The Fisher Girl

by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson

XI.

[RECONCILIATION.]

From that day the dean was very little with his family; for one thing, he was occupied with Christmas, and for another, he had not arrived at any conclusion, whether or not the drama was lawful for the Christian; if Petra but showed herself, he fell into a revery.

While the dean therefore was sitting in his study either with his sermons or some work on Christian ethics before him, Odegaard was with the ladies, whom he was constantly comparing. Petra was versatile, never alike; he who would follow her, must study as in a book. Signe, on the contrary, was so winning in her unvarying cordiality, her movements were never unexpected; they were the reflection of her being. Petra's voice had all colours, sharp and mild, and every intermediate grade. Signe's possessed a peculiar harmony, but was not changing--except to the father, who understood to distinguish its tones. Petra was with one at a time; if she were with more, it was to observe, certainly not to help. Signe had an eye to all and everybody, and divided her attention without its being observed. If Odegaard spoke about Signe with Petra, he heard a hopeless lover's complaint; but if he talked about Petra with Signe, the words were very few. The girls often talked together, and without constraint; but it was only upon indifferent subjects.

To Signe, Odegaard owed a debt of gratitude; for it was to her he owed, what he called his "new self." The first letter he received from her in his great distress, was like a gentle touch upon his forehead. So carefully she told how Petra had come to them, misunderstood and persecuted, so delicately she added, that the accident of her arrival might be the guidance of God, "that nothing should be rent in pieces;" it sounded like a distant horn in the forest, as one stands and wonders which direction to take.

Signe's letters followed him where he travelled, and were the thread he held by. She thought in every line to lead Petra straight to his embrace, but in reality she was doing just the opposite; for through these letters, Petra's taste for art rose up before him; the key note to her talents, which he had sought for himself in vain, Signe, without knowing it, had constantly in view,--and as soon as he understood this, he saw both his own and her mistake, and thereby became as a new man.

He watched himself narrowly in writing to Signe about that which her letters had taught him. The first word must not come from Petra's friends, but from Petra herself, that nothing should be hastened before its time. But now he also saw Petra in a new light. These moments constantly chasing one another, each one individually felt in full power, but regarded ad infinitum, opposed to each other, what could they be but the foreshadowing of an artist life? And the work must be to unite them into a complete whole; otherwise it would be only patchwork, and life itself unreal. Therefore: not too early to enter upon her career! Reticence as long as possible, yes even opposition.

Thus occupied, before he was aware of it, Petra had once more become the constant occupation of his mind, but with a DIFFERENT object. He studied art from every point of view, and especially artists, most of all, the artists of the stage. He saw much to appall a Christian, he saw the enormous abuses, but did he not see the same around him, even in the church itself? Though there were hypocritical ministers, the calling was still the same, great, eternal. If the search after truth wherever begun, gains power in life and poetry, should it not also reach the stage? Having assured himself on this point, he was glad to see from Signers letters, that Petra was developing her mind, and that Signe was the right one to help her. And now he had returned to see and thank the gentle guide, who knew not herself what she was to him.

But he had also come to see Petra again. How far had she got now? The word had been spoken, he could therefore talk freely with her about it; this was a relief to both, for thus they spoke not of the past.

In the meantime they were interrupted by guests from town, invited and uninvited! The affair was already so far advanced, that a single well employed opportunity must make all clear,--and this the guests brought with them. A large party was invited to meet them, and when after dinner, the gentlemen were together in the study, the conversation turned upon the stage; for a chaplain had seen a work on Christian ethics open upon the dean's table, and his eye had caught the appalling word: Theatre. This led to a hasty discussion, in the midst of which the dean entered; he had not been present at dinner, having been called away to a dying bed; he was very serious, and neither ate, nor took any part in the conversation; but he filled his pipe and listened. As soon as Odegaard observed this, he joined in the conversation himself, but for a long time he tried in vain to explain his views, for the chaplain had a habit of exclaiming every time a link in the chain of evidence was about to be adduced: "I deny it!" and then that which was about to be a proof, must itself be proved; consequently the matter was always going backwards; from the theatre, they had already passed to navigation, and now to get something proved in that, they were just going over to agriculture.

