The Fisher Maiden/Chapter VI
Chapter VI.
Petra had been in her room when the shouting, the whistling, the hallooing had begun the first evening. She had sprung to her feet as if the house about her were in flames, or everything tumbling to ruin over her head; she darted round her chamber like one lashed by red-hot scourges: they smarted, they burned into her soul; her thoughts stormily sought a means of escape; but down to her mother she dared not go, and the mob was swarming in front of her one window. Through this a stone came whizzing and fell on her bed; she gave a shriek, and rushing into a corner hid herself behind a curtain, among her old clothes. There she cowered, burning with shame, trembling with terror; visions of unknown horrors swept past her; the air was full of faces, gaping, leering faces; they came close to her, they were surrounded by fire. Aha! here was no fire, these were eyes, it was raining eyes, large, glowing eyes, and small, twinkling eyes—eyes that stood still, eyes that rolled up and down.
“Lord, Lord, save me!”
Oh, what relief when the last shout died away in the night, and all was dark and still again. She ventured forth from her hiding-place, she flung herself on the bed and hid her face in the pillows; but from her thoughts there was no escape. In them her mother rose up before her, menacing, majestic, like storm-clouds gathering about the mountains; for what must not her mother have suffered for her sake! No slumber visited her eyelids, nor peace her soul; and day came, but no solace. She walked back and forth, back and forth, thinking only of how she could flee; but she dared not meet her mother, she dared not go out during the day-time, and the evening would bring them again! Still she must wait; it would be even more dangerous to take flight before midnight. And where, then? She had no money, she knew not where to go; but surely there must be merciful people somewhere as there was a merciful God. He knew that however she might have erred it was from no actual wickedness; He knew her penitence; He, too, knew her helplessness. She listened for her mother’s steps below, but did not hear them; she trembled at thought of hearing her on the stairs, but she did not come. The servant-girl who had worked there must have run away, for no one brought up the meals. She dared not go down herself, nor venture near the window, lest there might be some one outside watching for her. The chill air rushed in through the broken window-pane in the morning, and it was even worse when evening again set in. Petra had packed up a small bundle of clothes, and had dressed herself thoroughly that she might be all ready to start. But she must wait the pleasure of the frantic mob, and endure whatever might yet be in store for her.
There they were again! The whistling, the shouting, the shower of stones—worse, far worse than on the previous evening. She crept into her corner, clasped her hands, and prayed and prayed. If only her mother would not go out to them! If they would only not break in! At length they began to sing—it was a lampoon; and although every word cut like a knife, she could not help listening to it. But as soon as she understood that her mother’s name was mixed up in it, and that they were guilty of so shameful an injustice, she rose and rushed forward; she would speak out her mind to this pack of cowards, or cast herself down on them! But a stone, and then another, and then a whole hail-storm of stones were pelted through the window, pieces of glass rattled, stones whirled about the room, and she crept back to her corner. The sweat rolled from her as though she stood in the hottest sun; but she no longer wept, she was no longer afraid.
Gradually the tumult subsided. Petra stole forth, and as soon as the last sound had died away she ventured to the window to look out; but she trod on bits of broken glass and started back, then she stepped on stones and stood still that she might not be heard; for now was the time to steal away. After having waited fully half an hour, she drew off her shoes and taking up her bundle, softly opened the door. Again she paused about five minutes, and then went quietly down the stairs. It caused her deep pain to go from the mother on whom she had brought all this sorrow, without taking leave of her; but terror hunted her onward.
“Farewell, mother! Farewell, mother!” she whispered to herself with every step she took on the stairs. “Farewell, mother!”
She reached the bottom, panted heavily several times for breath, then moved toward the front door. As she reached it a hand seized her from behind; she uttered a faint cry and turned. There stood her mother. Gunlaug had heard her daughter’s door open, knew at once what she was about to do, and stood waiting for her. Petra felt that she could not get past her without a struggle. Explanations would be of no avail; whatever words might come to her aid, nothing would be believed. Well—a struggle there must be then. Nothing in the world could be worse than the worst, and that she had been through.
