DITTE GETS A FATHER
On getting up one morning, Maren found her tenants had gone, they
had moved in the middle of the night. "The Devil has been and
fetched them," she said cheerfully. She was not at all sorry that
they had vanished; they were a sour and quarrelsome family! But the
worst of it was that they owed her twelve weeks' rent--twelve
crowns--which was all she had to meet the winter with.
Maren put up a notice and waited for new tenants, but none offered
themselves; the old ones had spread the rumor that the house was
haunted.
Maren felt the loss of the rent so much more as she had given up her
profession. She would no longer be a wise woman, it was impossible
to bear the curse. "Go to those who are wiser, and leave me in
peace," she answered, when they came for advice or to fetch her, and
they had to go away with their object unaccomplished, and soon it
was said that Maren had lost her witchcraft.
Yes, her strength diminished, her sight was almost gone, and her
legs refused to carry her. She spun and knitted for people and took
to begging again, Ditte leading her from farm to farm. They were
weary journeys; the old woman always complaining and leaning heavily
on the child's shoulder. Ditte could not understand it at all, the
flowers in the ditches and a hundred other things called her, she
longed to shake off the leaden arm and run about alone, Granny's
everlasting wailing filled her with a hopeless loathing. Then a
mischievous thought would seize her. "I can't find the way, Granny,"
she would suddenly declare, refusing to go a step further, or she
would slip away, hiding herself nearby. Maren scolded and threatened
for a while, but as it had no effect, she would sit down on the edge
of the ditch crying; this softened Ditte and she would hurry back,
putting her arms around her grandmother's neck. Thus they cried
together, in sorrow over the miserable world and joy at having found
each other again.
A little way inland lived a baker, who gave them a loaf of bread
every week. The child was sent for it when Maren was ill in bed.
Ditte was hungry, and this was a great temptation, so she always ran
the whole way home to keep the tempter at bay; when she succeeded in
bringing the bread back untouched, she and her Granny were equally
proud. But it sometimes happened that the pangs of hunger were too
strong, and she would tear out the crump from the side of the warm
bread as she ran. It was not meant to be seen, and for that reason
she took it from the side of the bread--just a little, but before
she knew what had happened the whole loaf was hollowed out. Then she
would be furious, at herself and Granny and everything.
"Here's the bread, Granny," she would say in an offhand voice,
throwing the bread on the table.
"Thank you, dear, is it new?"
"Yes, Granny," and Ditte disappeared.
Thereupon the old woman would sit gnawing the crust with her sore
gums, all the while grumbling at the child. Wicked girl--she should
be whipped. She should be turned out, to the workhouse.
To their minds there was nothing worse than the workhouse; in all
their existence, it had been as a sword over their heads, and when
brought forth by Maren, Ditte would come out from her hiding-place,
crying and begging for pardon. The old woman would cry too, and the
one would soothe the other, until both were comforted.
"Ay, ay, 'tis hard to live," old Maren would say. "If you'd but had
a father--one worth having. Maybe you'd have got the thrashings all
folks need, and poor old Granny'd have lived with you instead of
begging her food!"
Maren had barely finished speaking, when a cart with a bony old nag
in the shafts stopped outside on the road. A big stooping man with
tousled hair and beard sprang down from the cart, threw the reins
over the back of the nag, and came towards the house. He looked like
a coalheaver.
"He's selling herrings," said Ditte, who was kneeling on a stool by
the window. "Shall I let him in?"
"Ay, just open the door."
Ditte unbolted the door, and the man came staggering in. He wore
heavy wooden boots, into which his trousers were pushed; and each
step he took rang through the room, which was too low for him to
stand upright in. He stood looking round just inside the door; Ditte
had taken refuge behind Granny's spinning wheel. He came towards the
living room, holding out his hand.
Ditte burst into laughter at his confusion when the old woman did
not accept it. "Why, Granny's blind!" she said, bubbling over with
mirth.
"Oh, that's it? Then it's hardly to be expected that you could see,"
he said, taking the old woman's hand. "Well, I'm your son-in-law,
there's news for you." His voice rang with good-humor.
Maren quickly raised her head. "Which of the girls is it?" asked
she.