This was too much, so Odegaard elected himself chairman. There were several ministers present besides the chaplain, there was also a captain, a little swarthy man, with an immense abdomen, and a pair of small legs that went stumping one after the other. Odegaard called upon the chaplain to state his objections to the theatre. He began:

"Good men of even heathen times were opposed to the drama, Plato, Aristotle, because it was ruinous to morals. Socrates it is true, sometimes visited the theatre, but if any one concludes from that, that he approved of it, I deny it; one must see much of which one does not approve. The early Christians were expressly warned against the play, vide Tertullian, and since the revival of the drama in later times, earnest Christians have spoken and written against it, I name such men as Spener and Francke; I name a writer on Christian ethics, as Schwarz, I name Schleiermacher. ('Hear! hear!' cried the captain, for this name he knew.) The two latter admit dramatic representations to be allowable, and Schleiermacher even thinks that in a private company and by amateurs, a good play may be performed, but he condemns the actors on the stage. As a profession, it presents so many temptations to the Christian, that he MUST avoid it. And is it not also a temptation to the spectator? To be moved by fictitious suffering, to be elevated by a fictitious paragon of virtue, such (which in reading one can better defend oneself from,) entice us to believe, that we are ourselves what we see before us, our energy and force of will are weakened by it, it drags us down into the mere wish to see and hear, making us visionary. Is it not so? Who are the frequenters of the theatre? Idlers in search of amusement, voluptuaries who will be stimulated, vain people who wish to be seen, visionaries who flee hither to escape the actual life against which they dare not contend. Sin behind the curtain, sin before it! I have never heard sincere Christians say anything else."

The Capt.: "I am beginning to tremble for myself; if I have been in such a den of wolves each time I have attended the theatre, the devil----" "Fie captain," said a little girl who had come in with them, "you mustn't swear, or else you'll go to hell!"--"Aye my child, yes, yes."--Then Odegaard rose to speak:

"Plato raised the same objections against poetry as against the stage, and Aristotle's opinion is doubtful,--therefore I will leave them alone. The early Christians did well to abstain from the HEATHEN play,--I will also leave them alone. That earnest Christians in modern times should have their scruples about the theatre, I can well understand; I have had them myself. But if one admits that a poet has liberty to write a drama, then an actor has liberty to play it, for in writing, what other does a poet do than play it--in his thoughts, with ardour, with passion, and 'whosoever looketh after a woman to lust after her,' &c.--you know the words of Christ Himself. When Schleiermacher says, that the drama may only be played privately and by amateurs, it is the same as to assert, that the talents God has given us, shall be neglected, whereas the meaning really is, that they shall be developed to the highest possible perfection; and to this end have we received them. We are all acting every day, when we imitate others in joke or earnest. Where, in any single instance these powers outweigh all others, I really wonder if such a one ceased to cultivate them, if it would not soon be shown that THIS was sin. For he who does not follow his proper calling, becomes unfit for another, leads an unsettled wavering life,--in short becomes a far easier prey to temptation. Where work and inclination fall together, much temptation is locked out. Now if you say the calling is in itself too full of temptation, well, every one feels it differently. To ME that calling possesses the greatest temptation that dupes one to believe he is righteous himself, because he bears the commands of the Righteous,--dupes him to believe he himself is believing, because he speaks to the belief of others, or more plainly said: 'To me the ministerial calling has the greatest temptation of all.'" (Great uproar: I deny it! Yes! Silence! I deny it! It's true! Silence!) The Captain: "Well I never heard before that the pulpit was worse than the stage!" Laughter and cries from all: "No, he never said it was." Captain: "Yes, the deuce----" "No, no, captain, the devil will be coming!"--"Well, my child, well, well!" And Odegaard took up the thread:

"All the temptation of being excited in a moment, of sinking down into the mere wish to see and hear, of taking the models of virtue, and without trouble appropriating their life as ours, this verily is also present in the church!" (The same clamour again.)

The ladies could no longer hear this uproar, without finding out what it was. Now the door was open. Odegaard seeing Petra among them, said with emphasis: "It is true there are actors who get excited upon the stage, then rush to church, and get excited there,--and still they are the same. But in general actors, in common with seamen, are so often placed in the direst extremity, (for the moment before they enter must be awful!) and so often come face to face with the great, the unexpected, are so often called to be instruments in the hands of the Lord, that they bear in their hearts a fear and longing, a strong feeling of unworthiness; and this we know, that Christ preferred to be with publicans and penitent women. I give them no charter; verily the greater their work, the greater their guilt if their work leads them into rashness, or degenerates into loose frivolity. But as there is no actor, who has not learnt, by a series of disappointments how worthless applause and flattery is, although the most behave as though believing in it,--in the same way we see their mistakes and faults, but we do not know so well their own relation to them, and on that it depends--considered from a Christian point of view."