“Where are you going?” the mother asked, softly.
“I must flee,” Petra answered as softly and with throbbing heart.
“And where can you go?”
“I do not know; but I must get away from here!”
She clasped her bundle more tightly and pressed on.
“No. Come along with me!” replied the mother, holding on to her arm. “I have provided for everything.”
At once Petra let go of herself, just as one relaxes one’s hold of a burden that has grown too heavy; she drew a long breath, as though after a struggle, and resigned herself to her mother. Gunlaug went before her into a small closet back of the kitchen, where there were no windows, and where burned a candle; it was here she had hidden herself when the tumult raged without. The closet was so narrow that they could scarcely stir in it. The mother produced a bundle still smaller than the one Petra carried, opened it, and drew forth a suit of sailor’s clothes.
“Put these on,” she whispered.
Petra immediately understood why she must do so, and it touched her that her mother did not mention the reason. She undressed and put on the sailor’s suit. Her mother helped her, and in so doing she once came near the candle, so that Petra saw for the first time that Gunlaug was old. Had she grown so during these last days, or had Petra never noticed it before? The daughter’s tears rolled down on the mother, but the latter did not look up, and so Petra found no words. A south-wester was the last article handed her, and when she had put it on, her mother took her bundle from her, blew out the candle, and whispered,—
“Come, now!”
They went out again in the passage, but did not go through the front door; Gunlaug opened the door to the yard and locked it again after they had passed out. They walked through the trampled-down garden, the fallen trees, the broken fence.
“You may as well look about you now,” said the mother, “it is scarcely likely you will ever come here again.”
Petra shuddered and did not look about her. They took the upper road along the forest, where she had passed half her life, and that evening with Gunnar, those with Yngve Vold, and the last with Ödegaard. They walked on among the faded foliage that was beginning now to fall; the night air was cold, and Petra shivered in her unaccustomed attire. Her mother finally turned down toward a garden. Petra knew it at once, although she had never seen it from the upper side since that day when, as a child, she had stormed it. It was Pedro Ohlsen’s garden. The mother had the key to it, and let them in.
It had cost Gunlaug much to come to this man in the forenoon; it cost her much now, too, to come with this ill-fated daughter to whom she could no longer give a home. But it had to be done; and whatever must be done, Gunlaug could do. She rapped at the back-porch door, and almost immediately she heard steps and saw a light. Presently the door was opened by Pedro, who stood inside in traveling boots and traveling dress, pale and frightened. He held a tallow candle in his hand, and sighed as his eyes fell on Petra’s face, which was swollen with weeping. The girl looked up at him; but as he did not venture to recognize her, neither did she dare to give sign of recognition.
“This man has promised to help you get away,” said the mother, without looking at either of them, as she walked up the few steps to the passage, and passed on to Pedro’s room on the other side of the house, leaving the others to follow her. The room was small and low, and a peculiar, close odor struck them as they entered, which nauseated Petra; she had now in fact been more than twenty-four hours without either eating or sleeping. In the middle of the room, from the ceiling, hung a cage with a canary-bird in it; it was necessary to walk round it to avoid running against it. The massive old chairs, a heavy table, a couple of large presses, such as are used by the peasants, that towered up to the ceiling, had an oppressive effect, making the room look even smaller than it was. On the table lay some sheets of music and on them a flute. Pedro Ohlsen shuffled about in his great boots, as if he had something to do. A feeble voice from the back room inquired: “Who is that? Who is in there?” whereupon he moved about faster than ever, mumbling: “Oh, it is—hem, hem—it is—hem, hem!” and then he went into the room where the voice came from.
