The Fisher Maiden/Chapter II
Chapter II.
The many lovely gardens of the town, now in their second and third bloom, were fragrant after rain. The sun was setting behind the mountains of eternal snow; the whole sky above them was in a blaze of glory, and the snow peaks gave back a subdued reflection. The nearer mountains lay wrapped in shadows, but they were nevertheless radiant with their many-hued autumnal forests. The rocky islands which formed a long line in the midst of the fjord, as if they came rowing into the harbor, revealed still more gorgeous coloring in their dense woods than did the mountains, because they could more distinctly be seen. The sea was calm; a large ship was just being towed in. The inhabitants of the town sat out on the steps of their porches, that were well sheltered by the rose-bushes on either side; they were talking across from porch to porch, running over to visit one another, or exchanging greetings with the passers-by, who were on their way to the long avenues outside the town. Save the occasional tones of a piano, floating through some open window, scarcely a sound broke in upon the conversation; the last rays of the setting sun, as they lingered on the sea, increased the sense of perfect peace.
Then suddenly there arose as great a tumult in the heart of the town, as if a battery had been opened there. Boys shouted, girls screamed, other boys hurrahed, old women scolded and commanded, the policeman’s big dog barked, and every cur in town bayed in return. People inside were forced to come pouring out in the street. So tremendous became the noise that even the amtmand[1] had to turn on his porch and drop the words, “Something must be the matter.”
“What is it?” was asked in excited tones of those on the steps by people rushing in from the avenues. “Ay, what is it?” replied those on the steps. “Dear me! what can be the matter?” all now inquired when any one appeared from the centre of the town. But as this town lies like a half-moon about a gently winding bay, it was quite a long time before the reply could reach both ends of the street. “It is only the fisher maiden.”
This adventurous spirit, screened by a formidable mother, and sure of the protection of every seaman (for an extra dram was to be had gratis of the mother for such service), at the head of her small army had made an assault on a large apple-tree in Pedro Ohlsen’s orchard. The plan of attack was as follows: some of the small boys were to attract Pedro to the front of his house by slapping the rose-bushes against the window-panes; meanwhile, one was to shake the tree, which stood in the centre of the garden, and the rest were to fling apples in all directions over the fence—not to steal them, far from it! merely to have some fun.
This ingenious plan had been hatched that same evening in the rear of Pedro’s garden; but, as luck would have it, Pedro was seated just inside the fence, and heard every word. Somewhat before the appointed time he managed to get the intoxicated policeman of the town and his large dog into his back room, where they were both treated. When the fisher maiden’s curly pate was seen above the paling, and at the same time a multitude of little eager faces were peeping through on every side, Pedro suffered the small rogues to shake the rose-bushes in the front of the house with all their might—he calmly waited in the back room. And when the whole troop had noiselessly gathered about the tree in the garden, just as the fisher maiden, barefoot and tattered, had climbed up to give it a shaking, the back door burst open, and Pedro and the policeman rushed out, armed with clubs, and with the great dog at their heels. A shriek of dismay arose among the boys; a troop of little girls, who in all innocence were playing “tag” outside the fence, supposing some one was being murdered in the garden, fell to screaming most lustily. The boys who had escaped, hurrahed; those who had been caught in the fence howled under the strokes of the clubs, and in order that the whole might be complete, a number of old women, who always spring up where the shrieks of boys are heard, blended their shrill voices with the rest. Even Pedro and the policeman were alarmed, and began to make terms with the old women; but, meanwhile, the boys ran away. The dog, who had been the greatest terror of all to the boys, clearing the fence, set out in pursuit of them,—for this was sport for him. On they sped through the town like wild ducks: boys, girls, the dog, and screams.
All the while the fisher maiden sat quietly up the tree, thinking that nobody had noticed her. Cowering in the topmost branch, she followed, through the foliage, the progress of the contest. But when the policeman, in a fit of fury, had made a sally on the old crones outside, Pedro Ohlsen, left alone in the garden, walked straight under the tree, looked up, and called out:—
“Come down this moment, you wretch!”
There was heard not the slightest sound from the tree.
“Will you come down, I say? I know you are up there!”
The most profound silence!
“I will go into the house for my gun and shoot up at you; yes, I will!”
He made a movement to go.
“Booh-hooh-hooh!” come from the tree.
“Oh, you may bawl as much as you please, for I am going to put a whole charge of shot into you up there; I can tell you!”
“Oh, booh-hooh-hooh-hooh!” came in owl-like tones. “I am so frightened.”
“Oh, the deuce you are! You are the worst mischief-maker of the whole lot; but I have you now!”
“Oh, you dear, good, kind man, you! I will never do so any more.”
