THE CHILD-WHO-WAS-TIRED.
She was just beginning to walk along a little white road with tall
black
trees on either side, a little road that led to nowhere, and where
nobody
walked at all, when a hand gripped her shoulder, shook her, slapped
her
ear.
"Oh, oh, don't stop me," cried the Child-Who-Was-Tired.
"Let me go."
"Get up, you good-for-nothing brat," said a voice; "get
up and light the
oven or I'll shake every bone out of your body."
With an immense effort she opened her eyes, and saw the Frau standing
by,
the baby bundled under one arm. The three other children who shared
the
same bed with the Child-Who-Was-Tired, accustomed to brawls, slept
on
peacefully. In a corner of the room the Man was fastening his braces.
"What do you mean by sleeping like this the whole night through--like
a
sack of potatoes? You've let the baby wet his bed twice."
She did not answer, but tied her petticoat string, and buttoned
on her
plaid frock with cold, shaking fingers.
"There, that's enough. Take the baby into the kitchen with
you, and heat
that cold coffee on the spirit lamp for the master, and give him
the loaf
of black bread out of the table drawer. Don't guzzle it yourself
or I'll
know."
The Frau staggered across the room, flung herself on to her bed,
drawing
the pink bolster round her shoulders.
It was almost dark in the kitchen. She laid the baby on the wooden
settle,
covering him with a shawl, then poured the coffee from the earthenware
jug
into the saucepan, and set it on the spirit lamp to boil.
"I'm sleepy," nodded the Child-Who-Was-Tired, kneeling
on the floor and
splitting the damp pine logs into little chips. "That's why
I'm not
awake."
The oven took a long time to light. Perhaps it was cold, like herself,
and
sleepy...Perhaps it had been dreaming of a little white road with
black
trees on either side, a little road that led to nowhere.
Then the door was pulled violently open and the Man strode in.
"Here, what are you doing, sitting on the floor?" he
shouted. "Give me my
coffee. I've got to be off. Ugh! You haven't even washed over the
table."
She sprang to her feet, poured his coffee into an enamel cup, and
gave him
bread and a knife, then, taking a wash rag from the sink, smeared
over the
black linoleumed table.
"Swine of a day--swine's life," mumbled the Man, sitting
by the table and
staring out of the window at the bruised sky, which seemed to bulge
heavily
over the dull land. He stuffed his mouth with bread and then swilled
it
down with the coffee.
The Child drew a pail of water, turned up her sleeves, frowning
the while
at her arms, as if to scold them for being so thin, so much like
little
stunted twigs, and began to mop over the floor.
"Stop sousing about the water while I'm here," grumbled
the Man. "Stop the
baby snivelling; it's been going on like that all night."
The Child gathered the baby into her lap and sat rocking him.
"Ts--ts--ts," she said. "He's cutting his eye teeth,
that's what makes him
cry so. AND dribble--I never seen a baby dribble like this one."
She
wiped his mouth and nose with a corner of her skirt. "Some
babies get
their teeth without you knowing it," she went on, "and
some take on this
way all the time. I once heard of a baby that died, and they found
all
it's teeth in its stomach."
The Man got up, unhooked his cloak from the back of the door, and
flung it
round him.
"There's another coming," said he.
"What--a tooth!" exclaimed the Child, startled for the
first time that
morning out of her dreadful heaviness, and thrusting her finger
into the
baby's mouth.
"No," he said grimly, "another baby. Now, get on
with your work; it's time
the others got up for school." She stood a moment quite silently,
hearing
his heavy steps on the stone passage, then the gravel walk, and
finally the
slam of the front gate.
"Another baby! Hasn't she finished having them YET?"
thought the Child.
"Two babies getting eye teeth--two babies to get up for in
the night--two
babies to carry about and wash their little piggy clothes!"
She looked
with horror at the one in her arms, who, seeming to understand the
contemptuous loathing of her tired glance, doubled his fists, stiffened
his
body, and began violently screaming.
"Ts--ts--ts." She laid him on the settle and went back
to her floor-
washing. He never ceased crying for a moment, but she got quite
used to it
and kept time with her broom. Oh, how tired she was! Oh, the heavy
broom
handle and the burning spot just at the back of her neck that ached
so, and
a funny little fluttering feeling just at the back of her waistband,
as
though something were going to break.
The clock struck six. She set the pan of milk in the oven, and
went into
the next room to wake and dress the three children. Anton and Hans
lay
together in attitudes of mutual amity which certainly never existed
out of
their sleeping hours. Lena was curled up, her knees under her chin,
only a
straight, standing-up pigtail of hair showing above the bolster.
"Get up," cried the Child, speaking in a voice of immense
authority,
pulling off the bedclothes and giving the boys sundry pokes and
digs.
