The Fisher Maiden/Chapter V
Chapter V.
The next morning Petra sat in her room half dressed, and could get no further the whole day. Each time she made a fresh effort, her arms fell powerless on her lap. Her thoughts were weighed down like a full-ripe ear of corn, like rich bluebells in the fields. Peace, security, fluctuating visions hovered over the bright castle wherein she dwelt. She lived over again the interview of yesterday,—every word, every look, every pressure of the hand, every kiss was present before her; she wished to pass it all in review from the meeting to the parting, but could never get through, for every single reminiscence became transformed into a shadowy dream, and each dream kept returning with bright promises. Sweet as this was, she was forced to thrust it from her in order to recall where she had left off; but no sooner did she recall it than she was again lost in the marvelous.
As she did not come down-stairs, her mother supposed that she had taken up her studies again, now that Ödegaard had returned; so her meals were sent up, and she was to be left in peace the whole day. Not until toward evening did she rise to make herself ready; she was going to meet her love. She attired herself in the best she possessed—all her confirmation finery; it was not elegant, but she felt this now for the first time. She, who had had so little taste for dress, to-day suddenly acquired it. One article made the others look ugly until those had been selected that suited together, and even then the effect was not tasteful. She would have given much to-day to be the fairest one—but with these words there glided before her a remembrance which she thrust away with her hand; nothing, nothing must approach her that might cause her disquietude. She stepped about softly, quietly arranging one thing and another in her room, as the time had not yet come. She opened the window and looked out; rosy, glowing clouds had pitched their tents above the mountains; but a cooling breeze floated in with a message from the forest near by. “Yes, now I am coming! now I am coming!” her heart whispered as she once more turned to the mirror to bestow a greeting upon her bridal emotions.
Then she heard Ödegaard’s voice below with her mother, heard him directed how to find her room. He was coming to fetch her. A shy joy came over her; she glanced around to see if all was in order to receive him, then she went to the door.
“Come in!” she answered softly to the low knock, and then stepped back a few paces.
That same morning, when Ödegaard rang for his coffee, he had been informed that the merchant, Yngve Vold, had already been twice at the door, asking for him. It jarred on him that a stranger had to be blended with his thoughts just now; and yet one who sought him so early must have some very important errand. He was, indeed, hardly dressed when Yngve Vold came again.
“You are doubtless surprised? Well, so am I. Good day!”
Greetings were exchanged, and the merchant laid aside his light hat.
“You sleep late; I have been here twice before. I have something important on my mind, I must speak with you.”
“Pray, be seated!” And Ödegaard himself sat down in an easy chair.
“Thank you, thank you, I prefer to walk, I am excited. Since day before yesterday I have been out of my wits—actually mad, neither more nor less. And you are to blame!”
“I?”
“Yes, you. It was you who first brought the girl forward; no one had thought of her, no one noticed her but you. But now, upon my word, I assure you. I have never seen anything so peerless myself—so—is it not true? Indeed, in all Europe I have never seen so confounded a curly-headed wonder; have you? I could find no peace; I was bewitched. Everywhere and always she kept coming in my way. I went on a voyage, I came back again, impossible—am I not right? Did not know at first who she was. The fisher maiden, they said—the Spanish maiden, they should have said, the gypsy, the witch, all fire, eyes, bosom, hair—eh? How she sparkles, glows, skips, laughs, blushes—a perfect little witch. I chased her, you see, up among the trees in the forest—one calm evening—there she stood, there I stood; a few words, a song, a dance—and then? Well, I gave her my chain; as sure as I live I had not thought of it a minute before. Next time, the same place, the same chase; she was frightened, and I—yes, can you believe it?—I could not speak one mortal word, dared not even touch her; but when she came back—can you understand it?—I proposed to her. I had not thought of it a second beforehand! Now yesterday I put myself to the test; I tried how it would be to keep away from her, but on my soul and honor, I am mad, indeed, I am—I cannot, I must be with her. If she does not marry me I will simply shoot myself. See—now you have the whole story. The deuce a bit do I care for my mother, or for the town—it is a miserable town, a mere hole of a place, a hole of a place. She must go away, you see; she must be far beyond and above this town; she must become comme il faut;[1] she must go abroad, to France, to Paris. I will pay the expenses and you must make the arrangements. I might leave here myself, settle abroad, no longer stay in this hole; but, you see, there is the fish! I should like to make something of the town; it is asleep; no one thinks, no one speculates; yet there are the fish! There is no management of the fisheries, though; the Spaniards, everybody abroad, complain; new methods must be found, another way of curing introduced; there must be different management—an entire change. The town must have a start, trade flourish; the fisheries ought to be worth millions!—Where did I leave off? The fisheries, the fisher maiden;—for that matter, they belong together. The fisheries, the fisher maiden, ha, ha! Well, then, I furnish the cash; you make the arrangements; she will be my wife, and then”—
Farther he did not get; during his speech he had paid no heed to Ödegaard, who had risen to his feet, pale as a corpse, and now attacked him with a delicate Spanish cane in his hand. The merchant’s amazement was beyond description; he warded off the first blow.
