Then she would hurry over to Black Marianne's
and supply her with wood and water and whatever else the old woman
wanted.
On Sunday afternoons, when everybody was out for a good time, Barefoot
often used to stand quiet and motionless at the door of her house,
looking out into the world and at the sky in dreamy, far-off meditation,
wondering where Damie was now and how he was getting on. And then she
would stand and gaze for a long time at an overturned plow, or watch a
fowl clawing in the sand. When a vehicle passed through the village, she
would look up and say, almost aloud:
"They are driving to somebody. On all the roads of the world there is
nobody coming to me, and no one thinking of me. And do I not belong here
too?"
And then she would make believe to herself that she was expecting
something, and her heart would beat faster, as if for somebody who was
coming. And involuntarily the old song rose to her lips:
All the brooklets in the wide world,
They run their way to the Sea;
But there's no one in this wide world,
Who can open my heart for me.
"I wish I were as old as you," she once said to Black Marianne, after
dreaming in this way.
"Be glad that a wish is but a word," replied the old woman. "When I was
your age I was merry; and down there at the plaster-mill I weighed a
hundred and thirty-two pounds."
"But you are the same at one time as at another, while I am not at
all--even.
Pages:
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120