Part 9 (1/2)
When Ditte was six months old, she had the bad habit of putting things into her mouth--everything went that way. This was the proof whether they could be eaten or not.
Ditte laughed when Granny told about it, because she was so much wiser now. There were things one could not eat and yet get pleasure from, and other things which could be eaten, but gave more enjoyment if one left them alone, content in the thought of how they would taste if----Then one hugged oneself with delight at keeping it so much longer. ”You're foolish,” said Granny, ”eat it up before it goes bad!” But Ditte understood how to put by. She would dream over one or other thing she had got: a red apple, for instance, she would press to her cheek and mouth and kiss. Or she would hide it and go about thinking of it with silent devotion. Should she return and find it spoiled, well, in imagination she had eaten it over and over again. This was beyond Granny; her helplessness had made her greedy, and she could never get enough to eat; now it was she who put everything into her mouth.
But then they had watched the child, for fear she should eat something which might harm her. More so Soren. ”Not into your mouth!” he often said. Whereupon the child would gaze at him, take the thing out of her own mouth and try to put it into his. Was it an attempt to get an accomplice, or did the little one think it was because he himself wanted to suck the thing, that he forbade her?
Soren was never quite clear on this point.
At all events, Ditte had learned at an early age to reckon with other people's selfishness. If they gave good advice or corrected her, it was not so much out of consideration for her as for their own ends. Should she meet the bigger girls on the road, and happen to have an apple in her hand, they would say to her: ”Fling that horrible apple away, or you'll get worms!” But Ditte no longer threw the apple away; she had found out that they only picked it up as soon as she had gone, to eat it themselves. Things were not what they appeared to be, more often than not there was something behind what one saw and heard.
Some people declared, that things really meant for one were put behind a back--a stick, for instance; it was always wise to be on the watch.
With Granny naturally it was not like this. She was simply Granny through all their ups and downs, and one need never beware of her.
She was only more whining than she used to be, and could no longer earn their living. Ditte had to bear the greatest share of the burden, and was already capable of getting necessities for the house; she knew when the farmers were killing or churning, and would stand barefooted begging for a little for Granny. ”Why don't you get poor relief?” said some, but gave all the same; the needy must not be turned away from one's door, if one's food were to be blessed.
But under these new conditions it was impossible to have any respect for Granny, who was treated more as a spoiled child, and often corrected and then comforted.
”Ay, 'tis all very well for you,” said the old woman--”you've got sight and good legs, the whole world's afore you. But I've only the grave to look forward to.”
”Do you want to die?” asked Ditte, ”and go to old Grandfather Soren?”
Indeed, no, Granny did not wish to die. But she could not help thinking of the grave; it drew her and yet frightened her. Her tired limbs were never really rested, and a long, long sleep under the green by Soren's side was a tempting thought, if only one could be sure of not feeling the cold. Yes, and that the child was looked after, of course.
”Then I'll go over to my new father,” declared Ditte whenever it was spoken of. Granny need have no fear for her. ”But do you think Grandfather Soren's still there?”
Yes, that was what old Maren was not quite sure of herself. She could so well imagine the grave as the end of everything, and rest peacefully with that thought; oh! the blissfulness of laying one's tired head where no carts could be heard, and to be free for all eternity from aches and pains and troubles, and only rest. Perhaps this would not be allowed--there was so much talking: the parson said one thing and the lay preacher another. Soren might not be there any longer, and she would have to search for him till she found him, which would be difficult enough if after death he had been transformed to youth again. Soren had been wild and dissipated.
Where he was, Maren must also be, there was no doubt about that. But she preferred to have it arranged so that she could have a long rest by Soren's side, as a reward for all those weary years.
”Then I'll go to my new father!” repeated Ditte. This had become her refrain.
”Ay, just as ye like!” answered Maren harshly. She did not like the child taking the subject so calmly.
But Ditte needed some one who could secure her future. Granny was no good, she was too old and helpless, and she was a woman. There ought to be a man! And now she had found him. She lay down to sleep behind Granny with a new feeling now; she had a real father, just like other children, one who was married to her mother, and in addition possessed a horse and cart. The bald young owner of the Sand farm, who was so thin and mean that he froze everybody near him, she never took to, he was too cold for that. But the rag and bone man had taken her on his knee and shouted in her ear with his big bl.u.s.tering voice. They might shout ”brat” after her as much as they liked, for all she cared. She had a father taller than any of theirs, he had to bend his head when he stood under the beams in Granny's sitting room.
The outlook was so much better now, one fell asleep feeling richer and woke again--not disappointed as when one had dreamt--but with a feeling of security. Such a father was much better to depend upon, than an old blind Granny, who was nothing but a bundle of rags.
Every night when Granny undressed, Ditte was equally astonished at seeing her take off skirt after skirt, getting thinner and thinner until, as if by witchcraft, nothing was left of the fat grandmother but a skeleton, a withered little crone, who wheezed like the leaky bellows by the fireplace.
They looked forward to the day when the new father would come and fetch them to the wedding. Then of course it would be in a grand carriage--the other one was only a cart. It would happen when they were most wearied with life, not knowing where to turn for food or coffee. Suddenly they would hear the cheerful crack of a whip outside, and there he would stand, saluting with his whip, the rascal; and as they got into the carriage, he would sit at attention with his whip--like the coachman on the estate.
Maren, poor soul, had never seen a carriage at her door; she was almost more excited than the child, and described it all to her.
”And little I thought any carriage would ever come for me, but the one that took me to the churchyard,” she would say each time. ”But your mother, she always had a weakness for what is grand.”
There had come excitement into their poor lives. Ditte was no longer bored, and did not have to invent mischief to keep her little mind occupied. She had also developed a certain feeling of responsibility towards her grandmother, now that she was dependent on her--they got on much better together. ”You're very good to your old Granny, child,” Maren would often say, and then they would cry over each other without knowing why.
The little wide-awake girl now had to be eyes for Granny as well, and old Maren had to learn to see things through Ditte. And as soon as she got used to it and put implicit faith in the child, all went well. Whenever Ditte was tempted to make fun, Maren had only to say: ”You're not playing tricks, are you, child?” and she would immediately stop. She was intelligent and quick, and Maren could wish for no better eyes than hers, failing the use of her own. There she would sit fumbling and turning her sightless eyes towards every sound without discovering what it could be. But thanks to Ditte she was able by degrees to take up part of her old life again.
Perhaps after all she missed the skies more than anything else. The weather had always played a great part in Maren's life; not so much the weather that was, as that to come. This was the fishergirl in her; she took after her mother--and her mother again--from the time she began to take notice she would peer at the skies early and late.
Everything was governed by them, even their food from day to day, and when they were dark--it cleared the table once and for all by taking the bread-winner. The sky was the first thing her eyes sought for in the morning, and the last to dwell upon at night. ”There'll be a storm in the night,” she would say, as she came in, or: ”It'll be a good day for fis.h.i.+ng tomorrow!” Ditte never understood how she knew this.
Maren seldom went out now, so it did not matter to her what the weather was, but she was still as much interested in it. ”What's the sky like?” she would often ask. Ditte would run out and peer anxiously at the skies, very much taken up with her commission.
”'Tis red,” she announced on her return, ”and there's a man riding over it on a wet, wet horse. Is it going to rain then?”