The Fisher Maiden/Chapter IV
Chapter IV.
Shortly after the confirmation she went one day to see Ödegaard’s sisters, but soon became conscious that Ödegaard had made a grave mistake; for the priest did not deign to notice her, and his daughters, both older than Ödegaard, were cold and formal. They contented themselves with giving her brief instructions from their brother as to how she was now to occupy herself. The whole forenoon, it seemed, she was to take part in the domestic duties of a house in the outskirts of the town, and in the afternoon attend sewing-school; she was to sleep at home and have her supper and breakfast there. She did all that had been planned for her to do, and took pleasure in it as long as it was a novelty, but later, and especially when summer came, she found it irksome; for during that season she had been in the habit of sitting in the forest the whole day long, and there she had read her books, which she now missed from the bottom of her heart, as she missed Ödegaard and missed companionship. The result was that she took the latter wherever it was to be found.
About that time, for instance, there came a young girl to the sewing-school, who went by the name of Lise Let; that is to say, her name was Lise, but not Let, for Let was the name of a young midshipman who had been home in the Christmas vacation, and had become engaged to Lise on the ice when she was a mere school-girl. Lise would stake her life that this was not true, and the tears came the moment it was mentioned; nevertheless, she was ever after called Lise Let. Fragile little Lise Let wept often and laughed often; but whether she wept or laughed her thoughts ran on love. New, strange thoughts, swarming like bees, soon filled the whole sewing-school. If a hand was stretched out for the reel, it was going courting, and the reel favored or rejected the suit; the needle became engaged to the thread, and the thread sacrificed itself, stitch by stitch, for the cruel one; if a girl pricked herself she was shedding her heart’s blood, and the one who changed needles was faithless. Did two girls whisper together, it must be about something remarkable that had happened to them; soon two more would fall to whispering, then two more; each one had her confidant, and there were a thousand secrets. It was more than Petra could endure.
One afternoon, about dusk, in a misty rain, Petra was standing, with a large kerchief over her head, outside of her home, peering into the passage, where stood a young sailor, whistling a waltz. She held the kerchief with both hands tight under her chin, so that only her eyes and nose were visible; but the sailor promptly discovered that she was blinking at him, and he speedily sprang down to the spot where she stood.
“Listen, Gunnar; do you want to take a walk?”
“Why, it is raining.”
“Pshaw! what if it is!”
And so they went to a small house farther up the mountain.
“Go in and buy me some cakes, the kind with whipped cream on!”
“You are always wanting cakes!”
“The kind with whipped cream on!”
He brought her some. Thrusting out one hand from under her kerchief, she took them and walked on eating. When they had made their way up beyond the town, she said, handing him a piece of cake,—
“See here, Gunnar! We have always been fond of each other, we two; I have always cared more for you than for any of the boys! You do not believe it? But I can assure you it is true, Gunnar! And now you are second mate, and you may soon be in command of a ship. Now, it seems to me, you ought to be engaged, Gunnar.—Dear me, are you not eating the cake?”
“No, I have commenced chewing tobacco.”
“Well, then, what have you to say to this?”
“Oh, yes; but there is no hurry about it!”
“There is no hurry about it? Why, you are going away day after to-morrow.”
“Yes, but I will come back again, I hope.”
“But you cannot be sure, let me tell you, whether I shall be at your disposal then, for you do not know where I may be by that time.”
“It is to be you; is it?”
“Yes, Gunnar, I should think you might have known that; but you have always been so stupid, that is why you had to be a sailor.”
“Oh, I am not sorry for that; it is a pretty good thing to be a sailor.”
“Yes, to be sure; your mother has a ship of her own. But what answer have you now? You are so dull.”
“Well, what answer should I have?”
“What answer should you have? Ha, ha, ha, perhaps you do not want me!”
“Oh, Petra, you know very well I want you. But I do not believe I can be sure of you!”
“Indeed, Gunnar, I will be very, very true to you!”
