The Fisher Maiden/Chapter VIII
Chapter VIII.
In those sheltered, fertile valleys, scattered through the mountains in the diocese of Bergen, a mild autumn sometimes has summer-like days even late in the season. Then the cattle are driven out to pasture a while at noon, even after they have already been taken in to winter fodder; thus they become fat and frolicsome, and present a lively scene when they are brought home again in the afternoon.
And so it chanced that the cattle were coming down the mountain-path, cows, sheep, and goats, lowing, bleating, skipping to the tinkling of bells and turning into a large gard, just as Petra drove by. The weather was fine; every pane of the long white wooden building glittered in the sunshine, and above the house loomed the mountain, so densely covered with fir, birch, bird-cherry, and ash, and on the crags with dog-rose, that the houses could not help gaining warmth therefrom. In front of the main building, on the side nearest the road, there was a garden full of apple and red and black cherry trees, with long paths and hedges of currant, gooseberry, and black currant bushes; but high above them all some venerable ash trees reared their broad crowns. The house looked like a nest hidden away among the foliage, and accessible to the sun alone. But it was just this appearance of concealment that aroused a longing within Petra, and the sun glittering on the window-panes and the alluring tinkle of the merry bells strengthened it, and when she heard that this was a parsonage, she hastily seized the reins. “Ah, I must enter here!” cried she, and turning, drove in past the garden.
A couple of Lapland dogs rushed savagely at her as she drove into the farm-yard, which was a large square surrounded by buildings, with the stable directly opposite the main building; another wing of the latter to the right, and the brew-house and servants’ hall to the left. The farm-yard was now filled with cattle, and in their midst stood a lady, rather tall and of graceful, refined form. She wore a close-fitting dress and had a kerchief tied about her head; round about her, and close up to her, were the goats, white, black, brown, and speckled ones, all wearing little bells that were tuned in thirds. She had a name for each goat and something good in a dish which the dairy-maid constantly replenished.
On the low steps leading from the main building to the court stood the priest, with a dish of salt in his hand, and in front of him stood the cows, licking salt from his hand and from the flag-stone on which he strewed it. The priest was not a tall man, but was solid-looking, with a short neck and a narrow forehead; his bushy brows overhung a pair of eyes which seemed averse to looking straight before them, but from which now and then shot radiant sidelong glances. His closely-cropped, thick hair was gray and bristled out in every direction; there was almost as heavy a growth on his neck as on his head; he wore no neck-tie, only a shirt-stud; the shirt was open in front, exposing the hairy breast; nor was it buttoned at the wrists, and the wristbands fell over the small, strong, begrimed hands that were dealing salt. Both hands and arms were overgrown with hair. He cast a sharp side-glance at the young stranger, who had alighted and threaded her way in among the goats, until she stood beside his daughter. What the two were talking about he could not possibly hear for the cattle, the dogs, and the bells; but now both ladies turned their eyes toward him and surrounded by goats approached the steps. At a sign from the priest a herd-boy drove back the cows. Signe, the priest’s daughter, called, and Petra was forced to notice her melodious voice—
“Father, here is a lady on a journey who would like to rest with us for a day.”
“She is welcome!” was the priest’s reply, and handing the dish to one of the boys, he entered his study to the right, most likely to attend to his toilet. Petra followed the young lady of the house into the passage, which, properly speaking, should be termed a hall, it was so light and broad; she settled with the post-boy, her luggage was carried into the house, and she herself went into a side-room, opposite the study to make some changes in her dress, and then returned to the hall to be ushered into the family sitting-room.