Gunlaug sat by the window with both elbows on her knees, her head bowed in her hands, and her eyes fixed on the sand that was strewed over the floor; she spoke not a word, but occasionally she heaved a piteous sigh. Petra stood by the door, with her legs crossed and her hands pressed against her bosom, for she felt sick. An old clock was chopping time to pieces, the tallow candle on the table had burned low, and needed snuffing badly. At length the mother, wishing to give a reason for their being here, said,—
“I once knew this man.”
Not another word did she speak; there came no reply. Pedro still remained absent, the candle ran down mournfully, and the clock kept chopping away. Petra became more and more overpowered by nausea, and through it she heard incessantly her mother’s words: “I once knew this man.” The clock took them up and began to tick: “I—once—knew—this—man.”
In after years whenever Petra was met by a close smell, it always brought back to her that room, with a recollection of that faint, sick feeling and the clock’s “I—once—knew—this—man.” She never came on board ship, to the odor of oil and the stench of foul sea-water under the cabin floor, to the smell of cooking, but she at once felt sea-sick, and through her distress continually by night and by day, she saw this room and heard the clock’s “I—once—knew—this—man.”
When Pedro came in again, he had on a woolen cap and an old-fashioned stiff cloak, drawn up over his ears.
“Well, I am ready,” said he, pulling on his mittens, just as if he were going out in the middle of winter. “But we must not forget”—he turned round—“the cloak for—for”—He looked at Petra and from her to Gunlaug, who took up a blue overcoat hanging over the back of a chair and now helped Petra put it on; but when it came under the girl’s nose it smelled so strongly of the odor of the room that she begged for fresh air. Her mother saw that she felt ill, and, opening the door, led her quickly out into the garden. Here she drank in long draughts of the pure, fresh autumnal night air.
“Where am I to go?” she asked, as she began to revive.
“To Bergen,” answered her mother, and assisted her to button the coat. “It is a large town, where no one knows you.” When she had finished she stationed herself by the gate. “You are to have one hundred dollars with you,” said she, “so that if you do not get on well you may have something in reserve. This man loans them to you”—
“Gives, gives,” whispered Pedro, brushing past them into the street.
“Loans them to you,” repeated the mother, just as though he had not spoken; “I shall pay him back again.” She took a kerchief from her own neck, tied it about her daughter’s, and said,—
“You must write as soon as you are doing well, but not before.”
“Mother!”
“And then he will row you to the vessel that is lying out in the harbor.”
“O my God! Mother!”
“Well, I think there is nothing more. I can go no farther.”
“Mother, mother!”
“The Lord be with you now! Farewell!”
“Mother, forgive me, mother!”
“And do not take cold on the sea.”
She had drawn her daughter gently out of the garden gate and now closed it.
Petra stood motionless outside, her eyes fixed on the closed gate. She felt as wretched and lonely as it is possible for a mortal to be. But at this moment there darted up a presentiment, a faith, out of exile, injustice, and tears: it was like a flickering fire, now kindled, now dying away, at one moment flaming up into the air, and then quite sinking away, but suddenly flashing into a glorious burst of splendor. She raised her eyes, and once more profound darkness surrounded her.
Through the deserted street of the little town, past the shut-in, leafless gardens, past the closed houses, where no light was burning, silently and slowly, she walked after him, whose slouching form, in big boots and cloak that made it seem headless, dragged wearily along. They came out into the avenue, where once more they trod on withered leaves and saw the spectre-like, upward-stretched boughs, with extended fingers clutching at them. They crept down the hill-side behind the yellow shed where the boat was kept; he at once began bailing out the water, then rowed her out from the shore, which soon shrank into a black mass, over which darkly lowered the sky. Fields, houses, forest, mountain, all were wiped out; nothing could she now distinguish of all that had been familiar to her from childhood up until yesterday: it had shut itself in from her as had the town, the people, that night when she was made an outcast from them, and there was none to bid her farewell.
