The Fisher Maiden/Chapter III
Chapter III.
Hans Ödegaard’s father had as a youth wandered out from the parish of Ödegaard, in the diocese of Bergen. People had interested themselves in him, and he was now a learned man and a stern preacher. He was, moreover, an authoritative person, not so much in speech as in action; for he “remembered well,” as people said. This man who was so resolute in the execution of all his plans, was baffled in a quarter where he least expected it, and where it gave him the most pain.
He had three daughters and one son. The son, Hans, was the light of the school; the father himself prepared him for his studies and took daily delight therein. Hans had a friend whom he helped to win the place next to him in the school, and who therefore loved him beyond all else on earth save his own mother. They were comrades at school, and went together to the university; together they passed the first two examinations, and were to enter together on the preparation for their future profession. One day when, after pursuing their appointed studies, they were coming merrily down the stairs, Hans, in a burst of good humor and glee, leaped on his comrade’s back, but in so doing the latter fell, and death followed the fall a few days later. With his dying breath he begged his mother, who was a widow and with him was losing her only child, to take Hans, for love of him, as a son in his stead. The mother, however, died almost simultaneously with her son, but in accordance with her will the very considerable fortune she left fell to Hans.
It was a long time before Hans recovered from this shock. An extended journey abroad so far roused him as to enable him to resume his theological studies and carry them through; but he could not be persuaded to make any use of his degree.
His father’s one hope had been to see him established as his assistant in the parish, but now he could not be prevailed on to enter the pulpit even once. He always made the same reply: he felt no call. This was so bitter a disappointment to the father that it added many years to his age. He had started late in life, was already an old man, and had labored hard, always with this goal in view. The son now lived at ease in his handsome rooms in the upper story of the house; while beneath, in the small study, beside the lamp that shone on the night of his old age, sat the old priest, ever at work. After the disappointment he had undergone, he neither could nor would take a stranger to help him, neither would he follow his son’s advice and resign his charge; therefore he knew no rest, summer or winter, while his son each year took a longer journey abroad. When at home he associated with no one, except that he dined at his father’s table in more or less silence; but if any one spoke to him he responded with such superior soundness of judgment and zeal for the truth that the conversation was apt to become embarrassing. He never went to church; but he gave more than half his income to benevolent purposes, and always with the most definite instructions as to its use.
This munificent generosity was so at variance with the less liberal habits of the small town that it overwhelmed every one. When we add to this young Ödegaard’s reserve, his frequent foreign journeys, and the shyness all felt in addressing him, it can readily be understood that he seemed a mysterious being to whom was ascribed all possible gifts as well as his superior judgment. When this man condescended to make the fisher maiden the object of his daily care, she became ennobled in the eyes of all.
Now others, too, wanted to take her under their patronage, especially ladies. One day Petra came to her teacher, clad in all the hues of the rainbow: she had donned all her gifts and thought she would now surely be to his taste, as he always wished her to look neat. But scarcely had he caught a glimpse of her than he forbade her ever to accept any presents; he called her vain and silly; told her she aimed only at worthless goals, and took pleasure alone in folly. When she came to him the next morning, her eyes red with weeping, he took her with him for a walk out of town. As they went he told her about David, as it was his wont to take up now this, now that historical character, and to invest familiar topics with new interest. First he depicted David in his youth, and told how he entered on life, beautiful in person, rich in powers, and with unquestioning faith. Thus, ere he was a man, he shared the honors of a triumphal procession. From a shepherd he was called to be a king: he had dwelt in caves, but ended in building Jerusalem. Clad in fair attire, he played the harp to soothe the stricken Saul, but when, a king himself, he was ill and clothed in the garments of remorse, he drew music from his harp-strings and sang to soothe himself. His great deeds accomplished, he sought repose in sin; then came the prophet and punishment, and once more he was a child. David, who with his songs of praise could lift up all the chosen people of the Lord, lay crushed himself at the Lord’s feet. Was he most to be admired when, crowned with victory, he danced before the ark to his own songs, or when in his closet he implored mercy from the chastening hand?
Petra had a dream the night after this conversation, which through her whole life she never forgot. She thought she was riding on a white horse in a triumphal procession, but at the same time she was also dancing before the horse in rags.
One evening, some time later, as Petra sat by the edge of the wood, conning her lesson, Pedro Ohlsen whom, since that day in the garden, she had seen coming nearer and nearer to her, walked close by her and, with a strange smile, whispered:—
“Good evening!”