What a large, bright room! The wall toward the garden was nearly all windows, and the middle one of these served also as a door to the garden. The windows were broad and high, and extended almost to the floor, and they were filled with flowers. The floor in front of the windows was covered with flowerpots; there were flowers, too, on the windowsills, and, in the place of curtains, ivies, growing out of two small flower baskets on either side of the window, were gracefully festooned. And there were shrubs and flowers out of doors, in the garden below, near the house, creeping over the walls, and finally on the ground round about; it seemed like entering a hot-house built in the centre of a garden. And yet it was scarcely possible to remain a moment in this room before the flowers ceased to attract the attention; it was the solitary church, standing on an eminence to the right, that was now seen, and the blue waters that reflected its image and then flowed glittering onward far away among the mountains, so far that it was impossible to decide whether it was a lake or an arm of the sea. And then these mountains themselves! Not solitary peaks, but chains of mountains, one mighty ridge perpetually rising behind the other as though here were the limits of human habitations.
When Petra withdrew her eyes the whole room seemed consecrated by the view without; everything was pure and light, and served as a flower frame-work to that grand picture. She felt as if encompassed by some unseen power that heeded her actions, aye, even her thoughts; she walked about involuntary examining her surroundings and touching the various objects in the room. Above the sofa, on the long wall facing the light, she then saw a life-sized portrait of a lady who was smiling down at her. She sat with her head slightly inclined to one side and with her hands clasped; her right arm was resting on a book that bore the inscription “Sabbath Book.” Her light hair, her transparent complexion, seemed to invest with Sabbath-like repose all that she beamed upon. Her smile was earnest; but the earnestness was that of resignation. She seemed to have the power of making every one love her; and she seemed to have comprehension for all, because she saw in everything the good alone. Her face bore traces of feeble health, but this weakness might have been her strenght; for surely there could have existed no one who would have been willing to take advantage of it. A wreath of immortelles hung over the frame,—she was dead.
“That is my mother’s picture,” Petra heard in gentle tones behind her, and turning, she saw the daughter, who had left the room and had now returned.
Henceforth the portrait filled the whole room: everything led up to it; everything was invested with its light; everything else was arranged with reference to it; and the daughter was its peaceful reflection. Rather more silent, rather more reserved seemed the daughter. The mother’s eyes met every gaze with a full, clear light; the daughter’s drooped, yet they had the same brightness and gentleness. She had her mother’s build, yet no indication of delicate health; on the contrary, the bright colors of her close-fitting dress, her apron, and her little neckerchief, that was fastened with a Roman pin, invested her face with a glow of freshness, and evinced a grace and a love of beauty that made her worthy to be the daughter of her in the portrait and the guardian spirit of this home. As she moved about among her mother’s flowers, Petra’s heart yearned toward her. In the society of this young girl and in this home all the good within her must find growth. Ah, if she could only abide within these blessed precincts! Doubly desolate did she feel as her eyes now intently followed Signe, who glided softly through the room, pausing here and there. Signe felt this, and tried to avoid her gaze; but in vain, and so she became embarrassed, and bowed over the flowers. At length Petra realized her rudeness, and, much ashamed, wished to apologize, but there was something in this carefullyarranged hair, this delicate brow, this neatlyfitting dress that bade her beware. She looked up at the portrait. She could have thrown herself into that mother’s arms without hesitation. Did it not seem as though she had a welcome for her? Dared she believe it? Yes, indeed, for thus no one had ever looked at her before. That look showed that she knew everything that had befallen the wayfarer and would yet forgive her. Petra was sadly in need of forbearance, and she found it impossible to turn away from these benevolent eyes; she held her head on one side, as the figure in the portrait did; she clasped her hands as those hands were clasped, and looked around almost unconsciously.
“Please let me stay here!” exclaimed she.
Signe rose and turned toward her, too much amazed to reply.
“Please let me stay here!” begged Petra, once more taking a step towards Signe. “It is so delightful here!” she added, and her eyes filled with tears.
“I will ask father to come in,” said the young lady.
Petra followed her with her eyes until she had entered the study; but no sooner was she alone than she became frightened at what she had done, and trembled when she saw the priest’s astonished face in the door. He came rather better dressed than when she had last seen him, and he had his pipe in his mouth. He held it with a firm grip, letting the mouth-piece slip from his lips with every whiff he drew and puffing the smoke out again in three columns, each time with a little smack; this he did several times, standing right in front of Petra, in the middle of the floor, without really looking at her, but as though waiting for her to speak. She dared not repeat her entreaty before this man, he looked so stern.
