh, but it’s so lovely in the hazel walk,” exclaimed one girl.
At this, people laughed so loudly they leant over the table.
“Linde, Linde,” shouts Mrs Linde. “Remember it’s Saturday.” The old parson is laughing so much he starts coughing.
“But it really was as though you could always hear kissing in all the corners.
“Yes,” says Mrs Linde, adopting a practical attitude, “they have all done very well.”
“Your health, dear Mrs Katinka, let us drink to each other,” says the old parson.
Katinka started: “Thank you…”
The conversation turned on one couple, the last one on the lovers’ bench. They had a little boy already.
“Was it a boy they got?”
“Yes, a lovely boy.”
“He weighed eight pounds,” said Mrs Linde.
“And they have their own home.”
“All in no time.”
“And all this billing and cooing. You would think they were still on their honeymoon.”
They had finished eating, and Mrs Linde made a sign to the minister.
“Aye, aye,” said the old parson. “Shall we drink to mother, then?”
“That was a lovely meal. Thank you so much.”
Everyone rose, and there was the buzz of voices out in the garden. Katinka leant against the wall. It was as though all noise and talk out there was so far away and she saw nothing but Huus’ pale, expressive face, that beloved face of his.
A couple of maids came to clear the table, and Katinka went out into the garden. They were going to play hide and seek. Agnes had already started counting.
The old parson wished them all good night. It was Saturday, he said. He met Bai up by the gate: “Good evening, stationmaster. I’m afraid I must think about my sermon.”
Louise was standing by the big jasmine bush. People were rushing around and hiding behind bushes all over the place.
“She’s peeping, she’s peeping,” someone shouted as they rushed past the jasmine bush.
And then there was silence.
“I’m coming.”
Katinka went into the summerhouse. She closed the door behind her; she was so tired. And all the words spoken at the table had as it were settled on her like some great pain against which there was no help.
She sat quietly on her own when the door was opened and closed:
“Huus!”
“Katinka. Oh dear Katinka.” It was a voice in despair and in tears, and he grabbed her hands and kissed and kissed them as he knelt at her feet.
“Yes, my dear. Yes, my dear.”
Katinka freed her hands and supported herself on his shoulder for a moment as he knelt there: “Yes, Huus, yes.”
The tears were running down her cheeks. With indescribable tenderness he let his hand glide down through the sobbing woman’s hair.
“Oh, dearest Huus, time will soothe all this. You… when you…” She removed his hand from her hair and supported herself on the table: “When you leave and we see each other no more.”
“Not see each other ever again?”
“No, Huus. It must be so. But I will always remember you, always and forever.”
She spoke so gently and with a thousand sorrowful caresses in her voice. “Katinka,” said Huus. He raised his face to her, and it was bathed in tears.
Katinka looked down on his face, where she loved every feature. His eyes, his mouth, his forehead, which she was never to see again; never to be close to him.
She took a step as though to go. Then she turned round towards Huus, who was standing by the table.
“Kiss me,” she said, putting her head onto his chest.
He took her head between his hands and whispered her name all the time between his kisses.
Out in the garden they were rushing around all over the place. Louise flew through the hazel walk after the new doctor, almost overturning Bai at the end of the path.
“Aye, we were at the fair,” said Bai. “Nice day. Saw a couple of nice girls in the woods, smart girls in boots. A real breath of fresh air, Kiær, old boy.”
“So Huus said,” says Kiær.
“Huus.” Bai stops and lowers his voice. “Huus. What did I say? That man doesn’t know anything at all about women. He just sat there like a skinned chicken watching the ‘nightingales’. It was a sorry sight, Kiær, pitiful to see in a well-built man.”
Louise turned up on the new doctor’s arm, up by the jasmine bush.
It was beginning to grow dusk. Couples were drifting around here and there in the garden. A name was called out from down in the hazel walk: “Yes,” came the reply from down by the pond.
And then, while the Saturday evening bells were ringing, everything grew quieter. Folk moved silently in the direction of the big grassy bank, exchanging brief, quiet remarks.
Katinka sat beside Agnes. The parson’s daughter always made a fuss of ‘our lovely lady’.
“Sing a little, Miss Emma,” said Agnes.
A little lady started to sing while they were sitting around the turf seat. It was the ballad telling how Sir Peter cast a spell of runes on Spange, the narrow bridge his beloved was to cross, in order to capture her affection. All the girls joined in the refrain.
Agnes rocked the lovely lady gently to and fro as she sang:
“Fairest words
Give but brief cheer
Fairest words
Can change our bliss to tears
Fairest words.”
And all became still again.
They sang song after song, first a single voice and then others would join in.
Katinka stayed with Agnes, silent and close to her.
“Join in the singing, lovely lady,” said Agnes, bending her face down towards Katinka.
Evening was really upon them now. The bushes round about stood there like great shadows. And after the hot day, the air was fresh with dew and filled with scent.
One man spoke to Huus, and he replied. Katinka could hear his voice.
“ ‘Marianna’ is such a nice song,” said Miss Emma.
“Yes, sing ‘Marianna’.”
Agnes and Miss Emma sang. “Do stay where you are,” said Agnes to Katinka.
“Beneath the grassy grave is sleeping
Our poor Marianna
Come gather, girls, and join in weeping.
Our poor Marianna.
The snake around her heart was twisted
And peace on earth no more existed.
Our poor Marianna.”
“Is our lovely lady cold?”
“I suppose we had better be going home,” said Katinka.
She rose. “I think it must be getting late,” she said.
They had left the garden. She had said goodbye to him.
She had seen his face, sorrowful and pale as he quickly bowed to her. She had felt his hand as he shook hers, so desperately that it hurt, and heard Bai’s:
“Bye, Huus. We’ll see you before long.”
And quickly, as she forced herself to laugh at something she had not heard, she shook hands all round; and Agnes put her arm round her and ran with her up to the garden gate.
It clicked twice and closed.
And behind them they were still singing.
“Let’s go this way,” she said. It was a path across the meadows, along the parsonage garden; they had to go in single file.
Katinka walked slowly behind Bai.
“Good night.” The leave-takings floated over to them. Old Linde had gone up onto his mound. He was waving his handkerchief.
“Good night, parson.”
“Good night.”
They went on across the meadow. The parson’s ‘Good night’ had suddenly brought the tears to Katinka’s eyes, and she continued to weep silently. She turned around twice and looked back at Linde standing on his mound.
“Are you coming?” said Bai.
They arrived home.
Bai checked the track and chatted as he fiddled about and finally settled down. And she went around and did all the everyday things, covering the furniture and watering the plants and closing the doors.
It was all as though through a veil, as though she were dreaming.
She rose the following day and set about all her customary tasks. The ten o’clock train came and went and she sat at the window looking out across the meadows, which lay there as they had done yesterday.
She talked; she was asked about everyday things and gave everyday answers. She went into the kitchen to help Marie.
Windows and doors were open. The bells started ringing from the chapel.
Marie was in the midst of a long conversation when her mistress said, “I’m going to church.”
And she was gone before Marie managed to say anything.
It was almost as though her mistress ran across the sun-drenched meadows.