Although years had now elapsed, she retained so lively a recollection of her mother’s command not to speak to him, that she made no reply. Day after day, however, he walked past her in the same way, and always with the same greeting; at length she came to look for him when he did not come. Ere long he fell to asking some trifling question as he passed, soon this became two, and finally the questions grew into conversations. One day, after one of these, he slipped a silver dollar into her lap and hastened away, overjoyed at what he had done. Now it was contrary to her mother’s orders to speak with him, and contrary to Ödegaard’s to accept gifts from any one. The first injunction she had gradually disobeyed, and was now reminded of it because through this transgression she had been led to disregard the second also. In order to get rid of the money she found a person who helped her spend it; but in spite of every effort it was not possible for them to eat more than four marks[1] worth. When too late she was filled with remorse for having wasted the dollar instead of giving it back. The mark which still remained in her pocket scorched like fire and seemed as if it must burn a hole through her clothes; she took it and flung it into the sea. Even then she did not get rid of the dollar. Her thoughts were branded with it. Confession might set her free, she thought; but her mother’s appalling wrath at the time of her last effort, and Ödegaard’s heartfelt, trusting goodness, were equally calculated to frighten her from it. While her mother observed nothing, Ödegaard soon discovered that she was wrestling with something that made her unhappy. In all tenderness, he inquired one day what it was, and when in reply she burst into tears, he took it for granted there must be want at home, and gave her ten dollars. Now it made a deep impression on her that notwithstanding her fault against him, she had received money from him, and having besides received money which she could openly give to her mother, honest money, she felt as though pardoned from her guilt, and yielded to the most excessive joy. She took his hand in both of hers, she thanked him, she laughed, she jumped up and down on the spot where she stood, ecstasy beamed through her tears, while she fixed her eyes on him with much the same look that a dog bestows on the master whom he is about to accompany on a walk. He knew her no longer. She who had always sat lost in his words, wielded the power herself now. For the first time he felt a strong, wild nature unfolding itself before him, for the first time he felt the well-spring of life gushing up within him and flooding him with its roseate stream, and he started back, his face flaming, but she dashed out of the house and sped up the hills to take the road from the town home. There she laid the money on the bread griddle before her mother, and fell on her neck.
“Who gave you the money?” asked the mother, her anger already rising.
“It was Ödegaard, mother; he is the grandest man in the world.”
“What am I to do with it?”
“I am sure I do not know; but, oh, mother, if you only knew”—
She threw herself on her mother’s neck once more. Now she was not afraid; now she would confess all. But her mother shook her off impatiently.
“Would you have me accept alms? Take the money back to him at once! If you have made him believe I need help, you have lied.”
“But, mother”—
“Take the money back to him this instant, I say, or I will go to him myself and fling it at him, at him who has taken my child from me!”
The mother’s lips quivered after the last word. Petra drew back, growing paler and paler, softly opened the door and noiselessly left the house. Before she was aware of it the ten dollar note was torn to fragments in her fingers. The discovery of this led to an outburst of wrath against her mother. Ödegaard must know nothing of this, though,—but, yes, he should know everything. There should be no concealments from him!
A moment later she was in his home telling him that her mother had refused to accept the money, and that she in her anger at being compelled to bring it back to him had torn the note to pieces. She would have said more, but he received her coldly and bade her go home again, admonishing her to be obedient to her mother, even where it was hard to be so. This seemed very strange to her; for this much she knew, that he did not do what his father wished beyond all else! On the way home she broke down entirely, and just at that moment she met Pedro Ohlsen. She had shunned him all this time, and was about to do the same now, for he was the cause of her bad luck.
“Where have you been?” asked he, joining her. “Has anything gone wrong with you?”
The surging billows within her breast had risen so high that they might toss her whither they would, and as she thought of the matter, she could not understand why her mother should forbid her to have any intercourse with this man, of all others. It was doubtless a mere whim, now as well as before.
“Do you know what I have done?” said he, almost humbly, as she paused. “I have bought a sail-boat for you; I thought you might have a fancy for sailing,” and he laughed.