He stood still a moment.
“Let me look you in the face, Petra!”
“Why so?”
“I want to see whether you really mean it.”
“Do you think I would trifle with you, Gunnar?”
She was angry, and loosened her kerchief.
“Well, Petra, if it is real serious earnest, then give me a kiss on it; for it is plain enough what that means.”
“Are you mad?” She closed the kerchief and walked on.
“Wait, Petra, wait! You do not understand this. If we are sweethearts”—
“Oh, how absurd you are!”
“Why, I ought to know what is customary, I should think, for so far as worldly experience is concerned, I am far in advance of you. Think of all I have seen”—
“Yes, you have seen like a dunce, and you talk just as you have seen.”
“Come, then, what do you think it means to be engaged lovers, Petra? I should really like to know that. To chase each other up the hills does not amount to anything.”
“No, that is very true.” She laughed and stood still. “But now listen, Gunnar! while we stand here and take breath.—Ugh!—I am going to tell you how engaged lovers act. As long as you are in town, you must wait outside the sewing-school, and go home with me all the way to the door, each evening, and if I am out anywhere else you must wait in the street until I come. When you go away, though, you must write to me, and buy things to send tome. Ah, that is true: we must have a couple of rings with your name in one and mine in the other, and then the year and the day of the month; but as I have no money you must buy them both.”
“That I will with pleasure, but”—
“What are you after with your but again?”
“Good gracious! I only meant that I must have the measure of your finger.”
“Well, that you can have at once.” She pulled up a blade of grass and bit it off the right size after she had measured her finger. “There, do not throw it away!”
He wrapped it in a piece of paper, and put the paper in his pocket-book; she watched him until the pocket-book was entirely out of sight.
“Let us go; it would be tiresome to stay here any longer.”
“Well, upon my word, I think this is rather shabby, Petra!”
“Very well, old fellow, if you do not want it so, it is all one to me!”
“Why, of course I want it so. It is not that; but am I not so much as to take hold of your hand?”
“What for?”
“As a proof that we are really engaged!”
“Such nonsense! Pray, what proof is there in shaking hands? However, you may take my hand if you like; here it is.—No, I thank you, not any squeezing, sir!”
She drew her hand back again under the kerchief; but now suddenly she raised the kerchief with both hands, and her whole face was displayed to view.
“If you tell any one, Gunnar, I will say it is not true. So now you know that.”
Here she laughed and started down the hill again. After a while she stopped and said,—
“To-morrow the sewing-school will not be over before nine o'clock; then you must be waiting behind the garden, remember.”
“Very good.”
“Well, now you must go!”
“Will you not even shake hands with me at parting?”
“I cannot see why you are always wanting my hand. No, you shall not have it. Good-by!” she called out, and sprang from him.
The next evening Petra contrived to be the last at the sewing-school. It was nearly ten o'clock when she left, but—when she got outside the garden Gunnar was not there. She had thought of all kinds of mishaps, but not of this; it hurt her so that she waited merely to give him a sound rating when he did come. She did not lack good company, however, as she walked up and down behind the garden; for the merchant’s singing society had just commenced practising in a house near by, before open windows; a Spanish song floated alluringly to her on the mild evening air, wafting her away to Spain, where she heard her own praises sung from an open balcony. Spain was the goal of her yearnings; for every summer brought the dark Spanish ships into the harbor, the Spanish songs into the streets, and on Ödegaard’s walls hung a series of beautiful pictures from Spain. He was there now, most likely, and she with him! But in a trice she was brought back to reality; for there, behind the apple-tree, at last appeared Gunnar. She sprang toward—not Gunnar, but the light hat on the fair hair, just returned from Spain.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha!” rang out the bright laughter. “Do you take me for some one else?”
She eagerly denied this, and indignantly hastened away; but he ran after her, talking, all the while he ran, with uncommon rapidity and with that indistinct accent people acquire who use several languages.