Several rose, and began to speak all together, but--

"Fourteen years surely I must have been--"

sounded in from the piano, and they streamed into the room; for it was Signe who was singing, and Signe's Swedish melodies and the way in which she sang them, were most delightful. One song followed another, and as the first melodies of the land, faithful messages from the heart of a great people, had had an elevating effect, and they were now standing in anticipation, Odegaard rose and asked Petra to recite a poem. She must have been conscious of it, for her face was crimson. She stepped forward at once,--though she trembled so that she was obliged to hold fast by the back of a chair,--turned very pale and began:--

He could not get leave to go to sea,

His mother was weak, his father was old,
The farm was increasing a hundred fold:--
"Why should he with the Vikings roam?
Here he has all he can wish for at home."

But the youth in the clouds, as they onward sped,

Saw armèd hosts to the battle led;
And the youth would pine when he saw the sun,
'Twas the King in state after victories won.
He pondered the sagas of ancient days,
He forgot his work in the Vikings' praise.

There came a morning, away went he,

To the outermost isle by the open sea,
To see the breakers come dashing in,
And list to the distant battle's din.
It was a day in the early spring,
When the voice of the storm is on the wing:
"Earth shall not ice-bound slumber longer!"--

A sight he saw,--his will grew stronger.
They lay a ship, in a steel grey cove,

Resting after a stormy raid,--
In sooth she seemed better inclined to rove,
Though her sail was bound and her anchor laid,
For the sail and the mast were going to and fro,
And the vessel was frothing scum with her bow.

On board they were having a little rest,

To eat and to sleep was their present behest;--
Up from the cliff they heard one calling,
--The words of a fool they seemed, thus falling,--
"Dare no one steer in a storm so strong,
Then give me the rudder;--ah! I long!"

Some looked up to the rocky brow,

Others nor cared to see just now; None of them rose from the mid-day fare, Down came a stone and felled two men there.

Up they sprang from deck and cheer,

Threw down the platters,--seized bow and spear;
Up whizzed the arrows,--while unprepared
He stood on the cliff and his will declared:
"Chieftain with grace wilt yield thy vessel,
Or longest thou first to strive and wrestle?"

To listen to such was but time to waste,

In answer a spear was hurled in haste,

It hit him not; and calmly he said:

"None wait for me in the halls of the dead,
But thou who afar the sea hast ploughèd
Canst hasten home, or hie thee thither.--
All that under thee thou hast bowèd
Must pass to me; so came I hither!
For me thou gatheredst, to me it falleth;
My time hath come, for me it calleth."

The other laughed from his height in scorn:

"Verily if thou indeed so longest,
Come prove thee to be my warrior strongest!"
"That can I not, I'm a chieftain born.
I must command for I know my way;
The new can never the old obey."

But for the answer in vain he listened

Then down he sprang, his eyes they glistened:
"Ye warriors! your chieftain the duty owes
To prove to whom Odin his favour shows.
Then heroes! serve ye the one he aideth.
Shame to him that his yoke evadeth!"

Red in wroth grew the chieftain's face;

Sprang in the sea and swam to land;
The other leapt hastily down to the strand
And took him up in his strong embrace.

But the chieftain saw in the light of his eyes,

That his soul was of noble and lofty guise.
"Throw him arms across for none he weareth,"
On board he cried;--"if the day beareth
Thee victory, say that himself he gave
The sword that brought him a hasty grave."

The struggle waxed warm on the mountain side,

Each blow fell back with an echoing bomb;--
The wrothful "Dragon" snuffed in her fume,
Felled was her champion in his pride.

There rent a scream the mountains o'er,

Each man would revenge the mighty wrong;
From stem to stem there rose a throng,
And soon they stood on the rocky shore.
Then up the dying man swung his hand
To give amongst them his last command:
"A man must fall when his work is done;
The end of a hero song is grand;
Make him your chieftain,--a worthy one."
His lips grew white, his strength was past,
They hastened up as he breathed his last;
For him was a place of honour stored,
Thereto he pointed,--at Odin's board.

The new commander made no delay,

He sprang on a stone and the order gave:
"First raise a mound o'er the hero's grave,
And mind ye the noble deeds of his day.
But e'er the night shall the anchor be weighed,
Nor e'en by the dead must our journey be stayed."

The beacon was raised, the sail was spread,

The Dragon soon over the waters sped;
A song of remembrance clang o'er the wave
To him they had left in the island grave,--
An ode of welcome rang in the ear
Of the youth who stood at the helm to steer.

And just as his home was near in view,

And all were rushing down to the strand,
With cries of wonder to see the hand
That was steering Oger's sea-worthy shoe,--
Fell the evening sun upon sail and shield,
And red o'er the height by the battle field.