His kindness, which savored somewhat of the prayer of the needy, was especially calculated to touch her just now; she nodded,—and then he grew agitated, and eagerly whispered to her to go round the outskirts of the town and follow the avenue to the right straight to the large, yellow boat-house; he would meet her behind it and no one could see them there. She started off, and he came after her, joyful, yet deferential as an aged child, and led her to the boat. They sailed about for a time in the gentle breeze, then laying to alongside a rocky island, they made the boat fast and clambered ashore. He had with him all sorts of dainties for her, which he gave her with a timorous joy, and he brought forth his flute and played for her. The sight of his happiness made her for a time forget her own trouble, and as there crept over her the melancholy always excited by the pleasure of weak people, she also found herself growing fond of him.
From that day forth she had a new and perpetual secret from her mother, and this soon led her into keeping her outside of everything. Gunlaug asked no questions; she wholly trusted unless her confidence were once utterly shaken.
But from Ödegaard also Petra had concealments from that day; for she received many presents from Pedro Ohlsen. Yet Ödegaard did not question her either, but day by day his instructions became more formal. Thus Petra was shared by three people; with none of them could she speak of the others and she had something to hide from each.
In the mean while she had grown up, without being herself aware of it, and one day Ödegaard informed her that she must be confirmed.
This announcement filled her with great disquietude; for she knew that with confirmation her instructions would end, and what would become of her then? Her mother was having an attic built to her house; after confirmation Petra was to have a room of her own; the incessant hammering and pounding were painful reminders to her. Ödegaard saw her grow more and more silent, occasionally he saw also that she had been weeping. Under such circumstances the preparation for confirmation made a deep impression on her, although Ödegaard, with tender solicitude, avoided everything calculated to rouse her emotions. For this reason he coneluded his instructions about a fortnight before the time appointed for confirmation, by briefly informing her that this would be the last lesson. By this he meant the last with him; for he certainly intended to care further for her, but through others. She remained, however, motionless in her seat. The color forsook her face, she could not take her eyes from him, and involuntarily touched, he hastened to give a reason.
“To be sure, all young girls are not grown up when they are confirmed; but you surely feel that such is the case with you.”
Had she been standing in the glow of a great fire she could not have become rosier than she did at these words; her bosom heaved, her eyes grew restless and filled with tears, and driven to extremity he hastened to say:—
“Would you, after all, rather continue?”
Only when it was too late did he realize what he had proposed; it was wrong; he would take it back; but she was already raising her eyes to his face, she was not saying “yes” with her lips, and yet more forcibly she could not have expressed it. To excuse what he had done to himself by seeking a pretext, he asked:
“I presume there is something you especially wish to turn your attention to, something you”—he bowed low over her—“feel a call for, Petra?”
“No!” she answered, so abruptly that he flushed crimson, and then, cooling off, fell back into the reflections that, for years, had weighed on him, and which her unexpected reply had roused again.
That she possessed a strong individuality he had never doubted from the time when she was a child, and he used to see her marching about singing at the head of the town’s boy-companies. But the longer he taught her the less he comprehended the nature of her endowments. Her every emotion betokened their existence; all that she thought, all that she desired, was revealed by mind and body at once with ardent intensity, and over all were sparkling flashes of beauty. But put into words, and especially into writing, it became mere childishness. She seemed to be pure fantasy; yet he, to be sure, ascribed this chiefly to restlessness. She was very industrious, but her studies aimed less at learning than at advancing; what might be on the next page was most prominent in her mind. She had deep religious feeling, but as the priest expressed himself, “no foundation for a religious life,” and Ödegaard felt troubled about her. He stood again at the starting-point, his thoughts involuntarily bearing him to the flagstone where he had assumed the charge of her, and he heard her mother’s sharp voice laying the responsibility on him because he had named the Lord. After pacing the floor several times, he regained his composure.
“I am going abroad now,” said he, with a certain shyness; “I have asked my sisters to take an interest in you during my absence, and when I come back we will try what further we can do. Farewell! We shall meet again, no doubt, before I start.”
He then walked so hastily into the next room that she had not even time to grasp his hand.
She saw him again, where she had least expected it, and that was in the pulpit, near the choir just in front of her, as she stood among the girls, on the church floor, to be confirmed.
