The Fisher Girl

by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson

IV.

[ONE AND ANOTHER.]

One day after the Confirmation Petra went over to Odegaard's sisters, but she soon saw that this must have been a mistake on his part, for the pastor went by as though he never saw her, and the daughters, both older than Odegaard, received her stiffly. They satisfied themselves with giving a bare account from their brother of what she was now to do. The whole of the forenoon she was to be engaged in household duties at a house in the suburbs of the town, and in the afternoon to go to the sewing school; she was to sleep at home, and take breakfast and supper there.

She acted according to this arrangement, and found it agreeable enough as long as it was new, but afterwards, and especially when summer came, she began to get tired of it, for she had been accustomed in summer to sit up in the forest the whole day long, and had read in her books, which from the depths of her heart she now missed, as she missed Odegaard, as she missed conversation. The consequence was that at last she took it where it was to be found. About this time a young girl entered the sewing school, called Lise Let, i.e. Lise, but not Let; for that was the name of a young cadet, who had been at home one Christmas, and betrothed himself to her on the ice, while she was only a child at school. Lise vowed it was not true, and cried if any one named it; nevertheless, she went by the name of Lise Let. The little, active Lise Let often laughed and often cried; but, whether she laughed or cried, she thought about love. A perfect swarm of new and curious thoughts soon filled the school; if a hand was reached out for the scissors, it was to go a courting, and the scissors said, yes, or gave a refusal. The needle was bethrothed to the thread, and the thread sacrificed herself stitch by stitch to the heartless tyrant; she who pricked her finger, shed her heart's blood, and to change needles was to be unfaithful. If two of the girls whispered together, it was about something remarkable that had happened to them; soon two more began to whisper, and then two again; each one had her confidant, and there were a thousand secrets: it was impossible to stand it.

One afternoon at dusk, in a fine drizzling rain, Petra, with a large handkerchief over her head, stood outside her mother's house, and peeped into the passage, where a young sailor was standing, whistling a waltz. She held the handkerchief together with both her hands tight under her chin, so that only her eyes and nose could be seen, but the sailor saw she was winking at him, and he went quickly out where she stood. "I say, Gunnar, will you go a walk?"--"But it rains!"--"Tut, is that anything!" and so they went to a small house higher up the mountain. "Buy me a few cakes,--those with the icing!"--"You are always wanting cakes."--"With the icing!" He came out again with them; she stuck one hand out from under the handkerchief, took them in, and went on again, eating as she went. When they had got just above the town, she said as she gave him the cake: "I say now, Gunnar! we have always thought so much of each other, we two; I have always liked you better than any other boys! You don't believe it? But I assure you, Gunnar! And now you are second mate and can soon take a ship; it seems to me you should get engaged Gunnar! Dear, why don't you eat the cake?"--"I have begun to chew tobacco."--"Well, what do you say?"--"Oh! there's no hurry for that!"--"No hurry? And you go away day after to-morrow?"--"Yes, but am I not coming back again?"--"But it isn't certain that I shall have time then, and you don't know where I shall be either,"--"It should be to you, then?"--"Yes, Gunnar, you might have understood that, but you were always slow, that was why you were only a sailor, too."--"Oh! I'm not sorry for that, it's quite nice to be a sailor."--"Yes, to be sure,--your mother has ships. But what do you say now? You are so dull!"--"Yes, what shall I say?"--"What shall you say? Ha-ha-ha, perhaps you won't have me!"--"Ah! Petra, you know quite well I will; but I don't think I can trust you."--"Yes, Gunnar, I shall be as true, as true!"--He stood a minute still; "Let me see your face, Petra!"--"What for that?"--"I want to see if you really mean it."--"Do you think I go and trifle with you, Gunnar?" She was vexed and lifted the handkerchief.--"Well, Petra, if it is to be right regular earnest, then give me a kiss upon it, for one knows what that means."--"Have you lost your wits?" She drew the handkerchief over, and went on.--"Stay Petra, stay! You don't understand.--If we are engaged--" "Oh! nonsense with you!"--"Yes, but I know what is customary, and as far as experience goes, I beat you hollow. Remember all that I have seen."--"Yes, you've seen all like a simpleton, and you talk as you've seen."--"What do you mean by being engaged, then, Petra? I may surely ask about that! There's no meaning in running up and down hill after each other!"--"No, that's true enough." She laughed, and stopped. "But listen now, Gunnar! While we stand here and puff--huf!--I'll tell you how lovers do. Every evening as long as you are here, you must wait outside the sewing school and go home with me to the door, and if I am out anywhere else, you must wait in the street till I come. And when you go away, you must write to me, and buy things to send me. To be sure: we must exchange rings, with your name in one and mine in the other, and then the year and the day; but I have no money, so you must buy them both."--"Yes, I'll do that; but--" "Now, what about 'but' again?"--"Good heavens! I only meant I must have the measure of your finger."--"Yes, that you shall have directly;" and she picked up a straw and bit off the measure: "Now don't lose it!" He wrapped it in paper, and put it in his pocket book; she watched him till the pocket book was hidden again. "Let us go now, I'm tired of standing here."--"But, I must say I think it rather flat, Petra!"--"Very well, if you won't, it's all the same to me!"--"Certainly I will, it's not that; but shan't I even so much as get hold of your hand!"--"What for that?"--"As a sign that we're really engaged."--"Such nonsense, does that make it more certain? You can have my hand, anyhow; here it is! No thank you, no squeezing, sir!"--She drew her head within the handkerchief again, then suddenly she lifted the handkerchief with both hands, and her face came full into view. "If you tell any one, Gunnar, I shall say it is not true, so you know!" She laughed, and went on down the hill. A little after, she stopped, and said: "The sewing school will be over to-morrow at nine, so you can go and stand at the foot of the garden."--"Very well."--"Yes, but now you must go!"--"Won't you, then, even give me your hand at parting?"--"I don't know what you are always wanting with my hand,--no, you won't get it now. Good bye!" she cried, and away she sprang.