“Take care, you may hit me!” said he.
“Yes, I may hit you! You see: Spanish, Spanish cane; they belong together!” and the blows fell in showers on shoulders, arms, hands, face, wherever they chanced to hit. The merchant darted round the room.
“Are you mad! Have you lost your senses! I mean to marry her,—do you hear?—marry her!”
“Begone!” shrieked Ödegaard, whose strength was now exhausted.
And out of the door, and down the steps plunged the fair-haired man, away from this madman; and soon he stood in the street below, screaming up for his light hat. It was flung out of the window to him. Then all was still.
“Come in!” replied Petra to the low knock in the evening, and stepped back a few paces that she might have a better view of her lover as he entered. Like an ice-cold bath, as if the ground had slipped away beneath her feet, she beheld the face that met her in the door. She reeled backward and grasped the bed-post, but, hurled from abyss to abyss, her mind lost all support. Instantly she was rudely transformed from the happiest bride on earth to the most guilty sinner. This face, as though with the voice of thunder, proclaimed to her that through time and eternity she could never be forgiven.
“I see it; you are guilty!” he whispered, in scarcely audible tones.
He leaned back against the door, clinging to the latch, as if without it he could not stand. His voice quivered, tears rolled down his face, although otherwise it was unmoved.
“Do you realize what you have done?” and his eyes pressed her to the ground. She did not reply—not even with tears; she was paralyzed by utter, helpless despair. “Once before I gave my whole soul away, and he on whom I bestowed it died through my fault. It was impossible for me to rise above this sorrow unless some one else should lend me a helping hand and give to me her whole heart. This you have done—but you did it through deception.” He paused, vainly strove several times to begin again, and finally, with a burst of agony, continued: “And all that I had been gathering together for years, thought after thought, you were capable of overthrowing, as though it were an image of clay! Child, child, could you not understand that I had worked my own way up through you? Now it is all over!” He made an effort to control his pain.
“No, you are too young to comprehend it,” he said, presently; “you do not know what you have done. But you must understand that you have deceived me. Tell me, what had I done to you that you were able to do anything so cruel? Child, child, would that you had told me this even yesterday! Why, ah, why, did you lie so frightfully?”
She heard his words; she knew that all he said was true. He had staggered across the room to a chair that stood near the window that he might lean his head on a table beside it. He rose again, sobbing with anguish, then took his seat once more, and was quiet.
“And I who am not fit to help my old father!” he whispered to himself, “I cannot, I have no call for the work. That is why no one can help me,—all, all that is mine must be dashed to pieces.”
He was powerless to continue. His head rested in his right hand, while his left hung relaxed at his side; he looked as if he were incapable of motion. Thus he sat there, and spoke not a word. Presently he felt something warm against the hand that hung at his side, and shuddered with terror, for it was Petra’s breath. She was kneeling beside him with bowed head, and now she clasped her hands and looked up into his face with the most unutterable prayer for mercy. He returned her gaze, and the eyes of neither wavered. Then he raised his hand to repel her, as though her gaze had stirred within him a persuasive voice to which he would not hearken, and rapidly, vehemently, he stooped for his hat, that had fallen to the floor, and hastened to the door. But still more rapidly did she throw herself in his way, fling herself down before him, cling to his knee, and fasten her eyes on his—all without a sound. He both saw and felt this to be a struggle for life. His old love overpowered him; with deep pain in his eyes, he once more looked her full in the face, he took her head in his two hands. There was a wailing cry within his breast; it was like the last quivering vibrations of an organ when there is still wind in the pipes but the music has died away. Then he drew back his hands, and he did it in such a manner that his thoughts were but too evident.