"I've been calling you this last half-hour. It's late, and
I'll tell on
you if you don't get dressed this minute."
Anton awoke sufficiently to turn over and kick Hans on a tender
part,
whereupon Hans pulled Lena's pigtail until she shrieked for her
mother.
"Oh, do be quiet," whispered the Child. "Oh, do
get up and dress. You
know what will happen. There--I'll help you."
But the warning came too late. The Frau got out of bed, walked
in a
determined fashion into the kitchen, returning with a bundle of
twigs in
her hand fastened together with a strong cord. One by one she laid
the
children across her knee and severely beat them, expending a final
burst of
energy on the Child-Who-Was-Tired, then returned to bed, with a
comfortable
sense of her maternal duties in good working order for the day.
Very
subdued, the three allowed themselves to be dressed and washed by
the
Child, who even laced the boys' boots, having found through experience
that
if left to themselves they hopped about for at least five minutes
to find a
comfortable ledge for their foot, and then spat on their hands and
broke
the bootlaces.
While she gave them their breakfast they became uproarious, and
the baby
would not cease crying. When she filled the tin kettle with milk,
tied on
the rubber teat, and, first moistening it herself, tried with little
coaxing words to make him drink, he threw the bottle on to the floor
and
trembled all over.
"Eye teeth!" shouted Hans, hitting Anton over the head
with his empty cup;
"he's getting the evil-eye teeth, I should say."
"Smarty!" retorted Lena, poking out her tongue at him,
and then, when he
promptly did the same, crying at the top of her voice, "Mother,
Hans is
making faces at me!"
"That's right," said Hans; "go on howling, and when
you're in bed to-night
I'll wait till you're asleep, and then I'll creep over and take
a little
tiny piece of your arm and twist and twist it until--" He leant
over the
table making the most horrible faces at Lena, not noticing that
Anton was
standing behind his chair until the little boy bent over and spat
on his
brother's shaven head.
"Oh, weh! oh, weh!"
The Child-Who-Was-Tired pushed and pulled them apart, muffled them
into
their coats, and drove them out of the house.
"Hurry, hurry! the second bell's rung," she urged, knowing
perfectly well
she was telling a story, and rather exulting in the fact. She washed
up
the breakfast things, then went down to the cellar to look out the
potatoes
and beetroot.
Such a funny, cold place the coal cellar! With potatoes banked
on one
corner, beetroot in an old candle box, two tubs of sauerkraut, and
a
twisted mass of dahlia roots--that looked as real as though they
were
fighting one another, thought the Child.
She gathered the potatoes into her skirt, choosing big ones with
few eyes
because they were easier to peel, and bending over the dull heap
in the
silent cellar, she began to nod.
"Here, you, what are you doing down there?" cried the
Frau, from the top of
the stairs. "The baby's fallen off the settle, and got a bump
as big as an
egg over his eye. Come up here, and I'll teach you!"
"It wasn't me--it wasn't me!" screamed the Child, beaten
from one side of
the hall to the other, so that the potatoes and beetroot rolled
out of her
skirt.
The Frau seemed to be as big as a giant, and there was a certain
heaviness
in all her movements that was terrifying to anyone so small.
"Sit in the corner, and peel and wash the vegetables, and
keep the baby
quiet while I do the washing."
Whimpering she obeyed, but as to keeping the baby quiet, that was
impossible. His face was hot, little beads of sweat stood all over
his
head, and he stiffened his body and cried. She held him on her knees,
with
a pan of cold water beside her for the cleaned vegetables and the
"ducks'
bucket" for the peelings.
"Ts--ts--ts!" she crooned, scraping and boring; "there's
going to be
another soon, and you can't both keep on crying. Why don't you go
to
sleep, baby? I would, if I were you. I'll tell you a dream. Once
upon a
time there was a little white road--"
She shook back her head, a great lump ached in her throat and then
the
tears ran down her face on to the vegetables.
"That's no good," said the Child, shaking them away.
"Just stop crying
until I've finished this, baby, and I'll walk you up and down."
But by that time she had to peg out the washing for the Frau. A
wind had
sprung up. Standing on tiptoe in the yard, she almost felt she would
be
blown away. There was a bad smell coming from the ducks' coop, which
was
half full of manure water, but away in the meadow she saw the grass
blowing
like little green hairs. And she remembered having heard of a child
who
had once played for a whole day in just such a meadow with real
sausages
and beer for her dinner--and not a little bit of tiredness. Who
had told
her that story? She could not remember, and yet it was so plain.
The wet clothes flapped in her face as she pegged them; danced
and jigged
on the line, bulged out and twisted. She walked back to the house
with
lagging steps, looking longingly at the grass in the meadow.
"What must I do now, please?" she said.