Next evening she arranged it so, that she was the last at the sewing school. It was nearly ten when she left, but when she had passed through the garden, Gunnar was not there. She had imagined all sorts of misfortunes, but not this; she was so much offended, that she waited, merely to give it him in earnest, when at last he did come. Besides she had good company as she walked up and down; for the merchants' singing club had just begun to practise with open windows, in a house near by, and a Spanish song, that mild evening, lured her thoughts till she was in Spain, and heard her praises sung from the open balcony. Spain was her great longing, for every summer came the dark Spanish ships into the harbour, the Spanish songs into the streets, and upon Odegaard's walls, hung a row of pictures from Spain; perhaps he was there again now, and she was with him! But in the same minute she was called home again, for there, behind the apple tree, was Gunnar coming at last; she rushed towards--not Gunnar, but the one returned from Spain, the light hat over the light hair. "Ha, ha, ha, ha," laughed the light laughter, "so you take me for another?" She denied it eagerly, hastily, and began to run in her vexation, but he ran after, talking incessantly whilst he ran very quickly, and with that mixed accent that people get when they use several languages. "Yes, I can easily keep you company, for I'm a capital runner,--it won't help you,--I must speak to you,--it is too quiet here, people are dead, but you are not dead, I can see. I must speak to you; I am here for the eighth evening."--"For the eighth evening!"--"The eighth evening; ha, ha, ha, I would gladly go for eight more, for we two suit each other, don't we? It's no use, I shan't let you slip, for now you are tired, I can see."--"No, I'm not."--"Yes, you are."--"No, I'm not."--"Yes, you are! Talk, then, if you are not tired!"--"Ha, ha, ha!"--"Ha, ha, ha, ha! Yes, that's not to talk," and so they stopped. They exchanged a few witty words, half in jest, and half in earnest; then he began to speak in praise of Spain, and one picture followed another, till he ended in cursing the little town at their feet. The first, Petra followed with beaming eyes; the second tingled in her ears, while her eyes moved up and down over a gold chain that hung twice round his neck. "Yes, this," he said hastily, and drew out the end of the chain, to which a gold cross was fastened, "see, I took it with me to-night, to show at the singing club; it is from Spain. You shall hear its history." Then he related: "When I was in the south of Spain, I was present at a shooting match, and won this prize; it was handed to me at the festival with these words: 'Take this with you to Norway and give it to the most beautiful woman in your country, with the respectful homage of Spanish Cavaliers.' Then followed shouts, and processions, the waving of banners and the clapping of cavaliers, and I received the gift."--"No, how splendid! Tell more, more!" broke in Petra, for her imagination already pictured the Spanish feast, with the Spanish colours and songs, and the dusky Spaniards, standing under the vines in the evening sunlight, sending their thoughts to the most beautiful woman in the land of snow. He did as she requested; he increased her longing with new recitals, and, as if transported to that wonderful land, she began humming the Spanish song she had just heard, and, little by little, to move her feet to its time. "What! You can dance the Spanish dance?" he cried.--"Yes, yes--yes!" she sang in dancing time, snapping her fingers to imitate the castanets, and making some rapid steps upon the spot where she stood, for she had seen the Spanish sailors dance!--"You shall have the gift of the Spanish Cavaliers," cried he, in ecstacy, "you are the most beautiful woman I have met." He had taken the gold chain from his own neck, and had lightly thrown it once or twice round hers before she came to understand it. But, when she understood it, she was suffused with the deep scarlet, peculiarly her own, and the tears were about to burst forth, so that he, falling from one surprise into another, did not know what more to do, but felt that he ought to go, and went.