“You want to remain here?” he asked, bestowing on her a short, bright side-glance.
Alarm made her voice quiver.
“I have no place where I can go.”
“Where do you come from?”
In a low tone Petra mentioned her native town and her own name.
“What brought you here?”
“I do not know—I am seeking—I wish to pay—I—Ah, I do not know,” and she turned away, unable for a moment to utter another word, but summoning courage, she said:—
“I will do all you ask of me, if I may only stay here and not have to travel farther—and not have to entreat you any more.”
The daughter had come into the room with her father, but had stopped by the stove, where she stood, with downcast eyes, toying with the rose-leaves lying there to dry. The priest did not reply, the puffing from his pipe was the only sound to be heard, while he gazed alternately at Petra, his daughter, and the portrait. Now, the same object may produce totally different impressions: for while Petra prayed that the portrait might inspire him with forbearance, it seemed to him that it whispered, “Guard our child! Do not give her the companionship of one who is unknown to you!”
“No—you cannot stay,” said he, turning with a sharp side-look to Petra.
Petra grew pale, heaved a deep, passionate sigh, gazed wildly about her, and rushed into a side-room, whose door stood half open, flung herself down by a table, and, burying her face, wholly gave way to her grief and disappointment.
Father and daughter exchanged glances. This total lack of good breeding shown in bursting without a word into another room and there seating herself alone, had only its counterpart in the strange conduct of coming in from the highway, begging to be allowed to remain, and wailing aloud when not permitted to do so. The priest crossed the floor after her, not to speak to her, but, on the contrary, to close the door behind her. He came back, his face flushed, and said, in a low tone, to his daughter, who still stood by the stove:—
“Did you ever see the like of that woman? Who is she? What does she want?”
The daughter did not reply immediately; but when she did, she spoke in a still softer tone than her father.
“She acts strangely, but there is something remarkable about her.”
The priest was pacing the floor, and kept watching the door; finally he paused, and whispered,—
“Do you think her mind is sound?” and as Signe did not answer, he came nearer, repeating more decidedly, “She is mad, Signe, half-witted: that is what is remarkable about her.”
He resumed his walk; other thoughts began to work in his mind, he had almost forgotten what he had last said, when his daughter at length whispered,—
“I cannot think so; but she is certainly very unhappy.”
With this she bowed over the dried rose-leaves she was still fingering. There was nothing in the ring of her voice nor in her movements that would have attracted the attention of another, but her father’s manner changed at once; he walked up and down several times, his eyes fixed on the portrait, and finally said, but very softly,—
“Do you think that, because she looks unhappy—mother would have asked her to stay?”
“Mother would have given no answer for several days,” whispered the daughter, bowing still lower over the rose-leaves.
The slightest remembrance of her in the portrait, when brought forward thus by the daughter, could make that hairy lion’s head as meek as a lamb’s. He felt at once the truth of what Signe said; he stood like a school-boy who has been caught in deception; he forgot to smoke or to walk, and after a long while he whispered,—
“Ought I to ask her to remain a few days?”
“Why, you have given her your answer.”
“Yes, but it is one thing to give her a home, another to let her stay a few days.”
Signe seemed to reflect a while, and said finally,—
“You must do as seems best to you.”
The priest felt inclined to consider the proposal somewhat more closely, so he walked to and fro, smoking vigorously. Pausing, finally he said,—
“Will you go in, or shall I?”
“It would certainly do more good if you were to speak to her,” said the daughter, looking up, lovingly.
He was just about taking hold of the doorknob, when a burst of laughter rang out from the next room,—then all was still, and then came another loud peal. The priest, who had started back, hurried forward again, his daughter following him, for they were both sure that the stranger must have suddenly become ill.