On the deck of the ship that was anchored close to shore, waiting the morning breeze, a man was pacing up and down. As soon as he perceived them beneath the quarter, he lowered a ladder, helped them on board, and gave notice to the captain, who promptly appeared on deck. She knew them, and they knew her; but there were no questions, no signs of sympathy. Simply as a matter of course she was told where her berth was, and what she was to do if she needed anything, or should be sick. The latter she was indeed the moment she went down in the cabin, and so as soon as she had changed her clothes she went on deck again. A familiar odor greeted her—ah! it was chocolate, and she was seized with an overpowering hunger, which tore and raged through her, and then the same man who had received them came forth from the cook-room bearing a whole bowl full of chocolate and some cakes. They came from her mother, he said. While she was eating he furthermore informed her that her mother had sent a chest on board, containing her best clothes, with her linen and woolen garments, besides food and other good things. At this moment there rose within her a vivid remembrance of her mother, a sublime picture, such as she had never had before, but which she would retain through her whole future life, And in the presence of this image, sorrowfully and prayerfully, she made a solemn vow that she would one day give her mother some joy as a compensation for the sorrow she had now brought on her.
Pedro Ohlsen sat beside her when she sat down, and walked beside her when she walked, always endeavoring to keep out of her way, and in so doing getting continually in her way on the deck that was crowded with bales of goods. She saw nothing of his face except his large nose and his eyes, and these not very distinctly; but he gave her the impression of being weighed down with something he wanted to say, but dared not. He sighed, he sat down, he got up, he walked round her, sat down again, but not a word could he command; nor did she speak. Finally he was compelled to give it up, and dejectedly producing a huge leather pocket-book he whispered that in it she would find the one hundred dollars—and a little more. She held out her hand and thanked him, coming so close to his face in so doing that she saw his eyes, fixed on hers, glistening with tears. With her the last remaining spark of life was passing away from his languishing existence. Gladly would he have told her something which might perchance call up some loving thought when he was no more; but he was forbidden to do so, and although he would have spoken notwithstanding this, he could not muster the courage, nor did she give him any assistance. Petra was indeed too weary, and the thought that it was he who had caused her to commit that first sin against her mother would not just now leave her. His presence wore on her, and this grew worse instead of better the longer he sat there; for when we are tired we are apt to be irritable. The poor man felt this; he said he supposed he must go, and then finally he brought himself to whisper, “Farewell!” drawing one of his withered hands out of the mitten as he did so. She placed in it her warm hand; they both rose.
“Thank you—and bear greetings from me!” said she.
He heaved a sigh, or rather made a gurgling sound, which was repeated several times, dropped her hand, turned, and quietly backed down the ship’s ladder. She walked to the gunwale; he looked up as she reached it, greeted her, took his place in the boat and rowed away. She stood watching him until he became lost in the dark. When she went down to the cabin again she was so weary she could scarcely stand, and although she felt sick the moment she got down there, she had no sooner laid her head on the pillow and said the first two or three petitions of the Lord’s Prayer than she fell asleep.
Meanwhile the mother was sitting up by the yellow boat-house; she had followed them slowly the whole distance, and had sat down there just as they had pushed from the shore. From the same spot Pedro Ohlsen, in days of yore, had gone out in the boat with her; it was a long, long time ago, but she remembered it well as he rowed away with her daughter.
As soon as she saw him coming back alone she rose and moved away; for now she knew that her daughter was safely on board the ship. She did not take the way home, but went farther onward; in the dark she found the path leading over the mountains, and this she took. Her house in town stood empty and shattered for more than a month; she felt that she could not return to it before she had received a cheering letter from her daughter.