“You see I can keep pace with you, for I run astonishingly well; it is no use trying. I must speak with you, for this is the eighth evening I have been walking here.”
“The eighth evening!”
“The eighth evening, ha, ha, ha! I should be willing to wait here eight more, for we suit each other admirably; do we not? It is no use for you to run, I will not let you go; for now you are tired, I see.”
“No, I am not.”
“Yes, indeed, you are!”
“No, I am not.”
“Yes, you are. Speak, then, if you are not tired.”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha! Why, that is not speaking.”
And then they stood still. They exchanged some teasing words, half in jest, half in earnest; then he began to speak in glowing terms of Spain, picture followed picture in rapid succession; he ended by cursing the small town at their feet. His first remarks Petra followed with beaming eyes; the second made her ears tingle, while her eyes wandered up and down a gold chain, wound twice about his neck.
“Just look!” said he, rapidly, as he drew forth the end of the chain, to which was attached a gold cross. I brought this with me to-night to show the singing society; it came from Spain. You must hear its history.”
And then he told it.
“When I was in the south of Spain I went to a shooting match, and won this prize. It was handed to me with these words: ‘Take it home with you to Norway and bestow it, in token of the respectful homage of Spanish cavaliers, on the fairest woman in your native land.’ Then came shouts and fanfares, banners waved, cavaliers applauded, and I accepted the gift.”
“Oh, how delightful!” burst out Petra; for before her vision there rose a beaming picture of the Spanish festival, with the Spanish colors and songs, while the dark-hued Spaniards stood at the foot of vine-clad hills in the evening sunlight, sending their thoughts to the fairest woman in the land of snow. He was a good-natured young fellow, in spite of his strange excitability and self-conceit; and he stood there now gratifying her eagerness to hear his story.
His one picture after the other increased her longing, and, thoroughly transported into that wondrous land, she began to hum a Spanish song she had recently heard, and gradually to move her feet in time to it.
“What? you can dance Spanish dances?” cried he.
“Yes,” she hummed, in dancing rhythm, snapping her fingers to imitate the castanets; for she had seen the Spanish sailors dance.
“To you belongs the gift of the Spanish cavaliers,” he burst forth, as though illumined by a radiant thought. “You are the most beautiful woman I have met!”
He had raised the gold chain from his neck, and, with a light hand, flung it several times around hers before she understood him. But when she understood, that deep blush of shame that was peculiarly her own, suffused her face, and the tears filled her eyes, so that he, who had fallen from surprise to surprise, was now for the first time abashed at what he had done, and not knowing what further he wanted, only feeling that he ought now to leave, went away.
At midnight she still stood by her open loft window with the chain in her hand. The friendly autumn night lay spread over town and fjord and distant mountains; from the street resounded the Spanish song; for the singing society had gone home with Yngve Vold. Word for word the song could be heard; it was about a beautiful wreath. Only two of the voices sang the words; the others imitated a guitar accompaniment:—
When she opened her eyes the next morning, she thought she had been wandering in a forest filled through and through with sunshine, and where all the trees were of the kind we call golden shower,[1] and hung in long, bright clusters that almost touched her as she swept through. At once she remembered the chain, seized it, and hung it around her neck. Next she put on a black kerchief, and placed the chain over it; for it looked better on black. Still sitting on her bed, she reflected her image in a small hand-mirror:—could it be possible that she was so beautiful? She stood up to arrange her hair, and take another look at herself in the glass; but, remembering her mother, who as yet knew nothing, she made haste; she must go right down and tell her about it. Just as she had finished dressing, and was about hanging the chain round her neck again, she fell to wondering what her mother would say and what all the people would say, and what she should answer when they asked why she wore this costly chain. As the question would be a very reasonable one, the thought kept repeating itself with more and more seriousness, until at last she found a little box, laid the chain in it, thrust the box in her pocket, and felt, for the first time in her life, poor.