And with this she aimed a rotten apple right at his nose, and a ringing peal of laughter followed it. The apple was mashed over his whole face; and while he was wiping it away, she sprang down and was scaling the fence before he could reach her. She would have cleared it had she not been so terrified lest he was at her heels, that she let go instead of calmly working her way over. When he caught hold of her she set up a scream; it rang out with such a shrill, wailing, piercing sound that he grew alarmed, and loosed his grasp. At her signal of terror, the people outside the paling uplifted their voices, too; and hearing this she at once gathered courage.
“Let me go, or I will tell my mother!” she threatened, and was now all flash and fire.
Then he recognized her face, and shrieked, “Your mother? Who is your mother?”
“Gunlaug on the hill-side, fisher Gunlaug,” the girl repeated, triumphantly, for she saw his dismay.
Near-sighted as he was, he had never noticed her before now; he was the only one in town who did not know who she was; he did not so much as know that Gunlaug was in the place. Like one possessed he cried out:—
“What is your name?”
“Petra!” the girl shouted, still louder than before.
“Petra!” shrieked Pedro, and turning, fled into the house as if he had encountered the Evil One himself.
But as the pallor of terror and that of the direst wrath bear a close resemblance to each other, Petra supposed he had rushed in after his gun. Fear overpowered her, she already felt the shot in her back, and as the garden gate was just then broken open from the outside, she bolted through, her dark hair flowing behind her like a stream of terror, her eyes flaming; the dog, whom she met in her fight, turned and pursued her, barking, and then she bolted into the house, stumbling against her mother who was just coming in from the kitchen with a dish of soup in her hand. The girl fell on the dish, the soup streamed over the floor, and a “the deuce take it!” from the mother, accompanied the fall, But as Petra lay sprawling there in the soup, she bawled:—
“He is going to shoot me, mother, to shoot me.”
“Who is going to shoot you, you troll?”
“He—Pedro Ohlsen! We were taking his apples!”—she never dared speak anything but truth.
“Of whom are you talking, child?”
“Of Pedro Ohlsen; he is after me with a big gun; he means to shoot me!”
“Pedro Ohlsen!” exclaimed the mother in a burst of rage, and then laughed, and looked taller than ever. The child began to cry, and would have run away; but her mother rushed at her, her white teeth glittering like those of a beast of prey, clutched her shoulder and raised her from the floor.
“Did you tell him who you were?”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes!” and the child held up her hands imploringly.
At this the mother drew herself up to her full height, exclaiming,—
“And so he has found it out! What did he say?”
“He ran in after his gun; he meant to shoot me.”
“He shoot you!” laughed Gunlaug, in bitter scorn.
Frightened and bespattered with soup, the child had stolen into a corner, where she stood wiping herself, amid her tears, when her mother again approached her.
“If you ever go to him,” said she, seizing her daughter, and giving her a shaking, “or speak with him, or listen to him, God have mercy on you both! Tell him so from me!” she repeated, in a threatening tone, for the child did not answer at once.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes!”
“Tell him so from me!” she once more repeated, but softly now, and nodding her head with each word, she walked off.
The child washed herself, changed her clothes, and in Sunday attire sat down on the steps outside. But remembering the alarm she had just been in, she sobbed until the tears began to flow again.
“Why do you cry, my child?” asked a voice in more kindly tones than she had ever heard from any one.
She looked up: before her stood a man of graceful build, with a noble countenance, and wearing spectacles. She rose at once; for this was Hans Ödegaard, a young man, in whose presence the whole town stood up.
“Why do you cry, my child?”
Looking up into his face, she told him that she and “some other boys” had meant to take apples from Pedro Ohlsen’s garden, but Pedro and the policeman had been after them, and then, on remembering that her mother had shaken her faith on the score of the shooting, she dared not speak of it, but drew a lone sigh instead.
“Is it possible,” said he, “that a child of your age can take part in so great a sin?”
Petra stared at him; she had known very well that she had been doing wrong; but she was accustomed to having this indicated to her in the following manner: “You imp of darkness! You black woolly Satan!” Now she felt mortified.
“What a shame that you do not go to school and learn God’s commandments about good and evil!”
She stood stroking her frock, and replied that her mother did not wish to have her go to school.
“You cannot even read, I suppose.”
Yes, of course she could read.
He produced a small book and handed it to her. She glanced into it, then turned it round, and looked at the cover.
“I cannot read such fine print,” said she.
But he insisted on her trying, and all at once she became surprisingly stupid; her eyes and her lips drooped, all her limbs became relaxed.
“G-o-d, God, t-h—God the L-o-r—God, the Lord, s-a—God, the Lord, said to M-M-”—
“Bless me! you cannot read yet! And you are a child of from ten to twelve years old. Would you not like to learn to read?”
She managed tp drag out that she would very much like to do so.
“Then come with me; we must set to work forthwith.”
She moved, but merely to look into the house.
“Yes, tell your mother,” said he.