But in the mean time there was an opportunity of testing the popular feeling toward her. All low natures take passionate delight in uniting to persecute the stronger, but only as long as these offer resistance; when they see their victims calmly submitting to ill-treatment a sense of shame overcomes them, and they hiss at whoever would cast another stone. People had rejoiced at the thought of hearing Gunlaug’s powerful voice raging through Holloway Street; they had fancied her calling the sailors to her aid and challenging a street fight. When she still failed to appear on the third evening, the people were scarcely to be controlled; they wanted to go in after her; they wanted to cast the two women out in the street; pursue them out of the town; drive them away. The windows had not been repaired since the preceding night; accompanied by the hurrahs of the mob two men crept through them in order to open the door—and in stormed the riotous multitude! They searched through every room, upstairs and down; they burst the doors; they dashed to pieces everything that stood in their way; they hunted in every corner, even in the cellar at last, after mother and daughter; but not a living soul was to be found. For a moment all was still; those who were inside came out, one by one, and stole away behind the rest. In a very little while the yard in front of the house was deserted.
Soon there were those in the town who pronounced this conduct toward two defenseless women most unseemly.
The matter was talked over until all agreed that whatever the fisher maiden might have been guilty of, Gunlaug was not to blame for it, and therefore great injustice had been done her. She was sadly missed in the town; drunken brawls and riots began to be the order of the day; for the town had actually lost its police. Her commanding form in the doorway was missed by passers-by; the seamen in especial missed her. No house was like hers, they said, for there every one was dealt with according to his deserts; each had his proper place in her confidence, and her help, whatever might happen. Neither sailors nor skippers, neither employers nor housewives had realized her worth until now that she was gone.
And so a message of joy spread through the whole town when it became known that she had been seen in her house baking and cooking as before. Every one was compelled to go there for himself in order to be assured that the panes had been replaced, the door repaired, and that smoke was curling up from the chimney. Yes, the report was really true. Gunlaug had actually returned!
People crept up on the opposite side of Holloway Street that they might see better. There she sat in front of the bread griddle; she neither looked up nor out, her eye followed her hand and her hand was working; for she had come back to redeem her losses and first of all to pay from her earnings the one hundred dollars she owed Pedro Ohlsen. In the beginning people contented themselves with merely looking in on her; but for a long time evil consciences deterred them all from entering. Gradually, however, they came,—first the mothers of households, good, friendly souls; but they found no opportunity to talk with her of anything but business, for Gunlaug would listen to nothing else. Next came the fishermen, then the merchants and the skippers to hire people to work for them and to make inquiries in regard to the character of those seeking employment, and finally, on the first Sunday after her return, the sailors appeared. There must have been some agreement among them, because, as the evening wore on, the house became suddenly so crowded that not only were both the principal rooms overflowing, but the chairs and tables, which in the summer time stood in the garden, had to be brought out and set up in the passage, in the kitchen, and in the back chamber. No one, in casting an eye over this assemblage, could form the least idea of the feelings of these people who were sitting together; for Gunlaug had resumed her silent sway the moment they had crossed her threshold, and the stern dignity with which she waited on each checked every effort at welcome, every question. She was the same as of old, except that her hair was no longer black and that her manner had become somewhat subdued. But when the sailors began to grow merry, they could no longer restrain themselves, and every time she and the servant girl went out Knud, the boatswain, who had always been her favorite, was called on to drink her health when she came in again. But courage failed even him until his head was pretty well heated, and when finally she came to collect the empty flasks and glasses, he rose and said, “that it was a good thing she was back again. For it was most certainly true that—that it was a good thing she was back again.”
This seemed to the others well spoken; they, too, rose to their feet, and shouted, “Yes, it was a good thing!” and those in the passage and those in the kitchen and those in the next room sprang up also, and pressing forward echoed what had been said, while the boatswain, handing her a glass, cried, “Hurrah!” and then several cried, “Hurrah!” until it seemed as if the roof might be lifted and sent sailing upward to the skies.
By and by some one declared that shameful injustice had been done her; then another swore the same, and soon the whole house swore and protested that they had done her the most shameful injustice. When finally there came a lull, because a word from her was eagerly desired, Gunlaug said that they must all accept many thanks.
“But,” added she, continuing to gather up the empty glasses and flasks, “as long as I have said nothing about the matter, it is unnecessary for you to bring it up.” She here left the room, as she had collected all she could carry, and presently returned for the rest. From this time forth her power was supreme.