She did not go to her usual duties that morning. Above the town, near the spot where she had received the chain, she sat down with it in her hand, feeling as if she had stolen it.
That evening she waited behind the garden even longer for Yngve Vold than she had waited the evening before for Gunnar; she wanted to return the chain. But just as the vessel Gunnar had gone with had unexpectedly set sail the day before, owing to a splendid cargo it had had assigned to it in the adjoining town, Yngve Vold, who owned the ship, had gone off that day on the same errand. He took with him several commissions, and so he remained absent three weeks.
During these three weeks the chain had gradually found its way from her pocket to the bureau drawer, and from there again into an envelope, the envelope being put away in a secret compartment. Meanwhile, Petra herself had passed from one humiliating discovery to another. For the first time she became fully aware of the great distance between her and the aristocratic ladies of the town; any of them could have worn the chain without fear of being questioned about where it came from. To none of them, however, would Yngve Vold have dared offer it without at the same time offering his hand: this was only possible with the fisher maiden. If he had wanted to give her anything, he might have chosen something she could make use of; but he had wanted to insult her all the more deeply by giving her what she could not possibly wear. The story about the “fairest woman” must be a romance, for had the chain been bestowed on her for that reason, it would not have come to her stealthily and by night.
Anger and shame gnawed all the more deeply, as she no longer had any one in whom to confide. No wonder, then, that the first time she again met him, about whom revolved all these indignant and humiliating thoughts, she blushed so deeply that he could not but misconstrue it, and, conscious of this, she blushed still more.
She hurriedly turned home, seized the chain, and although it was yet day-time she sat down above the town to wait for him. Now he should have it back. She felt sure he would come, for he, too, had blushed on seeing her, and he had been absent the whole time. But soon these same thoughts began to speak in his behalf. He would not have grown so red had she been indifferent to him; he would have come sooner had he been at home. Twilight was creeping on apace; for during these three weeks the days had grown very much shorter. But as darkness closes about us our thoughts often undergo a change. She was sitting right above the road among the trees; she could see, but not be seen. When time wore on and he did not come, contending emotions flamed up; now in anger, now in alarm, she listened; she heard every one who came that way long ere he came in sight, but it was never he. Birds shifting their perches among the foliage while dozing, startled her, so on the strain was she; every sound from town, every cry attracted her attention. A large ship was weighing anchor amid the singing of the sailors. It was to be towed out to-night that it might take advantage of the first morning breeze. How she longed to sail with it out on the wide ocean. The song of the sailors, as they hoisted the sails, became her own. The sound of the capstan gave her strength; for what purpose; whither would it bear her?
There was the light hat in the road, right in front of her. She sprang to her feet, and, without delay, darted off, and as she ran she remembered that she ought not to have run away; this was error upon error, and so she paused. As he approached the spot where she stood among the trees, she was panting so that he heard every breath, and the same power she had exercised over him on their previous meeting through her daring, she now exercised through her fear. He stood looking at her, shy, even bewildered, and whispered,—
“Do not be afraid.”
But he saw that she was trembling. Then he thought to give her confidence by taking her hand; but at the first contact with his hand she sprang up as if on fire, and off she darted again, while he was left behind.
She did not run far, her breath gave out; there was a throbbing and burning in her temples; her heart seemed ready to burst; she pressed her hands against it and listened. She heard a step in the grass, a rustling in the foliage; he was coming, and right toward her. Did he see her? No, he did not! Yes, he did, though! No, he was passing by! She was not afraid, that was not what was the matter; but she had been wrought up to a high pitch of excitement, and her strength giving way with the tension, she sank down weary, exhausted.
After a long while, she got up and walked slowly down the slope, paused, and then walked on again as though she had no definite goal. When she again reached the road, he was sitting patiently waiting there, and now he rose. She had not seen him before; it seemed as if she had been walking in a fog; not a word escaped her, nor did she stir; she only put her hands before her eyes and wept. This affected Yngve Vold to such a degree that his usually busy tongue was lamed; but at last he said, with singular firmness:—
“I will speak with my mother this evening; to-morrow everything shall be settled, and in a few days you shall go abroad in view of becoming my wife.”