On opening the door they beheld Petra sitting where she had first dropped down, and in front of her lay an open book, over which she had cast herself without being aware of it. Her tears had rolled down on its leaves, and seeing this she had made an effort to remove their traces, when she was attracted by one of those coarse expressions, which she well remembered from her street life, but which she could never have believed any book would venture to reproduce. Thoroughly aghast she forgot to weep, and sat staring at the book. What madness in the world could this be! She read with mouth wide open; it grew worse and worse, so coarse, but so irresistibly ludicrous that she could not possibly help reading on. She read until she had lost consciousness of everything about her; she read herself away from care and sorrow, from time and place, with old Father Holberg, for it was he! She laughed, she roared with laughter, even now that the priest and his daughter were standing over her, she did not see their earnestness, did not remember her errand, but laughing, asked,—
“What is this? What in all the world is this?” and she herself turned to the title-page.
Then the color forsook her face; she looked up at them, then down again into the book at those familiar strokes. There are some things that strike the heart with the force of a bullet, things we think we have fled a hundred miles away from, but which unexpectedly rise up and confront us. Here on the first page was written, “Hans Ödegaard.” Her face became suffused with hot blushes. Petra sprang up, crying,—
“Is this book his? Is he coming here?”
“He has promised to do so,” replied Signe.
And now Petra remembered that there was a priest’s family in the diocese of Bergen, whom Ödegaard had met when traveling abroad. She had only been moving round in a circle; she had fled straight towards him.
“Is he likely to come soon? Is he perhaps here already?” She seemed ready to renew her flight immediately.
“No, indeed, he is ill,” said Signe.
“Ah, that is true, he is ill,” repeated Petra, in a tone of anguish.
“But tell me,” burst out Signe, “you surely cannot be”—
“The fisher maiden?” completed the priest.
“Yes, I am the fisher maiden,” said Petra, bestowing on him a look of entreaty.
They knew her well here, for Ödegaard had talked of nothing else.
“This alters the case,” said the priest, who perceived that here there was something broken, something that needed the aid of friends. “You may remain for the present,” he added.
Petra raised her eyes, and as she did so, she saw the look of thanks his daughter bestowed on him. This did her so much good that she walked right up to Signe, took both her hands,—more she dare not do,—and said, very bashfully, though,—
“I will tell you all as soon as we two are alone.”
An hour later Signe knew Petra’s whole history and immediately imparted it to her father. According to his advice Signe wrote the same day to Ödegaard, and continued to do so as long as Petra remained in the house.
But when Petra lay down to rest that evening on the large feather bed in the cosy chamber, with crackling birch-wood in the stove, and the New Testament between the two candles on the snowy-white dressing-table, she gave thanks to her God, as she grasped the Book, for all He had given her, the evil as well as the good.
