The Fisher Girl

by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson

VI.

[THE SOUND OF THE CLOCK.]

Petra had been in her room, when the shouting, whistling, and hallooing had begun the first evening. She sprang up as if the house had been on fire, or as if everything were coming down upon her. She ran about in her room as if whipped with burning rods; it burnt through her soul; her thoughts ran impetuously after an outlet;--but down to the mother she dare not go, and they were standing in front of the only window! A stone came flying through, and fell upon her bed; she gave a cry and ran into a corner behind a curtain, and hid herself among her old clothes. There she sat crouched up together, burning with shame, trembling with fear, visions of unknown horrors passed before her, the air was full of faces, gaping, mocking faces, they came quite near, it rained fire round about them;--oh, not fire, but eyes; it rained eyes, large, glowing and small, sparkling; eyes that stood still, eyes that ran up and down,--Jesus, Jesus, save me!

Oh, what a relief, when the last cry died away in the night, and it was quite dark, and quite still. She ventured out, threw herself on the bed, and buried her face in the pillow, but she could not turn away from her thoughts; the mother would come powerfully and threateningly forward, as thunder clouds gather over the mountains, for what would the mother not suffer for her sake! No slumber came to her eyelids, nor peace to her soul, and the day came, but no alleviation.

She went backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, thinking only how to escape, but she dare not meet her mother, neither dare she go out as long as it was day, and at night they would come again! Yet wait she must, for before midnight it was still more dangerous to flee. And then where to? She possessed nothing, and she knew not any way; yet there must be merciful hearts somewhere, even as there was a merciful God. He knew that the evil she had done was not done in wickedness, He knew her penitence, and He also knew her helplessness. She listened for her mother's steps below, but she did not hear them; she trembled to hear her on the stairs, but she did not come. The girl, too, must have left, for no one came up with her meals. She did not venture to go down, nor to go to the window, for some one might be standing outside waiting for her. The broken pane let in the cold air, in the morning, and still more when night came. She had made up a small bundle of clothes, and dressed herself to be ready; but she must wait for the furious crowd, and then go through whatever came.

There they are again! The whistling, the shouting, the throwing of stones, worse, far worse than the night before; she crept into her corner, folded her hands, and prayed and prayed. If only her mother did not go out to them, if only they did not break in! Then they began to sing, a base lampoon, and though every word cut her with knives, she was yet obliged to listen; but no sooner had she heard that the mother was mixed up with it, that they had been guilty of so shameful an injustice, than she sprang up, she would speak to the dastardly pack from the window, or cast herself down among them;--but a stone, and yet another, and then a whole hailstorm flew through the window, the bits of glass whizzed, the stones rolled about the room, and she crept back again. The perspiration stood upon her forehead, as though she were beneath a burning sun, but she no longer wept,--no longer felt afraid.

Gradually the noise subsided; she ventured forth, and was going to the window to look out, but she trod upon the bits of glass and drew back, then she trod upon the stones, and stood still that she might not be heard; for she must steal quietly away. After waiting a full half hour, she put off her shoes, took up her bundle, and softly opened the door. It pained her to think that after causing her mother all this sorrow, she must leave her without a farewell; but fear overpowered her; "Farewell mother! farewell mother!" she whispered to herself at each step she took down the stairs: "Farewell mother!"--She stood at the bottom, breathed a few times heavily to get air, and then turned towards the passage door. Some one seized her arm from behind, she gave a slight scream, and turned,--it was her mother.

Gunlaug having heard the door open, at once divined her daughter's intention and waited for her here. Petra felt that she could not pass without a contest. Explanation would not help; whatever she said, it would not be believed. Well, if it came to a struggle, nothing in the world could be worse than the worst, and that she had already experienced. "Where are you going?" the mother asked in a low tone. "I must flee!" she answered with a beating heart--"Where to?"--"I do not know;--but I must get away from here!"--She held her bundle faster and went on. "No, come with me," said the mother, holding her arm, "I have provided for it." Petra released herself, as if from too tight a grasp; breathed out as after a conflict, and gave herself up to her mother. The latter led the way into a little room behind the kitchen, where a light was burning, and there was no window;--here she had been hid whilst the tumult raged. The room was so narrow that they could scarcely move in it; the mother took up a bundle rather smaller than Petra's, opened it, and took out a set of sailor's clothes. "Put these on," she whispered. Petra at once comprehended why she should do it, but that the mother assigned no reason, touched her. She took off her own things and put on these; the mother assisted her, and in doing so, the light fell full upon her face; Petra saw for the first time that Gunlaug was old. Had she become so in these days, or had Petra not observed it before? The child's tears trickled down over the mother, but she did not look up, and so nothing was said. A sou'wester was the last thing to put on; when all was ready, the mother took the bundle from her, and blew out the light, "Now come!"