“No—no! You can yield; but you cannot love!” He was overwhelmed. “Unhappy child, your future is beyond my control. God forgive you for having ruined mine!”
He strode past her; she did not stir; he opened the door and closed it again; she spoke not a word; she heard him on the stairs; she heard his last step on the flag-stones and down on the road—then she found relief in one piercing shriek, only one; but it brought her mother to her.
When Petra awoke to consciousness, she found herself lying in her bed, undressed, and carefully tended. In front of her sat her mother, her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands, and her eyes of flame fastened on her daughter.
“Have you studied enough with him?” asked she. “Have you learned something now? What is now to become of you?”
Petra replied with a burst of tears. Long, very long did her mother sit listening to this, and then with a solemnity peculiar to her, she said:—
“May the Lord curse him!”
The daughter started up.
“Mother, mother! Not him, not him, but me, me—not him!”
“Ah, I know the crowd! I know who is to blame!”
“No, mother! It is he who has been deceived and by me—it is I who have deceived him!”
Hurriedly, and amid sobs, she told all; he should not be suspected one moment; she told about Gunnar and what she had asked of him without actually understanding it; then about Yngve Vold’s unlucky gold chain, which had so deeply entangled her, and then about Ödegaard and how, when she saw him, she had forgotten all else. She could not understand how it had come to pass, but that it was a monstrous sin against them all, and especially against him who had taken her under his protection, and given her all that one mortal can give another, she well knew. After having long remained in silence, the mother replied:—
“And is there no sin against me? Where have I been during all this time that you have never said a word to me?”
“Oh, mother, help me; do not be hard on me now. I feel that I shall suffer for this as long as I live; and so I will pray God to let me die soon! Dear, good Lord!” she forthwith began, clasping and uplifting her hands, “dear, good Lord, hear me! Already I have wasted my life; it has nothing more to offer me. I am not fit to live; I do not understand life. Dear Lord, let me then die!”
There was such an awful intensity in the prayer, that Gunlaug, who already had harsh words on her lips, swallowed them and laid her hand on her daughter’s arm to draw it away from this prayer.
“Control your feelings, child. Do not tempt the Lord. You must live, however great the pain.”
She rose with these words and never set foot in the loft chamber again.
Ödegaard had fallen into an illness which threatened to be dangerous. At once his old father moved up-stairs to him, took a room next to his for his study, and told every one who begged him to spare himself that this was impossible; his work was to watch over his son every time that son lost any one of those whom he loved more than his father.
Thus matters stood; and now Gunnar came home.
He almost frightened the life out of his mother by appearing long before the vessel he had gone with; she thought it was his ghost, and not very different was it with all his acquaintances. To all wondering queries he gave but scant replies. People, however, soon became better informed; for that same day he was driven out of Gunlaug’s house and by Gunlaug herself. On the steps she sent a shriek after him that rang through Holloway Street.
“Never come here again; we have had enough of your sort now!”
He had not gone far when a girl came in pursuit of him with a parcel. She had another one with her, but gave him the wrong one, for Gunnar found in it a large gold chain. He stood weighing this and looking at it; he had not understood Gunlaug’s rage before; still less did he now understand why she sent him a gold chain. He called the girl back; and then she thought she must have made a mistake, so she gave him the other parcel, and asked if that was right. The parcel proved to contain his gifts to Petra. Yes, this was surely the one; but who, then, was to have the gold chain?
“That was meant for Merchant Vold,” answered the girl, and went off with it. Gunnar paused again, and reflected. “Merchant Vold! Does he give her presents. Then it is he who has stolen her from me! Very well, then he, too, shall”—His excitement, his wrath, must have some vent; something must be all beaten to pieces—and so he determined to beat Yngve Vold.