She was so excited over this that her thoughts were long absent from the sacred rite for which she had prepared with humility and prayer. Yes, even Ödegaard’s old father gazed long at his son, as the latter came forward to open the service. Soon Petra was to be once more startled in church; for who should she see sitting rather farther down the aisle, in stiff, new clothes, but Pedro Ohlsen! He was just stretching his neck that he might look over the heads of the boys at the group of girls and get a glimpse of her. He drew back again at once, but she saw him repeatedly thrust up his head, with its sparse covering of hair, and each time promptly withdraw it. This called off her thoughts, she did not want to see, and yet she saw, and there—just as all the others were deeply affected, many of them in tears—Petra was terrified at seeing Pedro rise up, eyes and mouth wide open and rigid, paralyzed with fear, and powerless to sit down or move away; for opposite him, drawn up to her full height, stood Gunlaug. Petra shuddered as she looked at her, for she was as white as the altar-cloth. Her curly black hair seemed to bristle, while her eyes suddenly acquired a repellent power, as though they would say: “Away from her! what would you with her!” He cowered on the bench beneath this look, and a moment later stole away from the church.
After this Petra found peace, and the further the service progressed the more thoroughly did she enter into it. And when she returned from the altar, after having taken her vow, and gazed through her tears at Ödegaard, as the one who was nearest all her good purposes, she vowed in her heart that she would never bring his trust in her to shame. Those faithful eyes, which so beamingly met hers, seemed to implore this of her; but after she had taken her place and would once more have sought his eyes, he was gone. She soon went home with her mother, who on the way let fall the words,—
“Now I have done my part; now let the Lord do his!”
When they had dined together, they two alone, the mother said furthermore, as she rose:—
“Well, we must go over, I suppose, to him,—the priest’s son. I do not know, it is true, how what he has undertaken is going to turn out, but I am quite sure he meant well. Put on your things again, child!”
The road to church, they two had so often trodden together, lay above the town. In the street they had never before been seen together; the mother, indeed, had scarcely been there since her return to the town. Now she turned immediately down toward the street, she would pass through its entire length, she wanted to walk there with her grown-up daughter.
On the afternoon of a confirmation Sunday, in a little town like this, everybody is in motion, either passing from house to house with congratulations, or walking up and down the street to see and to be seen. There is a pause at every step, greetings are interchanged, hands shaken, and glad tidings delivered; the poor man’s child may be met in the cast-off garments of the rich, and is out to show his gratitude. The sea-faring men of the town in foreign finery, with their caps lightly perched on their heads, and the fops of the town, the store clerks, with a bow for every one, walk about in groups; the half-grown boys of the Latin school, each arm in arm with his best friend in the world, lounge after them, passing their boyish criticisms. But all must to-day, in the innermost recesses of their hearts, give way before the lion of the town, the young merchant, the richest man of the place, Yngve Vold, who had but just returned from Spain, all ready to take charge, on the morrow, of his mother’s extensive fishing trade. With a light hat on his fair hair he flashed through the streets, so that the young people who had just been confirmed were almost forgotten; one and all gave him greetings of welcome; he spoke with every one, smiled at every one; up and down the street his light hat perched on his fair hair could be seen, his bright laughter heard. When Petra and her mother came out, he was the first person they stumbled on; and as though they had really stumbled against him, he drew back from Petra, whom he did not recognize.
She had grown tall, not as tall as her mother, but beyond the height of most women, lithe in her movements, refined, and fearless; she was her mother and not her mother in continually changing flashes. Even the young merchant, who persisted in following them, could no longer attract wholly to himself the eyes of the loungers; these two, mother and daughter, presented a more strange appearance. They walked rapidly along with greetings for none, because they were seldom saluted by others than sailors; but they came back still more rapidly, because they had learned that Ödegaard had just started from home for the steamer that was then about sailing. Petra, in especial, was in great haste; she must, she must, have a chance to speak with him and bear him her greetings and thanks before he went away; it was very wrong of him to leave her thus. She saw none of those whose eyes were fixed on her; she saw only the smoke of the steamer curling above the house-tops, and it seemed to her to be passing away. When they reached the wharf, the steamer was just putting off; and choked with tears she hastened down the avenue. As it had taken the steamer some time to turn in the harbor, she arrived in time to run down on the beach, mount on a stone, and wave her handkerchief. Her mother was left in the avenue, and would not go down; Petra stood waving her handkerchief; higher and higher she waved it, but no one waved to her in return.
She could endure no more, and wept so violently that she was forced to take the upper road home. Her mother went with her, but walked by her side in silence. The loft chamber her mother had this day given her, where she had slept for the first time last night, and where this morning she had put on her new clothes, so full of joy, received her this evening dissolved in tears and without a single glance for anything. She would not go down where the sailors and guests had arrived; she took off her confirmation attire, and sat down on her bed until night came on apace, and it seemed to her that to be grown up was the most wretched thing that could happen.
- ↑ Five marks make a dollar.