They went out into the passage, but not through the street door; Gunlaug unfastened the back door, and locked it again after them. They passed through the trampled garden, over the uprooted trees, and the broken fence, "You may as well look round," said the mother, "you will never come here again."--She shuddered but did not look. They went by the upper path, along the edge of the forest, where she had passed half her life; where she had had that evening with Gunnar, those with Yngve Vold, and the last with Odegaard. They trod in withered leaves; it was a cold night, and she shivered in her unaccustomed dress. The mother turned towards a garden; Petra knew it again, though she had not been, there since that day when as a child she had attacked it; it was Pedro Ohlsen's. The mother had the key of it and locked them in.

It had cost Gunlaug much to go to him in the forenoon, it cost her much to go now with the unhappy daughter, to whom she herself could no longer give a home. But it must be done, and that which must be done Gunlaug could do. She knocked at the side door, and almost directly they heard footsteps and saw a light within. Shortly after, the door was opened by Pedro himself in travelling attire, looking pale and nervous. He held a dip in his hand, and he sighed when his eye fell upon Petra's face, swollen with weeping; she looked up at him, but as he did not dare to know her, she did not venture to recognise him. "This man has promised to help you to get away," said the mother without looking at either of them, and going up the steps she went into Pedro's room on the other side of the passage, leaving them to follow. The room was very small and low, and the peculiar close smell that pervaded it, made Petra feel faint; for more than a day now she had neither tasted food nor slept. From the middle of the ceiling hung a cage with a canary bird; they had to go round to avoid knocking against it. Some heavy old chairs, a ponderous table, and two great closets, touching the ceiling, were squeezed into the room, making it still less. On the table lay some music, and on that a flute. Pedro Ohlsen shuffled about in his great boots, as if he had something important to do; a weak voice sounded from the back room: "Who is that?--Who has come in?"--upon which he trailed still quicker round the room, mumbling: "Oh it is--hm, hm, ... it is--hm, hm," and so in where the voice came from.

Gunlaug sat by the window, with both her elbows upon her knees, and her head in her hands, looking fixedly into the sand that was strewn upon the floor; she did not speak, but every now and then she drew a heavy sigh. Petra stood by the door, leaning against the wall, with both her hands over her bosom, for she felt ill. An old time piece was hacking the hours asunder, the tallow candle on the table was running down, with a long wick. The mother was wishful to give some excuse for their being here, and said: "I knew this man once, long ago."

Nothing more, and no reply. Pedro did not return, the candle continued to waste, and the old clock to hack. The feeling of faintness overpowered Petra more and more, and through all, the words were continually sounding in her ears, "I knew this man once, long ago!" The old clock began to go to it: "I-knew-this-man-once-long-a-go." Afterwards, whenever she came into a close atmosphere, this room was always before her, reminding her of the faintness and of the clock's "I-knew-this-man-once-long-ago!"

When Pedro came in again he had got on a woollen cap, and a cloak of ancient date, fastened up over his ears. "Now, I am ready," said he, and drew on his mittens, as if he were going out in the coldest winter weather. "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 coat hanging over a chair back, and helped Petra on with it; but when it came close under her nose, it smelled so strongly of the room, that she begged for fresh air; the mother saw that she looked ill, and opening the door, she led her quickly into the garden. Here she drew a few long draughts of the fresh autumn air. "Where am I going to?" she asked, when she began to come round.--"To Bergen," replied the mother, helping her to button the coat; "it is a large place, where no one knows you." When she was ready, Gunlaug stopped in the doorway: "You will have 100 specie dollars with you; if you don't get on, you still have something to fall back upon. He lends you them, he here,"--"Gives, gives," whispered Pedro, who passed them and went out into the street.--"Lends them," repeated the mother, as though he had said nothing: "I shall repay him."--She took a handkerchief from her neck, tied it round Petra's, and said: "You must write as soon as it goes well with you, not before."--"Mother!"--"He will row you on board the vessel lying out there."--"Oh, heavens, mother!"--"Well, then there's nothing more. I'm not going any further."--"Mother, mother!"--"Now God be with you. Farewell!"--"Mother, forgive me, mother!"--"And don't catch cold on the sea."--She had got her gradually outside the garden gate, and now shut it.