He waited for an answer; he expected, at all events, that she would look up: but even this she did not do. He interpreted this in his own way: “You do not answer? You cannot! Rely on me; for from this moment you are mine! Good-night!” and he walked on.
She stood there as if in a cloud of mist. A feeble sense of alarm glided in and strove to part this; but the mist closed about her again.
With a power equal to that which Yngve Vold had exercised on her thoughts during the past three weeks, did this new wonder pave the way for a new series of dream images. He was the richest man of the town, belonged to its oldest family, and he wanted to raise her to his own level. This was such an unexpected change from all she had been dwelling on during the long period of suffering and indignation, that it was calculated to make her happy at once. She grew more and more so, however, after she had thoroughly reviewed her new and, in every respect, overwhelming circumstances. She saw herself the equal of every one and near the goal of all her vague longings. Beyond all else she saw Yngve Vold’s largest vessel towed out as a flag-ship on her wedding day; she saw it, after sending forth salutes and fireworks, take the newly-married couple on board, and bear them to Spain, where glowed the bridal sun.
When she awoke the next morning, the servant-girl came up and announced to her that it was half-past eleven o’clock. Petra was most ravenously hungry, had food brought to her, called for more; her head ached, she was weary, and fell asleep once more. When she awoke again about three o’clock in the afternoon, she felt quite well. Her mother came up and said she had undoubtedly slept off an illness; she always did so herself. Now, though, it was time to get up and go to sewing-school. Petra was sitting upright in bed, her head supported by her arm; without looking up she replied that she was not going to sewing-school any more. Thinking that very likely she was still somewhat confused, the mother went down-stairs after a package and a letter which a shipboy had brought.
Why, here were actually presents already! Petra, who had lain down again, started up in haste, and, as soon as she was alone, opened, with a certain solemnity, first the package—it contained a pair of French shoes. Rather disappointed she was about to put them away from her, when she felt that the toes were heavy. She thrust in her hand and drew forth from one a small parcel, wrapped in fine paper; it was a gold bracelet: from the other, likewise, a parcel neatly done up; it was a pair of French gloves; and from the right glove again she drew forth a paper parcel containing two plain gold rings. “Already!” thought Petra, her heart throbbing wildly. She looked for the inscription, and, sure enough, read in one, “Petra,” with the year and day of the month; and in the other, “Gunnar.” She grew pale, flung the rings and the whole parcel on the floor as if she had been burned, and tore open the letter. It was dated Calais, and read thus:
Dear Petra,—We have just arrived here, with a fair breeze from latitude 61 to 54, and later with a strong gale, which is unusual even for better vessels than ours, although it is a gallant ship under sail. But now I must tell you that all the way I have been thinking of you and what last happened between us two, and it was so aggravating to me not to be able to take a proper leave of you that I went on board feeling quite out of sorts; but I have not forgotten you since, except for a moment, now and then, for a sailor has a hard time of it. But now we have reached this place, and I have spent all my pay on presents for you, as you told me to do, and it took all the money mother gave me, too, so now I have nothing left. If I can get leave I will be with you as quickly as the presents; for as long as we keep this secret, I can never feel sure about others, especially young men, of whom there are many; but I am bound to have it sure, so that no one will have an excuse, and that all will have to beware of me. You can easily choose a better lover than I, for you can have whom you please; but you can never get one who is more faithful,—that is what I am. Now I will close, for I have used up two sheets of paper, and the letters are growing large; for this is the hardest thing I have to do; but still I do it, since you wish it. And now, in conclusion, I must say that I take it for granted that you were in earnest; for if you were not in earnest it would be a great shame, and bring unhappiness to many.
Gunnar Ask,
Second mate on the brig The Norse Constitution.