At twelve o'clock with the chain in her hand, she still stood at the open window of her little room. The summer night lay gently over town and fiord and distant mountains; from the street the Spanish song sounded again, for the club had gone home with young Yngve Vold. Word for word it could be heard, about a beautiful wreath. Two voices only sang the words, the rest hummed the guitar accompaniment.

Take up the wreath, dearest, it is for thee,
Take up the wreath, dearest, thinking of me;

Here is the rarest
Of grass for the fairest,
Here is the whitest
Of flowers for the brightest.
Here is a swelling
Bud for the lovely one,
Here is a telling
Leaf for the faithful one.

Take up the wreath, dearest, it is for thee, Take up the wreath, dearest, thinking of me!

When she awoke in the morning she had been in a forest where the sun shone in on every side, where all the trees were those they called "golden rain," their long yellow tassels hanging down and almost touching her as she passed. Soon she remembered the chain, she took it and hung it over; then she put a black handkerchief over the white, and the chain over that, as it showed better upon black. She sat up in bed and kept looking at herself in a little hand mirror; was she indeed so beautiful? She stood up to do her hair and then look at herself again, but remembering that her mother knew nothing about it, she hastened to go down and tell her. Just as she was ready, and was about to hang the chain round her neck, it occurred to her what her mother would say, what everybody would say, and what she should answer when they asked her why she wore such a costly chain. The question being a very reasonable one, it returned again and again, till at last she drew forth a little box in which she laid the chain, put the box in her pocket, and, for the first time in her life, felt herself poor.

She did not go where she ought to have done that forenoon; for above the town, near the spot where she had got the chain, she sat with it in her hand, with a feeling as if she had stolen it.

That night, at the foot of the garden, she waited still longer for Yngve Vold than she had done the foregoing evening for Gunnar: she wanted to give him the chain back. But as the ship that Gunnar was going with, had the day before unexpectedly weighed anchor, because it had got a splendid cargo in the next town, so Yngve Vold, the owner of the vessel had to set out to-day on the same errand; he had other business to transact at the same time, therefore he was away three weeks.

In these three weeks, the chain was gradually transferred from her pocket to a drawer in the closet, and from there again to an envelope, and the envelope to a secret corner; and during the time she herself made one humiliating discovery after another. For the first time she became aware of the distance that separated her from the ladies of the higher classes; they could have worn the chain without any one asking the why and the wherefore. But to one of these, Yngve Vold would not have ventured to offer the chain without, at the same time, offering his hand; it was only with the Fisher Girl he could do that. But if he wished to give her anything, why then not something she could have some use for; he had meant to scorn her so much the more, by giving her what she could never use. The story of "the most beautiful" must have been a fable; for had the chain been given her on that afternoon, he would never have come in secret, and at night time. Vexation and shame gnawed themselves so much the deeper in, as she had ceased to confide in any one. No wonder, then, that the first time she met him again, him in whom centred all these vexatious and shame-filling thoughts, she should blush so deeply that he misinterpreted it, and when she saw that, blush deeper still.