Petra stood looking at the closed gate; she felt about as wretched and lonely as it is possible for a human being to do,--but just at that moment, out of the misery, the injustice, the tears, sprang up an anticipation, a hope; as a gleam of fire, kindled and extinguished, blazing up and dying out again, but for one moment shining sublimely; she opened her eyes, the brightness was gone, and again she stood in darkness.

Quietly through the deserted streets of the little town, past the closed doors and leafless gardens, past the barred houses, where the lights were no longer burning,--she dragged herself after him, who with bent figure shuffled on, without any head, in the great boots, and cloak. They came out into the avenue, where they trod again in withered leaves, and saw the ghostly branches that seemed stretching out their arms to come after them. They scrambled down over the mountain behind the yellow boat house; he baled out the water, and then rowed her along the coast that now looked like one black mass, with the clouds laying heavily upon it. Everything was blotted out, fields, houses, woods, mountains, she saw nothing more of that which, until yesterday, from a child she had had daily before her eyes; it had shut itself up like the town, like the people, that night that she was driven away, and she got no farewell.

A man was pacing up and down the deck of the ship that was laying at anchor, waiting for the morning breeze; as soon as he saw them laying to, he let down the steps, helped them on board, and made a signal to the captain, who soon joined them. She knew them, and they knew her, but simply as an ordinary matter, she was told all that it was necessary for her to know; namely, where she was to sleep, and what she was to do if she wanted anything, or was sea-sick. She was ill, indeed, almost directly she got down, so on changing her dress she went up again. Here she found the smell of--oh, chocolate! She felt an immoderate hunger, and just then out of the cabin, came the same man that had received them, with a whole bowl full, and plenty of cakes; it was from her mother, he said. While she was eating, he told her further, that a box with her linen, flannels, and best clothes had also been sent on board by her mother, besides several good things to eat. On hearing this, a very vivid remembrance of her mother rose up before her, an exalted image, such as she had never before had, but which she retained the rest of her life. And above the image rested a hope, sure and yet sorrowful in prayer, that she might yet give her mother some joy for all the sorrow she had caused her.

Pedro Ohlsen sat beside her when she sat, and walked beside her when she walked; he was perpetually occupied in getting out of her way, and for that reason, was continually getting into it, as the deck was covered with goods. She could see only his great nose and his eyes, and not even these distinctly, but he gave the impression of having something on his mind, which he wished to say and could not. He sighed, he sat down, he got up, he went round her, sat down again, but never a word came forth, and she did not speak. At last he was obliged to give it up; he drew out a huge leather pocket book, and whispered that the 100 species were within, and a little besides. She held out her hand and thanked him, and in doing so she came so near his face, that she observed his eyes were moist and were anxiously following her. For, with her, he was in truth losing all that was left to his desolate life. He would like to have said something that might yield him a kind remembrance, when he should be no more; but it was forbidden him, and though he would have said it nevertheless, he could not manage it, for she did not help him! Petra was too tired, and she could not just then banish the thought that he had been the cause of her first sin against her mother. She could not bear it much longer, it grew worse instead of better the longer he sat, for people are easily annoyed when they are tired. The poor creature felt it, he MUST go, and so at last he got whispered, "farewell," and drew his shrunken hand out of the mitten; she laid hers warm within it, and then both arose. "Thank you,--and give my love to mother!" she said. He gave a sigh, or rather a sob, and with two or three more such, he left her, turned and went backwards down the ladder. She went to the railing, he looked up, nodded, and then rowed slowly away. She stood till he was darkness in the darkness, then she went below; she was so tired she could scarcely stand, and although she felt ill directly she went down, she had scarcely laid her head upon the pillow and said the first two clauses of "The Lord's Prayer," before she slept.

Till that same hour, the mother was sitting up by the yellow boat-house; she had followed them slowly all the way, and sat down behind the boat-house just as they were rowing from land. From that same spot, Pedro Ohlsen had in former days rowed out with her; it was a long time ago, but she could not fail to remember it now, when he rowed the daughter away.

As soon as she saw him coming back alone, she arose and went; for then she knew that Petra was safely on board. She did not take the road home, but went further over: there, in the darkness, she found the path that led over the mountains, and that she took. Her house stood empty and desolate for more than a month, she would not return to it, before she had had good news from her daughter.