A great fear took possession of her. In the twinkling of an eye she was out of bed and dressed. She felt that she must go out, as if counsel might somewhere be found, for everything had become confused, uncertain, dangerous. The more she thought of it, the more entangled became the thread: some one must help her unravel it, or she could never get loose! But in whom dared she confide? It could be none other than her mother. When, after a long struggle, she stood in the kitchen beside her, flushed, tearful, but strong in her resolve to give perfect confidence that she might gain perfect help, her mother said, without looking round and so without noticing Petra’s countenance,—
“He has just now been here; he has come home again.”
“Who?” whispered Petra, clinging to the nearest object to keep from falling; for if Gunnar had come already all hope was destroyed. She knew Gunnar; he was dull and good-natured; but once aroused to passion, he lost all self-control.
“You are to come there at once, he said.”
“There?” Petra trembled, for it flashed over her that he must have told his mother everything; and now what was to be done?
“Yes, to the parsonage,” said her mother.
“To the parsonage? Is it Ödegaard who is come home?”
Her mother now turned toward her.
“Yes; who else?”
“Ödegaard!” exulted Petra, and the storm of joy which broke over her purified the atmosphere at once. “Ödegaard is come, Ödegaard! O God in Heaven, he is come!”
She sprang from the door and across the fields. She stormed forward, she laughed, she shouted aloud; it was him, him, she needed; had he been at home, no evil would have occurred. With him she was safe; if she but thought of his exalted, glowing countenance, his gentle voice; yes, even the peaceful rooms he occupied, with their rich supply of pictures, she grew more calm, and felt secure once more. She took time to compose herself. Town and landscape were flooded with light in the declining autumn evening, especially the fjord lay in strong radiance; in the sound beyond was curling away the last smoke from the steamer that had brought Ödegaard. Ah, only to know that he was home again did her good, made her feel happy, strong, capable once more. She prayed God to come to her aid that Odegaard might never leave her alone again. And, as if transported by this hope, she at that moment saw him coming toward her. He had known which way she would take and had come out to meet her. This touched her; she sprang toward him, seized both his hands, and kissed them. He was embarrassed, and seeing some one approach in the distance, he drew her from the road, up among the trees, holding fast to her hands, and all the way she kept saying,—
“How delightful that you are come! Ah, I cannot believe it is you! You must never go away again! Do not leave me—ah! do not leave me!”
Here the tears streamed from her eyes; he drew her head gently to him that he might hide them. He wanted to quiet her; for it was needful for him that she should be calm. She nestled up to him as a bird beneath the wing that is uplifted for its shelter, and fain would she never have come forth. Moved by her trust, he drew his arm about her as if he would assure her of the refuge she sought; but scarcely did she perceive this than she raised her tear-stained face to him, her eyes met his, and all that can be expressed in a glance, when penitence meets love, when gratitude meets the giver’s joy, when “yes” meets “yes,” now followed in rapid succession. He clasped her hand, and pressed his lips to hers; he had early lost his mother;—he kissed for the first time in his life, and she did the same. Neither, could bear to break away, and when their lips parted it was only to close again. He trembled, but she was radiant and all aglow with blushes; she flung her arms about his neck, and clung like a child to him. And when they sat down together, and she could touch his hands, his hair, his pin, his neck-tie, all that she had been in the habit of surveying from a respectful distance; and when he begged her to say “thou” instead of “you,” and she could not; and when he tried to tell her how rich she had made his poor life from the first moment, and how long he had struggled against his feelings, determined that they should not check her progress; and then discovered that she was unable to take in or comprehend a single word he was uttering, and began to think himself there was not much sense in it either; but she wanted to go home with him at once, and he laughingly must beg her to wait a few days and then they could journey far away together; then they felt, then they said, as they sat among the trees, with fjord and mountain before them bathed in the sunset glow, that this was happiness.
- ↑ The laburnum tree.