She turned her steps quickly home again, snatched up the chain, and, although it was scarcely light, she seated herself above the town to wait for him; now he should get it back! She felt sure he would come, because he also had blushed at seeing her, and he had been away the whole time. But soon these same thoughts began to tell in his favour; he would not have blushed if he had been indifferent to her; he would have come before if he had been at home. It began to get rather dusk; for in these three weeks the days had shortened quickly. But at nightfall our thoughts often change. She sat close above the road among the trees; she could see without being seen. When she had been there some time, and he did not come, conflicting thoughts began to rise; she listened now in anger, now in fear; she could hear every one who came, long before she saw them, but it was never him. The little birds that half asleep changed their perches among the leaves, could frighten her, she sat so breathlessly; every sound from the town, every noise took her attention. A large vessel was weighing anchor, and the sailors were singing; it would be tugged out in the night, to get the good of the first morning breeze. She longed to go too, out upon the great sea. She caught up the song, the clinging stroke of the capstan gave raising power, whereto, whence? There stood the light hat upon the road just in front of her, she sprang up with a shriek, and frightened at what she had done, she ran, and in running she remembered she ought not to have done so; it was one mistake upon another, so she ran with all her might. But shame and agitation overpowered her, he was just behind, and she cast herself down among the trees. When he got up to her, she breathed so heavily that he could hear every breath, and the same power that in her intrepidity she had exercised over him last time they met, she still possessed as she lay there in an agony of fear; he bent over her, and whispered "Do not fear!"

But she trembled still more. Then he kneeled down beside her and took her hand, but slowly, for he himself was afraid. At the first touch of his hand she sprang up as if burnt with fire--and off again--whilst he remained standing.

She did not run far, for she had not power, her temples throbbed, her bosom heaved, she pressed her hands against it, and listened. She heard a step in the grass, a cracking among the leaves,--he was coming, and straight towards her. He saw her? No, he did not see,--Yes, good heavens, he saw!... no, he went by--Then she sank down weak and exhausted.

After a long time she got up and began to go slowly down the mountain, then stopped and went on again, as though without any aim. On reaching the road, there he was waiting for her; she had been walking as if in a fog and had not observed him before. He rose; a slight cry escaped her, but she did not stir, she merely put her hands before her eyes and wept. Then he whispered again: "I see you love me!--I love you!--You shall be mine!--You don't answer?--You cannot!--But trust me, for from this hour you are mine!--Good night!" and he gently touched her shoulder.

She started, as before a sudden flash of lightning,--a shade of anxiety passed over, but it lightened again; this was indeed a marvel.

As fully as Yngve Vold had occupied her thoughts during the last three weeks, she was now turned round. He was the wealthiest man in the place, and of the oldest family; he would raise her up to him regardless of all considerations. This was something so different from her thoughts during all this time of vexation and suffering, that it might well begin to make her happy! And she grew happier and happier as she realized her new position. She felt herself every one's equal, and all her longings were about to be fulfilled. She saw Yngve Vold's finest vessel bedecked as the flag-ship on her wedding day, and, amid the salute of the minute gun, and fireworks, take them on board to bear them to Spain, where the wedding sun was glowing.

When Petra awoke next day, the girl came up to tell her it was half-past eleven o'clock; she felt ravenously hungry, eat her breakfast and wanted more,--complained of headache and weariness, and soon fell asleep again; on awaking about three in the afternoon, she felt quite well. The mother came up and said she had undoubtedly slept away an illness, for she used to do so herself; but now she must get up and go to the sewing school. Petra was sitting upright in bed, and leaned her head upon her arm; without getting up she answered that she was not going to the sewing school any more. The mother thought she must be still a little dazed, and went down to get a parcel and a letter that a sailor boy had brought. There were the gifts already! As soon as she was alone, Petra, who had laid down again, got up in haste and opened the parcel with a certain solemnity; it contained a pair of French shoes; a little disappointed she was putting them aside, when she felt them heavy in the toes; she put her hand into one of them and drew forth a small parcel folded in fine paper; it was a gold bracelet; in the other was also a parcel, carefully wrapped up; a pair of French gloves,--and in the right hand she found a scrap of paper containing two plain gold rings. "Already!" thought Petra, her heart beat as she looked for the inscription, and read in the one, sure enough: "Petra," with the date, and in the other: "Gunnar." She turned pale, threw the rings and all the rest on the floor as though she had burnt herself, and hastily opened the letter. It was dated "Calais;"--she read:

"Dear Petra,

We had a fair wind from the sixty-first to the fifty-fourth degree of latitude, and afterwards got here under a strong side wind, which is unusual even for better vessels than ours, which is a fine craft under full sail. But now you must know that all the way I have been thinking about you, and about that which last occurred between us two, and am grieved that I could not see you to bid you good-bye. I went on board very vexed about it, but have never forgotten you since, except now and then in between, for a sailor has hard times of it. Now we have got here, and I have used all my wages to buy you presents as you asked me, and the money I got of mother, too, so I have none left. But, if I get leave, I shall come as soon as the gifts, for as long as it is secret, there is no certainty about others, especially young men, of whom there are many; but I will have it certain, so that no one can excuse himself, but beware of me. You can easily get a better one than me, for you can get any one you choose, but you can never get a truer, and that is me. Now I will conclude, for I have used up two sheets, and the letters are getting so large; it is the worst thing I have to do, but I do it, nevertheless, as you wish it. And so in conclusion I will say, that I hope it was earnest; for it was not earnest, it was a great sin, and will bring misfortune upon many.

