THE NEW FATHER
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 Soeren. "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?
Soeren 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
Soeren?"
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 Soeren'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 Soeren'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. Soeren 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. Soeren 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 Soeren'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 blustering
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 fishing 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?"
"Is the sun going down into a sack?" asked Granny. Ditte ran out
again to see.
"There's no sun at all," she came in and announced with excitement.
But Granny shook her head, there was nothing to be made of the
child's explanation; she was too imaginative.
"Have you seen the cat eat grass today?" asked Maren after a short
silence.
No, Ditte had not seen it do that. But it had jumped after flies.
Maren considered for a while. Well, well, it probably meant nothing
good. "Go and see if there are stars under the coffee kettle," said
she.
Ditte lifted the heavy copper kettle from the fire--yes, there were
stars of fire in the soot, they swarmed over the bottom of the
kettle in a glittering mass.
"Then it'll be stormy," said Granny relieved. "I've felt it for days
in my bones." Should there be a storm, Maren always remembered to
say: "Now, you see, I was right." And Ditte wondered over her
Granny's wisdom.
"Is that why folks call you 'wise Maren'?" asked she.
"Ay, that's it. But it doesn't need much to be wiser than the
others--if only one has sight. For folks are stupid--most of them."
Lars Peter Hansen they neither saw nor heard of for nearly a year.
When people drove past, who they thought might come from his
locality, they would make inquiries; but were never much wiser for
all they heard. At last they began to wonder whether he really did
exist; it was surely not a dream like the fairy-house in the wood?
And then one day he actually stood at the door. He did not exactly
crack his whip--a long hazel-stick with a piece of string at the
end--but he tried to do it, and the old nag answered by throwing
back its head and whinnying. It was the same cart as before, but a
seat with a green upholstered back, from which the stuffing
protruded, had been put on. His big battered hat was the same too,
it was shiny from age and full of dust, and with bits of straw and
spiders' webs in the dents. From underneath it his tousled hair
showed, so covered with dust and burrs and other things that the
birds of the air might be tempted to build their nests in it.
"Now, what do you say to a little drive today?" he shouted gaily, as
he tramped in. "I've brought fine weather with me, what?"
He might easily do that, for even yesterday Granny had seen to it
that the weather should be fine, although she knew nothing of this.
Last evening she touched the dew on the window-pane with her hand
and had said: "There's dew for the morning sun to sparkle on."
Lars Peter Hansen had to wait, while Ditte lit the fire and made
coffee for him. "What a clever girl you are," he burst out, as she
put it in front of him, "you must have a kiss." He took her in his
arms and kissed her; Ditte put her face against his rough cheek and
did not speak a word. Suddenly he realized his cheek was wet, and
turned her face toward his. "Have I hurt you?" he asked alarmed, and
put her down.
"Nay, never a bit," said the old woman. "The child has been looking
forward to a kiss from her father, and now it has come to
pass--little as it is. You let her have her cry out; childish tears
only wet the cheeks."
But Lars Peter Hansen went into the peat shed, where he found Ditte
sobbing. Gently raising her, he dried her cheeks with his checked
handkerchief, which looked as if it had been out many times before
today.
"We'll be friends sure enough, we two--we'll be friends sure
enough," he repeated soothingly. His deep voice comforted the child,
she took his hand and followed him back again.
Granny, who was very fond of coffee, though she would never say so,
had seized the opportunity to take an extra cup while they were out.
In her haste to pour it out, some had been spilt on the table, and
now she was trying to wipe it up in the hope it might not be seen.
Ditte helped her to take off her apron, and washed her skirt with a
wet cloth, so that it should not leave a mark; she looked quite
motherly. She herself would have no coffee, she was so overwhelmed
with happiness, that she could not eat.
Then the old woman was well wrapped up, and Lars Peter lifted them
into the cart. Granny was put on the seat by his side, while Ditte,
who was to have sat on the fodder-bag at the back, placed herself at
their feet, for company. Lars took up the reins, pulled them
tightly, and loosened them again; having done this several times,
the old nag started with a jerk, which almost upset their balance,
and off they went into the country.
It was glorious sunshine. Straight ahead the rolling downs lay
bathed in it--and beyond, the country with forest and hill. It all
looked so different from the cart, than when walking with bare feet
along the road; all seemed to curtsey to Ditte, hills and forests
and everything. She was not used to driving, and this was the first
time she had driven in state and looked down on things. All those
dreary hills that on other days stretched so heavily and
monotonously in front of her, and had often been too much for her
small feet, today lay down and said: "Yes, Ditte, you may drive over
us with pleasure!" Granny did not share in all this, but she could
feel the sun on her old back and was quite in holiday mood.
The old nag took its own time, and Lars Peter Hansen had no
objection. He sat the whole time lightly touching it with his whip,
a habit of his, and one without which the horse could not proceed.
Should he stop for one moment, while pointing with his whip at the
landscape, it would toss its head with impatience and look
back--greatly to Ditte's enjoyment.
"Can't it gallop at all?" asked she, propping herself up between his
knees.
"Rather, just you wait and see!" answered Lars Peter Hansen proudly.
He pulled in the reins, but the nag only stopped, turned round, and
looked at him with astonishment. For each lash of the whip, it threw
up its tail and sawed the air with its head. Ditte's little body
tingled with enjoyment.