The unlucky merchant was once more quite unexpectedly attacked, and this time on his own door-steps. He fled from this second lunatic into his counting-house; but Gunnar was after him. Here all the clerks rose up against this riotous intruder, who dealt kicks and blows in every direction; chairs, tables, and desks were overturned; letters, documents, and newspapers floated about like smoke; help finally came from Yngve’s pier, and after a desperate struggle Gunnar was cast out into the street. But here the fight began to be serious. Two ships lay by the pier, a foreign one and a home vessel, and it was now just at the time of noonday rest, so the sailors gladly entered into the sport. They lost no time in coming to blows, crew against crew, foreigners against natives; the crews of several vessels were sent for, and came running up in double-quick pace; working-people flocked round, and women and boys; at last no one knew what the fight was about, or against whom. In vain the skippers swore; in vain worthy citizens commanded that the one policeman of the town should be summoned: he was at that time out fishing in the fjord. They ran to the mayor, who was also postmaster; but he had locked himself up with the mail that had just arrived, and answered through the window that he could not come; the post-office clerk was at a burial, and they must wait. But as they would not delay murdering one another until the mail had been sorted, several voices, chiefly those of terrified women, shouted that word should be sent for Arne, the blacksmith. This was agreed to by the worthy citizens, and now Arne’s own wife was sent after him, “for the policeman was not at home.” Arne came, to the delight of all school-boys, and he made a couple of dashes at the crowd, brought forth a gallant Spaniard, and used him as a club against all the others, promiscuously.
When all was over, the mayor came walking along, staff in hand. He found some old women and children talking together on the field of battle. These he sternly commanded to go home and eat their dinner, and then he himself did the same.
But the next day he instituted a trial; this lasted some time, although no one could give the least information concerning who had been fighting. Only on one point were they all agreed, and that was that Arne the blacksmith had been in the fray, and they had seen him belaboring the rest with a Spaniard. For this conduct Arne the blacksmith was fined one dollar, for which his wife, who had led him into the scrape, received a thrashing on the eleventh Sunday after Trinity, which she had good cause to remember. This was the sole judicial result of the battle.
But it had other results. The little town was no longer a peaceful town; the fisher maiden had thrown it into an uproar. The strangest rumors were set afloat,—at first from jealous resentment that she should have attracted the most talented man of the town and its two wealthiest matches and still have “several” in reserve; for Gunnar had gradually become “several young men.” Soon there arose a universal moral storm. The disgrace of a great street fight and sorrow in three of the best families of the town rested on the young girl who but half a year since had been confirmed. Three engagements at once, and one of them with her teacher, her life benefactor! Ah! indignation overflowed. Had she not been a scandal to the town from her childhood up, and had not the people nevertheless shown her how much they expected of her by their gifts at the time when Ödegaard had interested himself in her, and had she not now scorned them all, crushed him, and, true to her nature, plunged recklessly into a career that would lead her to become an outcast of society, with an old age in the house of correction? Her mother must be her accomplice; in her sailor’s inn the child had learned levity. The yoke Gunlaug had laid on the town should no longer be borne; the people would no longer tolerate either mother or daughter among them; they would unite in driving them away.
One evening seafaring people who owed Gunlaug money, drunken laborers for whom she would not get work, young boys to whom she had refused credit, assembled on the hill, and were led by people of the better class. They whistled, they hallooed, they shouted for the “fisher maiden,” for “fisher Gunlaug;” soon a stone was flung against the door and another through the loft window. They did not disperse until past midnight. Behind the windows all was dark and still.
The next day not a living soul would look in on Gunlaug; not even a child passed by on the hill. In the evening, however, there was the same disorderly mob, only that now every one, without exception, joined in; they trampled under foot, they smashed all the windows, they tore up the garden palings, they threw down young fruit-trees, and then they sang:—
There was a general shouting for Gunlaug, for the mob especially rejoiced at the prospect of hearing the outburst of her peerless wrath.
Gunlaug, indeed, sat within and heard every word; but she kept silent. One must be able to endure much for the sake of one’s child.
- ↑ Meaning in thoroughly good style.