"The mother of this young one," answered he, aiming at Ditte with
his big battered hat. "It's not what you might call legal yet; we've
done without the parson till he's needed--so much comes afore that.
But a house and a home we've got, though poor it may be. We live a
good seven miles inland on the other side of the common--on the
_sand_--folks call it the 'Crow's Nest'!"
"And what's your name?" asked Maren again.
"Lars Peter Hansen, I was christened."
The old woman considered for a while, then shook her head. "I've
never heard of you."
"My father was called the hangman. Maybe you know me now?"
"Ay, 'tis a known name--if not of the best."
"Folks can't always choose their own names, or character either, and
must just be satisfied with a clear conscience. But as I was passing
I thought I'd just look in and see you. When we're having the parson
to give us his blessing, Soerine and me, I'll come with the trap and
fetch the two of you to church. That's if you don't care to move
down to us at once--seems like that would be best."
"Did Soerine send the message?" asked Maren suspiciously.
Lars Peter Hansen mumbled something, which might be taken for either
yes or no.
"Ay, I thought so, you hit on it yourself, and thanks to you for
your kindness; but we'd better stay where we are. Though we'd like
to go to the wedding. 'Tis eight children I've brought into the
world, and nigh all married now, but I've never been asked to a
wedding afore." Maren became thoughtful. "And what's your trade?"
she asked soon after.
"I hawk herrings--and anything else to be got. Buy rags and bones
too when folks have any."
"You can hardly make much at that--for folks wear their rags as long
as there's a thread left--and there's few better off than that. Or
maybe they're more well-to-do in other places?"
"Nay, 'tis the same there as here, clothes worn out to the last
thread, and bones used until they crumble," answered the man with a
laugh. "But a living's to be made."
"Ay, that's so, food's to be got from somewhere! But you must be
hungry? 'Tisn't much we've got to offer you, though we can manage a
cup of coffee, if that's good enough--Ditte, run along to the baker
and tell him what you've done to the bread, and that we've got
company. Maybe he'll scold you and give you another--if he doesn't,
we'll have to go without next week. But tell the truth. Hurry up
now--and don't pull out the crump."
With lingering feet Ditte went out of the door. It was a hard
punishment, and she hung back in the hope that Granny would relent
and let her off fetching the bread. Pull out the crump--no, never
again, today or as long as she lived. Her ears burned with shame at
the thought that her new father should know her misdeeds, the baker
too would know what a wicked girl she was to Granny. She would not
tell an untruth, for Granny always said to clear oneself with a lie
was like cutting thistles: cut off the head of one and half a dozen
will spring up in its place. Ditte knew from experience that lies
always came back on one with redoubled trouble; consequently she had
made up her little mind, that it did not pay to avoid the truth.
Lars Peter Hansen sat by the window gazing after the child, who
loitered along the road, and as she suddenly began to run, he turned
to the old woman, asking: "Can you manage her?"
"Ay, she's good enough," said Maren from the kitchen, fumbling with
the sticks in trying to light the fire. "I've no one better to lean
on--and don't want it either. But she's a child, and I'm old and
troublesome--so the one makes up for the other. The foal will kick
backwards, and the old horse will stand. But 'tis dull to spend
one's childhood with one that's old and weak and all."
Ditte was breathless when she reached the baker's, so quickly had
she run in order to get back as soon as possible to the big stooping
man with the good-natured growl.
"Now I've got a father, just like other children," she shouted
breathlessly. "He's at home with Granny--and he's got a horse and
cart."
"Nay, is that so?" said they, opening their eyes, "and what's his
name?"
"He's called the rag and bone man!" answered Ditte proudly.
And they knew him here! Ditte saw them exchange glances.
"Then you belong to a grand family," said the baker's wife, laying
the loaf of bread on the counter--without realizing that the child
had already had her weekly loaf, so taken up was she with the news.
And Ditte, who was even more so, seized the bread and ran. Not until
she was halfway home did she remember what she ought to have
confessed; it was too late then.
Before Lars Peter Hansen left, he presented them with a dozen
herrings, and repeated his promise of coming to fetch them to the
wedding.