"'Tisn't in the mood today," said Lars Peter Hansen, when he had at
last got it into its old trot again. "It thinks it's a fraud to
expect it to gallop, when it's been taking such long paces all the
time."
"Did it say that?" asked Ditte, her eyes traveling from the one to
the other.
"That's what it's supposed to mean. It's not far wrong."
Long paces it certainly did take--about that there was no
mistake--but never two of equal length, and the cart was rolling in
a zigzag all the time. What a funny horse it was. It looked as if it
was made of odd parts, so bony and misshapen was it. No two parts
matched, and its limbs groaned and creaked with every movement.
They drove past the big estate, where the squire lived, over the
common, and still further out into the country which Granny had
never seen before.
"But you can't see it now either," corrected Ditte pedantically.
"Oh, you always want to split hairs, 'course I can see it! When I
hear you two speak, I see everything quite plainly. 'Tis a gift of
God, to live through all this in my old days. But I smell something
sweet, what is it?"
"Maybe 'tis the fresh water, Granny," said Lars Peter. "Two or three
miles down to the left is the big lake. Granny has a sharp nose for
anything that's wet." He chuckled over his little joke.
"'Tis water folks can drink without harm," said Maren thoughtfully;
"Soeren's told me about it. We were going to take a trip down there
fishing for eels, but we never did. Ay, they say 'tis a pretty sight
over the water to see the glare of the fires on the summer nights."
In between Lars Peter told them about conditions in his home. It was
not exactly the wedding they were going to, for they had married
about nine months ago--secretly. "'Twas done in a hurry," he
apologetically explained, "or you two would have been there."
Maren became silent; she had looked forward to being present at the
wedding of one of her girls at least, and nothing had come of it.
Otherwise, it was a lovely trip.
"Have you any little ones then?" she asked shortly after.
"A boy," answered Lars Peter, "a proper little monkey--the image of
his mother!" He was quite enthusiastic at the thought of the child.
"Soerine's expecting another one soon," he added quietly.
"You're getting on," said Maren. "How is she?"
"Not quite so well this time. 'Tis the heartburn, she says."
"Then 'twill be a long-haired girl," Maren declared definitely. "And
well on the way she must be, for the hair to stick in the mother's
throat."
It was a beautiful September day. Everything smelt of mold, and the
air was full of moisture, which could be seen as crystal drops over
the sunlit land; a blue haze hung between the trees sinking to rest
in the undergrowth, so that meadow and moor looked like a glimmering
white sea.
Ditte marveled at the endlessness of the world. Constantly something
new could be seen: forests, villages, churches; only the end of the
world, which she expected every moment to see and put an end to
everything, failed to appear. To the south some towers shone in the
sun; it was a king's palace, said her father--her little heart
mounted to her throat when he said that. And still further ahead----
"What's that I smell now?" Granny suddenly said, sniffing the air.
"'Tis salt! We must be near the sea."
"Not just what one would call near, 'tis over seven miles away. Can
you really smell the sea?"
Ay, ay, no-one need tell Maren that they neared the sea; she had
spent all her life near it and ought to know. "And what sea is
that?" asked she.
"The same as yours," answered Lars Peter.
"That's little enough to drive through the country for," said Maren
laughingly.
And then they were at the end of their journey. It was quite a shock
to them, when the nag suddenly stopped and Lars Peter sprang down
from the cart. "Now, then," said he, lifting them down. Soerine came
out with the boy in her arms; she was big and strong and had rough
manners.
Ditte was afraid of this big red woman, and took refuge behind
Granny. "She doesn't know you, that's why," said Maren, "she'll soon
be all right."
But Soerine was angry. "Now, no more nonsense, child," said she,
dragging her forward. "Kiss your mother at once."
Ditte began to howl, and tore herself away from her. Soerine looked
as if she would have liked to use a parent's privilege and punish
the child then and there. Her husband came between by snatching the
child from her and placing her on the back of the horse. "Pat the
kind horse and say thank you for the nice drive," said he. Thus he
quieted Ditte, and carried her to Soerine. "Kiss mother," he said,
and Ditte put forth her little mouth invitingly. But now Soerine
refused. She looked at the child angrily, and went to get water for
the horse.
Soerine had killed a couple of chickens in their honor, and on the
whole made them comfortable, as far as their food and drink went;
but there was a lack of friendliness which made itself felt. She had
always been cold and selfish, and had not improved with years. By
the next morning old Maren saw it was quite time for them to return
home, and against this Soerine did not demur. After dinner Lars Peter
harnessed the old nag, lifted them into the cart, and off they set
homewards, relieved that it was over. Even Lars Peter was different
out in the open to what he was at home. He sang and cracked jokes,
while home he was quiet and said little.
They were thankful to be home again in the hut on the Naze. "Thank
the Lord, 'tis not your mother we've to look to for our daily
bread," said Granny, when Lars Peter Hansen had taken leave; and
Ditte threw her arms round the old woman's neck and kissed her.
Today she realized fully Granny's true worth.
It had been somewhat of a disappointment. Soerine was not what they
had expected her to be, and her home was not up to much. As far as
Granny found out from Ditte's description, it was more like a
mud-hut, which had been given the name of dwelling-house, barn, etc.
In no way could it be compared with the hut on the Naze.
But the drive had been beautiful.