Gunnar Ask,

Second Mate, 'Norwegian Constitution.'"

Overwhelmed with fear, she jumped out of bed and dressed herself. She felt as if she must go out, where there was counsel to be had somewhere; for all had become obscure, uncertain, dangerous. The more she thought about it, the more tangled the thread became; some one must help to unravel it, or she never could get loose! But in whom dare she confide? There could be no one but the mother. When after a hard struggle she stood beside her in the kitchen, afraid and almost weeping, but determined to give complete confidence, that the assistance might be complete, the mother said without looking round, and therefore without observing Petra's face: "He has just been here; he has got home again."--"Who?" whispered Petra, holding fast for support; for if Gunnar were really come, all hope was lost. She knew Gunnar; he was dull and good-natured, but let him once get vexed, and he grew frantic. "You must not be long in going there," he said.--"There?" shuddered Petra, she jumped to the conclusion that he must have told her mother all about it, and then what would happen?--"Yes, to the Rectory," said the mother. "To the Rectory? Is it Odegaard that has come home?"--The mother turned round now: "Yes, who else?"--"Odegaard!" cried Petra, and the storm of joy cleared the air in an instant: "Odegaard has come, Odegaard, oh! he has got back!" she was out at the door and up over the fields. She rushed on, she laughed, she cried aloud; it was him, him, she wanted; if he had been at home, this trouble would never have come! With him she was safe; if she only thought upon his lofty beaming countenance, his mild voice, even upon the quiet rooms, rich in images, where he dwelt, she grew more peaceful, and a sense of security came over her. She took a moment to collect herself. Landscape and town were bathed in a stream of light, on that early autumn night, the fiord especially shone with a radiant splendour; out there in the haven, the last smoke was curling up from the steamer that had brought Odegaard. Oh! simply to know that he was at home again, did her good, and made her resolute and strong; she prayed to God to help her that Odegaard might never leave her more. And just as her heart was raised in this hope, she saw him coming towards her; he had known which way she would take, and had come to meet her! This touched her, she sprang towards him, grasped both his hands and kissed them; he felt ashamed, and seeing some one coming in the distance, he drew her with him up among the trees, away from the road; he held her hands in his, and she said the whole way: "How delightful that you have come! No, I can hardly believe it is you, oh! you must never go away again! Do not leave me, no, do not leave me!" Here her tears began to flow, he drew her head gently towards him; he wished to soothe her, for it was needful for his own sake that she should be calm. She crept close to him, as the bird under the wing that is lifted for it, and she did not wish to come forth any more.

Overcome by this confidence, he put his arm round her, as if to provide her the shelter she sought; but hardly had she perceived this, when she lifted her tearful face, her eyes met his, and all that can be exchanged in a glance, when penitence meets love, when gratitude meets the joy of the giver, when yes meets yes, followed in quick succession. He embraced her and pressed his lips against hers; he had lost his mother early, and kissed for the first time in his life; it was the same with her. They could not release themselves, and when at last they did, it was only to embrace once more. He was trembling, whilst she was radiant and blushing; she threw her arms round his neck; she clung to him like a child. And when they seated themselves, and she could play about his hands, his hair, his breast-pin, neckerchief, all these that she had been accustomed to regard respectfully from a distance, and when he bade her say "thou" and not "you," and she could not, and when he would tell her how rich she had made his poor life from the first hour, how long he had fought against it, that he might not check her with this, nor let himself be paid thus, and when he noticed that she was unable to understand or gather a word of what he was saying, and when he himself also no longer found any meaning in it; when she wanted to go home with him at once, and he had laughingly to bid her wait a few days, and then they would go away altogether,--when they felt, when they said, whilst they sat among the trees, with the fiord, and mountains, and evening sun before them, whilst the horn and song sounded far in the distance, that this was happiness.

Oh! sweet is love's first meeting

In the glow of the evening ray,

As the song of the wavelet fleeting--

Its plash at the close of day.

As the song in the forest sounding,

As the horn o'er the rugged rocks,--

Our hearts, the moment resounding

In wonder to nature locks.