The priest, as a young man with ardent nature and native powers of eloquence, had wished to study theology. His wealthy parents had opposed him in this; they preferred to see him choose what they called an independent calling; but their opposition only increased his zeal, and when he had taken his degree he went abroad to continue his studies. During a preliminary sojourn in Denmark he frequently met a lady who belonged to a sect which did not seem to him rigorous enough in its views, and to which he was consequently averse. He was continually desiring to influence her; but the manner in which she looked at him and thereby silenced him, whenever he attempted to do so, he could never forget during the whole time he remained abroad. When he returned to Denmark he sought her at once. They passed much time together, and grew in each other’s favor, until they became engaged and were shortly after married. Now, however, it proved that each had cherished a secret thought: he had proposed to draw her womanly grace over to his gloomy doctrines; while she had felt a child-like confidence that she could enlist all his power and eloquence in the service of her religion. His first faint effort was met by her equally feeble one; he drew back disappointed, suspicious. She was not slow to perceive this, and thenceforth he was perpetually on his guard against her efforts, she on her guard against his. Neither of them, however, ever made another attempt; for they had both become alarmed. He was afraid of his own passionate nature, and she feared that an unsuccessful attempt might ruin her chances of winning him, for she never relinquished her hope; this had become her life task. But there never was any contest; for where she was no strife was possible. His active will, his suppressed passion, must have an outlet, and this they found each time he ascended the pulpit and saw her sitting below. Irresistibly he drew the congregation into the vortex with him; he created a general agitation, and was excited thereby in return. Seeing this her troubled heart found solace in benevolence, and by and by, when she became a mother, she took her daughter in bodily and spiritual embrace and made the child share her own hours of solitude. There she gave, there she received, there she cradled, her own cherished views in her child’s innocent heart; there she held a love feast, and from it she came back to him, that stern man, with the combined gentleness of the woman and the Christian. At such times it was impossible for him to say anything that was not kind. He could not help loving her beyond all else on earth; but all the more sorrowful did this make him, all the more did his heart bleed that he could not help her to work out her salvation. With a mother’s quietly asserted right she removed her child, too, from his religious instructions. Soon the child’s songs, the child’s questions, were a new source of pain to him; and when in the pulpit he became wrought up to harshness through his violent emotions, his wife only met him with increased mildness when they set out together for home; her eyes spoke, but her lips uttered not a word. And the little daughter clung to his hand and looked up at him with eyes that were her mother’s.
Every subject was discussed in their home except the one which was the root of all their thoughts. But such an exhausting strain could not last any great length of time. She continued to smile, but only because she dared not weep. When the time approached for the daughter to prepare for confirmation, and he by virtue of his office could draw her as quietly over to his instruction as the mother had hitherto held her under hers, the tension reached its climax, and after the sermon, when the names of the candidates for confirmation were announced, the mother fell ill, in about the same way that people usually become weary. She said, smilingly, that now she could not walk any more, and a few days later, quite as smilingly, that now she could not sit up any longer either. She wanted her daughter with her all the time, for, although she could not talk with her, she could look at her. And the daughter, knowing what her mother liked best, read to her from the Book of Life and sang to her the hymns she had taught her in childhood, those new, cheerful hymns of the religious society to which the mother belonged. The priest for a long time failed to comprehend what was in store for him; but when he understood it all else vanished, he could think of but one thing, and that was to have her say something to him, just a few words. This, however, she was unable to do; she could no longer speak. He stood at the foot of the bed, gazing at her and entreating her; she smiled at him until he fell on his knees, and grasping the daughter’s hand, placed it in the mother’s, as though he would say, “Here, keep her—she shall be yours forever!” Then the mother smiled, as she had never smiled before, and with the smile still on her lips she passed away from him.
For a long time after this no one could gain access to the priest; another was appointed to assume the charge of his parish; he himself went wandering about from room to room, from spot to spot, as though seeking something. He stepped softly; when he spoke it was in a subdued tone, and only by falling wholly into his hushed ways could his daughter gradually succeed in entering into fellowship with him. Now she aided him in his search; the mother’s words were all called up; her wishes became the law according to which they proceeded. The daughter’s intercourse with her, from which he had been shut out, he now for the first time entered into. From the first moment the child could recollect, everything was lived through anew; the mother’s hymns were sung, her prayers were prayed, the sermons she had been fondest of were read one by one, and her interpretations, her remarks, faithfully recalled. Thus roused to activity, the priest soon felt a desire to visit the spot where he had found her, in order that he might in the same way follow in her footsteps. They went, and he regained his health by thoroughly making her life his own. A beginner himself, he keenly appreciated all beginnings about him, the great national ones, the lesser political ones; and this restored to him his youth. His powers streamed back upon him, his yearnings at the same time—now he wanted to proclaim the Word so that it might be a preparation for life as well as for death!
Before again shutting himself up in his mountain parish with his beloved work, he felt an impulse to take a wider view of the outside world. So he and his daughter extended their travels, and now their lives were filled with the grandest remembrances.
Among these people Petra lived.