"Make the beds and hang the baby's mattress out of the window,
then get the
wagon and take him for a little walk along the road. In front of
the
house, mind--where I can see you. Don't stand there, gaping! Then
come in
when I call you and help me cut up the salad."
When she had made the beds the Child stood and looked at them.
Gently she
stroked the pillow with her hand, and then, just for one moment,
let her
head rest there. Again the smarting lump in her throat, the stupid
tears
that fell and kept on falling as she dressed the baby and dragged
the
little wagon up and down the road.
A man passed, driving a bullock wagon. He wore a long, queer feather
in
his hat, and whistled as he passed. Two girls with bundles on their
shoulders came walking out of the village--one wore a red handkerchief
about her head and one a blue. They were laughing and holding each
other
by the hand. Then the sun pushed by a heavy fold of grey cloud and
spread
a warm yellow light over everything.
"Perhaps," thought the Child-Who-Was-Tired, "if
I walked far enough up this
road I might come to a little white one, with tall black trees on
either
side--a little road--"
"Salad, salad!" cried the Frau's voice from the house.
Soon the children came home from school, dinner was eaten, the
Man took the
Frau's share of pudding as well as his own, and the three children
seemed
to smear themselves all over with whatever they ate. Then more
dish-washing and more cleaning and baby-minding. So the afternoon
dragged
coldly through.
Old Frau Grathwohl came in with a fresh piece of pig's flesh for
the Frau,
and the Child listened to them gossiping together.
"Frau Manda went on her 'journey to Rome' last night, and
brought back a
daughter. How are you feeling?"
"I was sick twice this morning," said the Frau. "My
insides are all
twisted up with having children too quickly."
"I see you've got a new help," commented old Mother Grathwohl.
"Oh, dear Lord"--the Frau lowered her voice--"don't
you know her? She's
the free-born one--daughter of the waitress at the railway station.
They
found her mother trying to squeeze her head in the wash-hand jug,
and the
child's half silly."
"Ts--ts--ts!" whispered the "free-born" one
to the baby.
As the day drew in the Child-Who-Was-Tired did not know how to
fight her
sleepiness any longer. She was afraid to sit down or stand still.
As she
sat at supper the Man and the Frau seemed to swell to an immense
size as
she watched them, and then become smaller than dolls, with little
voices
that seemed to come from outside the window. Looking at the baby,
it
suddenly had two heads, and then no head. Even his crying made her
feel
worse. When she thought of the nearness of bedtime she shook all
over with
excited joy. But as eight o'clock approached there was the sound
of wheels
on the road, and presently in came a party of friends to spend the
evening.
Then it was:
"Put on the coffee."
"Bring me the sugar tin."
"Carry the chairs out of the bedroom."
"Set the table."
And, finally, the Frau sent her into the next room to keep the
baby quiet.
There was a little piece of candle burning in the enamel bracket.
As she
walked up and down she saw her great big shadow on the wall like
a grown-up
person with a grown-up baby. Whatever would it look like when she
carried
two babies so!
"Ts--ts--ts!" Once upon a time she was walking along
a little white road,
with oh! such great big black trees on either side."
"Here you!" called the Frau's voice, "bring me my
new jacket from behind
the door." And as she took it into the warm room one of the
women said,
"She looks like an owl. Such children are seldom right in their
heads."
"Why don't you keep that baby quiet?" said the Man, who
had just drunk
enough beer to make him feel very brave and master of his house.
"If you don't keep that baby quiet you'll know why later on."
They burst out laughing as she stumbled back into the bedroom.
"I don't believe Holy Mary could keep him quiet," she
murmured. "Did Jesus
cry like this when He was little? If I was not so tired perhaps
I could do
it; but the baby just knows that I want to go to sleep. And there
is going
to be another one."
She flung the baby on the bed, and stood looking at him with terror.
From the next room there came the jingle of glasses and the warm
sound of
laughter.
And she suddenly had a beautiful marvellous idea.
She laughed for the first time that day, and clapped her hands.
"Ts--ts--ts!" she said, "lie there, silly one; you
WILL go to sleep.
You'll not cry any more or wake up in the night. Funny, little,
ugly
baby."
He opened his eyes, and shrieked loudly at the sight of the
Child-Who-Was-Tired. From the next room she heard the Frau call
out to
her.
"One moment--he is almost asleep," she cried.
And then gently, smiling, on tiptoe, she brought the pink bolster
from the
Frau's bed and covered the baby's face with it, pressed with all
her might
as he struggled, "like a duck with its head off, wriggling",
she thought.
She heaved a long sigh, then fell back on to the floor, and was
walking
along a little white road with tall black trees on either side,
a little
road that led to nowhere, and where nobody walked at all--nobody
at all. |