But this gave time for the voice against her to be put to the test. All low natures feel an exciting pleasure in uniting to persecute the strong; but only as long as these offer any resistance; when they see that they quietly suffer themselves to be maltreated, a feeling of shame comes over them, and he who will cast another stone is quickly put down. In the present instance, they had been hoping to see Gunlaug come fuming out to them in a rage, perhaps calling upon the seamen to take up arms in her defence, and thus have a regular street fight. But as she did not shew herself, on the third night the people were scarcely to be restrained; they declared they would go in after her, they would turn the two women out into the streets, and chase them away from the town! The windows had not been mended since the previous night, and amid the shout of hurrahs, two men crept through to open the door,--and in rushed the crowd! They looked in all the rooms, upstairs and down, they broke open the doors, destroyed everything that came in their way; they sought in every corner; last of all in the cellar, but neither mother nor daughter were to be found. As soon as this discovery was made, an instantaneous hush fell over the people; they who were in, stole out one after another, and hid themselves behind the rest, and shortly after, the plot of ground in front of the house was left desolate.

There were soon found those in the town, who said that this had been an undignified mode of proceeding against two defenceless women. They discussed the facts of the case so thoroughly, that at last it was the unanimous opinion, that whatever the Fisher Girl had done, Gunlaug was certainly not to blame for it, and she had therefore been treated very unjustly.

She was very much missed in the place; drunken brawls and tumults began to be the order of the day; for the town had lost its police. They missed her tall figure in the doorway as they passed by; the seamen especially felt her loss. There was no place like hers, they said; for there each had been dealt with according to his merit, had had his own place in her confidence, and her help in any difficulty. Neither sailors, nor captains, neither masters, nor mistresses, had understood her worth, until now when she had gone.

Therefore it was a cause of general rejoicing, when it was reported that Gunlaug had been seen sitting in her house and cooking as before. Every one must see for himself that the window panes were really put in again, the door repaired and the smoke coming out of the chimney. Yes, it was true! There she was again!--They crept on the other side of the hill to see better; she was sitting in front of the baking stone, she looked neither up nor down, but her eye followed her hand and her hand was busy; for she had come back to regain what she had lost, and first of all the 100 specie, that she owed Pedro Ohlsen. At first they contented themselves in this way, with merely peeping in at her, their consciences pricked them, so they dare not do more. But by degrees they came,--first the wives, the friendly, kind ones; yet they got no opportunity to speak of anything but business; for Gunlaug would hear nothing more. Then came the fishermen, then the merchants and captains, and last of all, on the first Sunday, the sailors. It must have been by agreement, for in the evening, just at one time, the house was so overflowing with people that not only were both rooms full, but the tables and chairs that stood in the garden in summer, had to be brought in, and set in the passages, in the kitchen, in the back room. No one who saw this assembly would suspect the feeling with which the people were sitting there; for the very moment that they crossed her threshold, she had taken her quiet command over them, and the decision with which she dealt to each his due, kept down every inquiry, every welcome. She was the same; only her hair was no longer black, and her manner a little more quiet. But when their spirits began to rise, they could no longer contain themselves, and every time that Gunlaug and the girl went out of the room, they called out to Knud the Boatman, who had always been Gunlaug's favorite, to drink her health when she came back. But he did not get courage to do it, till he was a little warmer in the head; at last, however, when she came in to collect the empty bottles and glasses, he got up, and said, "That it was a right good thing she had come back;--for there wasn't the least doubt, that----that it was a right good thing she had come back!" The others thought it was very well said, and they rose up, and shouted: "Yes, it was a right good thing!" and they in the passage, and in the kitchen, and in the other rooms, also rose up to join in the decision; the boatman gave her the glass and cried, "Hurrah!" and the others shouted "Hurrah!" enough to lift the roof and carry it up to the skies. Soon one of them acknowledged that they had done her shameful injustice, then another swore to the same, and soon the whole house were condemning themselves that they had done her the most shameful wrong. When at last there was a lull, because they wanted a word from herself, Gunlaug said that she must thank them very much; "but," continued she, as she once more gathered up the empty bottles and glasses,--"as long as I don't mention it, you needn't do so." When she; had gathered up what she could carry, she went out and came in again for the remainder, and from that hour, she held undisputed sway.