The vessel he steered so near the land,

That frightened they cried: "The ship will strand!"
He turned her round with a lurch and heave,
And he smiled upon them: "Now have I leave?"

The poem was said tremblingly, solemnly, without a trace of affectation. They stood as if a ray had shot up among them from the earth, in all the splendours of the rainbow. No one spoke, no one moved;--but the captain could no longer control himself, he sprang up, puffed, stretched himself, and said: "Well I don't know how it is with you; but when I am taken in this way, the deuce take me if--"--"Captain, there you swore again," said the little girl, and held up her finger threateningly; "the devil will come this very hour and take you!"--"Well, it is all the same my child, let him come, for now I must, the deuce take me, must have a patriotic song!" And so he began with a voice so terrific, that one would have thought the great stomach gave pressure as organ bellows--and the rest with him:--

I will watch our land,
I will build up our land

I will further its cause in my prayers, in my home,

I will increase its gains,
And its wants seek with pains

From the boundary out to the driving sea foam.

There is sunlight enough,
There are corn fields enough,

If we pull but together there's plenty of stuff.

Midst the labour and strife
There's poetical life

To raise up our land if our love's strong enough.

To search and to save
We went far o'er the wave,

In the countries around rise our watch towers of yore;

But our ensign to-day
Waveth further away,

And it waveth in vigour as never before.

And our future is great,
For the three cloven state

Shall be joinèd again, shall herself be once more.

Then whate'er you can spare
Let the neediest share,

And a gathering river shall treasure the store.

Scandinavia's ours,
And we'll value her powers,

What she was, what she is, what she shall be again,

And as love has its birth
In the dear homely earth,

From the seed corn of love shall she spring up again.

Signe came and put her arm round Petra, and drew her into the study where no one was. "Really," she said, "you have so captivated me that I must:----Petra, shall we be friends again!"--"Oh, Signe, then at last you forgive me!"--"Yes, now I can, however things turn! Petra, do you not love Odegaard?"--"Heavens, Signe!"--"Petra! I have thought it from the very first day,--and now at last he has come to----All that I have thought and done for you in these two and a half years has been with this in view, and father has thought the same; I believe he has already spoken to Odegaard about it."--"But Signe----!" "Hush," she put her hand to Petra's lips and ran away, there was some one calling; it was tea time.

There was wine on the table, as the dean had been absent from dinner; he had been very grave all the afternoon, and now sat as though no one were present, till they were about to leave the table, when he tapped on his wine glass, and said: "I have a betrothal to announce!"--Every one looked at the young girls who were sitting together, and these neither of them knew whether to fall from their chairs or remain seated.

"I have a betrothal to announce," repeated the dean, as though he found it difficult to proceed. "I must confess that at first it was not just what I wished."--All the guests looked at Odegaard in astonishment, and their amazement knew no bounds when they saw him sitting quietly looking at the dean.--"To speak plainly, I thought that he was not worthy of her."--The guests here became so embarrassed that no one dare longer look up, and as the girls had not ventured to do so at all, the dean had but one face to talk to, and that was Odegaard's, who meanwhile was enjoying perfect composure. "But now," continued the dean, "now, when I have learnt to know him better, it has ended in my doubting whether she is worthy of HIM, so noble does he appear to me; for it is Art, the great dramatic Art betrothed to Petra, my foster daughter, my dear child; may it go well with you! I tremble at the thought, but that which belongs together must go together. God be with you, my daughter!" In a moment she was in his arms.

As no one sat down again, the whole company naturally left the table. Petra went up to Odegaard, who drew her into the furthest window; he had something to say to her now, but she must first say: "I owe it all to you!"--"No, Petra; I have been only a kind brother; it was a great sin of mine that I wished to be more; for if it had happened it would have hindered your whole career."--"Odegaard!" They held each other's hands, but did not look up; a moment after, he left her.

The day following Odegaard left the deanery.

---

Just after Christmas, Petra received a letter with a large official seal; she felt quite nervous and took it in to the dean to open. It was from the magistrate in her native town, and read thus: "Whereas Pedro Ohlsen, who yesterday departed this life, has left a will as follows:

'That which I leave behind me, which is exactly noted down in the account book, that is in the blue chest, standing in my room at Gunlaug Aamund's on the bank, and of which the said Gunlaug has the key, even as she alone knows the whole matter,--I wish,--if she, Gunlaug Aamund, gives her mind thereto, which she need not do unless she likes, to fulfil the condition which I have named, which she alone who is the only one who knows it, can fulfil,--that it should pass to Miss Petra, daughter of the said Gunlaug Aamund, that is to say, if Miss Petra thinks it worth while to remember a decrepit old man, to whom she has done good though she did not know it, as she could not do, and who has been his only comfort in his last years, wherefore he has thought to give her a little joy in return, which she must not despise. God be merciful to me a sinner.