The mother was just passing, and, seeing her child speak with a stranger, she came out on the flag-stone.
“He wants to teach me to read,” said the child, doubtfully, fixing her eyes on her mother.
Gunlaug made no reply, but, with arms akimbo, stood looking at Ödegaard.
“Your daughter is an ignorant child,” said he, “you cannot justify yourself before either God or man if you let her grow up in this way.”
“Who are you?” asked Gunlaug, sharply.
“Hans Ödegaard, your priest's son.”
Her face cleared a little; she had heard much good of him.
“From time to time when I have been at home, I have noticed this child,” he began once more. “To-day I have had my attention called to her afresh. She must no longer busy herself only with what is evil.”
“What is that to you?” the mother’s face plainly expressed.
He calmly asked, however: “You surely expect her to learn something?”
“No.”
A faint flush overspread his face.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Are people any better, do you think, for having learning?”
She had had but one experience,—to that she held fast.
“It astonishes me that any person can ask such a question.”
“No, indeed; I know they are no better for it,” and with this she started down the steps to put an end to this nonsense. But he stepped in her way.
“Here is a duty which you must not shirk,” said he. “You are an unwise mother,”
Gunlaug measured him from head to foot.
“Who told you what I am,” said she, and swept past him.
“You yourself this very moment; for had you been otherwise you must have seen that this child will go to ruin unless something be done.”
Gunlaug turned; her eye met his; she saw that he really meant what he said, and it frightened her. Hitherto she had only had sea-faring men and trades-people to deal with; such language as this was new to her.
“What do you want with the child?” she asked.
“To teach her what is needful for her soul's salvation; and then find out what she is destined to be.”
“My child shall be nothing but what I choose.”
“Yes, indeed, she shall; she shall be what God chooses.”
Gunlaug stood mute.
“What do you mean by that?” said she, drawing nearer.
“I mean she must cultivate the faculties she is endowed with; it is for this purpose God has given them to her.”
Now Gunlaug came close up to him: “Am not I, her mother, to have authority over her?” she inquired, as if truly desirous of learning.
“You are; but you must heed the counsel of others who know better than yourself; you must consider the will of God.”
Gunlaug stood silent for a moment. “But if she learns too much!” said she. “The child of poor people,” she added, glancing tenderly at her danghter.
“If she learns too much for her station, she has in so doing attained a higher one,” he replied.
She at once caught the meaning of his words; but she said, as though thinking aloud, her gaze resting more and more sadly on the child the while:—
“That is dangerous.”
“That is not the point,” said he, mildly. “The question is, what is right.”
Into her vigorous eye there came a strange expression: she gave him another penetrating look; but there was so much sincerity in his voice, his words, and his face that Gunlaug felt herself defeated. She walked up to her child, laid her hands on her head, but could not speak.
“I will teach her from this day forth until she is confirmed,” said he, wishing to aid her; “I mean to interest myself in this child.”
“And then you will take her away from me?”
He hesitated and looked inquiringly at her.
“Of course, you are far wiser than I; yet if you had not spoken in the name of the Lord”—She paused. She had been smoothing down her daughter's hair; now she took the kerchief from her own neck and fastened it around Petra. This was the only sign she gave of her consent that the child should go with the young man; but she hastened behind the house as though she could not bear to see her go.
This behavior filled Hans Ödegaard with a sudden alarm at what, in his youthful zeal, he had taken upon himself. The girl, on her part, was inspired with awe for the first person who had ever conquered her mother; and with this mutual fear these two set forth to begin the lessons.
From day to day it seemed to the young teacher that his pupil grew in intelligence and knowledge, and his conversations with her often took a peculiar direction. He would bring forward characters from the Bible and from secular history in such a manner as to point out the call given them by God. He would dwell on Saul, who roved wildly about; on David, the shepherd lad, who tended his father’s flocks until Samuel came and laid his hands on him in the name of the Lord. Highest of all, though, was the call when the Lord Himself walked upon earth and extended it to fishermen. The poor fishermen rose and followed Him—to poverty and to death, but always joyfully, for the feeling that we are called supports us under every adversity.
This idea so pursued Petra that at last she could hear it no longer, and she asked him about her own calling. He gazed at her until she grew crimson, then replied, that through work we find our vocation; if may be modest and humble, but it exists for all.
Now a great zeal took possession of her; it gave the impulse of mature energy to her work, its intensity entered into her play, and it made her grow pale and thin. Romantic longings filled her mind: to cut her hair short, dress herself as a boy, sally forth into the world and enter into its struggles! But when her teacher one day told her how pretty her hair was if she would but keep it in order, she became fond of her long hair, and for its sake was ready to sacrifice heroic fame.
After this it was more to her than ever before to be a girl, and her work progressed more calmly, while fitful dreams hovered over it.
- ↑ The magistrate.