Pedro Ohlsen.'

I beg to ask if you will communicate with your mother respecting it, or you wish me to do it."

The next mail brought a letter from the mother, written by Pastor Odegaard, the only one in whom she dare now confide; it contained the information that she was willing to fulfil the requirement, namely to inform Petra who Pedro was.

This information and the legacy gave Petra a peculiar feeling; it seemed as if everything were now putting itself to rights; it was another reminder of her departure.

Then it was for her artist life that old Peer Ohlsen had fiddled his money together at weddings and dances, and son and grandson in different ways, by little and little added thereto. The sum was not great but it was sufficient to bring her further out into the world, and thus more quickly forward.

The thought rose as sunshine before her, that now she could repay her mother, her mother should come to her, every day she could give her some happiness. She wrote a long letter to her every post day, she could scarcely wait for the answer, and when it came it was a bitter disappointment, for Gunlaug thanked her, but observed, "that each was best in his own place." Then the dean promised to write, and when Gunlaug got his letter, she could no longer contain herself, she must tell her sailors and other acquaintances, that her daughter was going to be something great, and wanted her to go to her. Thus the matter became a very important topic in the town, it was discussed on the quay, in the boats, and in all kitchens. Gunlaug, who up to this time had never named her daughter, now spoke of nothing but "my daughter Petra," even as no one spoke of anything else to her.

But still though it grew near to the time of Petra's departure, Gunlaug had not given her consent, which grieved the daughter much. It was expressly promised her on the contrary, both by the dean and Signe, that they would be present when she should make her first appearance.

The snow began to disappear from the mountains, the fields to grow a little green. She had only a few more days at the deanery, and she and Signe went round and bade farewell to all and everything,--especially to the places they mutually held dear. Then they were informed by a peasant, that Odegaard was up at Oygarene, and would soon be coming down to them. The girls both grew very shy, and ceased to go out.

When Odegaard came, he was lighthearted and happy as never seen before. His errand in the district was to establish a free high school, and at first, till he got a teacher, he meant to conduct it himself; afterwards he would carry out other plans. In this way he would repay he said, some of the debt his father owed to the district,--and his father had promised to come to him as soon as the house was ready. It was to be near the deanery. The dean, as well as Signe, was exceedingly pleased at the prospect; Petra too, but she felt it a little strange, that he should settle down there just as she was leaving.

The dean wished that the day before Petra's departure they should partake of the Lord's supper together. So a quiet solemnity fell over the last days, and when they spoke it was in a half whisper. In these days the dean never passed by Petra without stroking her hair, and at the holy ceremony in church, at which with the exception of an officiating clergyman and the sexton, there were none present but themselves, he spoke particularly to her, and spoke as he would do at their own table on a birthday or holiday. It would now soon be shown, he said, whether the time that in prayer for Divine grace she this day brought to a close, had laid a good foundation. No man's life is really perfected before he reaches his right vocation. Our work is revealed to us, and he who comes with truth, and holds himself worthy, will reap the greatest and most lasting harvest. It is true the Lord often makes use of the unworthy also, even as in a higher sense we are all unworthy. He makes use of our longings. But there is a vocation that no man can discover from his longings alone, and that he supposed she was aiming at; every one must strive to reach the highest. He bade her come frequently to see them, for it is the intention of the church that companionship in faith should help and strengthen. If she had erred, she would here always meet with sympathy, and if she herself understood not that she had strayed, they would most affectionately tell her.

The next day at the parting meal, he bade her the most tender farewell, "He was of her friend's opinion," he said, "that she ought to begin her career ALONE. In the struggle she would meet, she would find that it was good to know, that in one place there lived a few on whom she could rely; only to know with certainty that they were constantly PRAYING for her,--she would see that it would help!"--After the adieu to Petra, he turned with a welcome to Odegaard. "To be united in love to one and the same is the most beautiful introduction to love one another." The dean certainly never thought in this greeting, of that which first made Signe red, then Petra; and if Odegaard; they did not know, for neither of them ventured to look at him.

But when the horses were at the door, and the three friends stood around the young girl, and all the servants round the carriage, Petra whispered, as for the last time she embraced Signe: "I know I shall soon hear important news from you; may God bless it!"

An hour after she saw only the white pinnacles that showed where the place lay.