The Fisher Girl

by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson

When Petra withdrew her eyes, everything in the room seemed hallowed by the scene without; it was pure and light,--a frame of flowers for a magnificent picture. She felt surrounded by some unseen presence, observing her deportment, yea, even her thoughts; she went round the room, without being conscious of doing so, and touched the things. Suddenly she caught sight of the life size portrait of a lady smiling down upon her from over the sofa, facing the light. She was sitting with her head a little to one side, and folded hands, her right arm rested on a book, on the back of which, in distinct letters, was inscribed: "Sabbath Hours." Her light hair and fair complexion, shed radiance, imparting a Sabbath peace to all around her. Her smile was grave, but the gravity was affection. She seemed as though she could draw everyone to her in love; she seemed to understand all, for in everything she saw only the good. Her countenance bore traces of delicacy, perhaps this delicacy had been her strength, for there could be no one who dare abuse it. A wreath of everlastings hung above the frame; she was dead.

"That was my mother," she heard softly behind her, and she turned,--it was the daughter, who had gone out and now came in again. The whole room, seemed as it were, filled with the portrait, everything was adapted to it, and the daughter was its quiet reflection; she seemed a little more silent, a little more reserved. The mother received the glance of all, and gave hers fully in return, the daughter bent hers down, but in both there was the same peace and mildness. She had also her mother's figure, but without a trace of weakness,--on the contrary, the bright colours in her tight-fitting dress, in her apron, and little silk neckerchief fastened with a Roman pin, cast a glow of freshness over her face, and yielded a charm, which made her at once the daughter of the portrait, and the nymph of the place. As she was walking there among the mother's flowers, Petra felt a strong drawing towards her; in the presence of such a woman, and in such a place, everything good must grow;--dare she but step within! She now doubly felt her loneliness; her glance followed Signe incessantly, Signe felt it and tried to evade it, but it did not help, she felt embarrassed, and stooped down over the flowers. At last Petra discovered her impropriety, she felt ashamed, and would have apologised, but there was something in the neatly arranged hair, the fine forehead, and the dress, that bade her be cautious. She looked up at the mother; her, she could already have embraced! Was it not as if she were bidding her welcome. Dare she believe it? No one had ever looked thus at her before; it seemed to say that she knew all that had happened to the wayfarer, and would yet forgive her. Forbearance, she stood in need of, and she could not take her eyes from this benevolent glance,--she put her head to one side, like the portrait, she folded her hands like it, and almost without knowing it, she exclaimed: "Oh let me stay here!" Signe rose and turned towards her, she could not answer for amazement. "Do let me stay here!" begged Petra again, advancing a step towards her: "It is delightful!" and her eyes filled with tears.

"I will ask my father to come," said the young lady. Petra watched her till she passed within the study door, but as soon as she was alone, she was afraid at what she had done, and she trembled when she saw the dean's astonished face at the door. He came a little better dressed than before, and with a pipe in his mouth; he held fast hold of it, taking it from his lips at every whiff, and emitting the smoke in three puffs, each with a little smack; he repeated this two or three times, as he stood before Petra in the middle of the floor, not looking at her, but as if waiting for her to speak. She dare not before this man repeat her request; he looked so austere. "You wish to stay here?" he asked, and he gave her a quick bright side glance. Her terror made her voice tremble a little: "I have no place to go to."--"Where are you from?" In a low tone she gave the town and her own name. "How did you get here?"--"I do not know, ... I am seeking ... I can pay for myself, ... I, ... Yes, I don't know," she could say no more for a minute, then she took fresh courage and continued: "I will do everything you tell me, if only I may stay here, and not have to go further ... and not have to ask any more." The daughter had followed her father in, but remained standing by the stove, where without looking up, she was fingering the dried rose leaves that lay there. The dean did not reply, one could only hear the puff of his pipe, as he looked alternately at her, Petra, and the portrait. Now the same thing may give two very different impressions: while Petra was praying that the portrait might influence him to lenience, he thought it whispered: "Protect our child; take no stranger in to her!"--He turned with a sharp side glance to Petra: "No, you cannot remain here!"

Petra turned pale, drew a deep heavy sigh looked round hesitatingly,--and then rushing into a side room, the door of which stood half open, she threw herself down beside a table, and gave full vent to her grief and disappointment! Father and daughter looked at each other; this lack of manners,--rushing into another room without a word, and then sitting down by herself, was only a counterpart of her former proceeding,--coming in from the road, begging to stay with them, and bursting into tears when she did not get permission. The dean went after her, not to speak to her, but to shut the door. He came back quite flushed, and said in a subdued tone to the daughter, who was still standing by the stove: "Have you ever seen her equal?--Who is she? What is her object?"--The daughter did not at once reply, and when she answered it was in a still more subdued tone than the father's.--"She goes the wrong way about, but there is something very remarkable in her."--The dean paced up and down, looking towards the door; at last he stopped and whispered: "She cannot be altogether in her right mind?"--and as Signe did not answer, he came nearer and repeated more decidedly: "She must be crazy, Signe, half-witted; that is the remarkable about her."--"I don't think so;" replied Signe, "but she is certainly very unhappy," and she bent down over the dried rose leaves with which she was still toying.

The tone of the voice, as well as the movement would have been in no way striking to another; but it changed the father at once, he walked a few times up and down, looking at the portrait; at last he said, very slowly: "You mean, because she looks unhappy,--that mother would have bidden her stay?"--"Mother would not have given any answer for two or three days," whispered the daughter, bending lower over the roses. The gentlest reminder of her up there, when the daughter brought it thus before him, could make that hairy lion head as mild and gentle as a lamb's. He felt the truth at once, and stood like a school boy caught in a trick; he forgot to smoke and walk up and down, and after a long time he whispered: "Should I bid her remain a few days?"--"You have already answered her."--"Yes, but it is one thing to receive her altogether, and another to let her stay here a few days."--Signe seemed to be pondering the matter, and said at last, "Do as you think best." The dean would prove the matter yet once more, as he paced the room again, smoking hard. At last he stopped: "Will you go in, or shall I?"--"It will certainly do most good if you go," said the daughter and looked mildly up.

He was just going to turn the door handle, when a loud peal of laughter was heard from within,--then silence and again another roar. The dean, who had turned back, went forward again, the daughter after him; for there must be something the matter with the one in there.

When the door opened, they saw her sitting just where they had left her, but with a great book open before her, over which she had thrown herself without knowing it. Her tears had trickled down on to its leaves; she observed it, and was about to dry them, when her eye caught sight of an expression of the juicy sort, which she remembered from the street days of her childhood, but which she had never thought to see in print. In her amazement, she forgot to weep, but buried herself in the book,--what an absurd book it was!--She read with open mouth, it grew worse and worse, so low, but so irresistibly amusing, that it was impossible to give up, she must read on; she read, till she forgot all else, she read away both sorrow and hunger, both time and place--with old Father Holberg, for him it was. She laughed, she roared--even now when the pastor and his daughter were standing over her, she did not observe how grave they were, she never thought of her request, but laughed and asked: "Whatever is this, whatever in the world is this?" and she turned to the title page.

Then she grew pale, looked up at them, and down again in the book at the well-known characters; there are things that strike the heart like a cannon ball, things that we believed to be hundreds of miles away, we see straight before us,--here on the first page was written: "Hans Odegaard." Blushing crimson she cried: "Is the book his,--is he coming here?" she got up.--"He has promised to do so," answered Signe,--and now Petra remembered, that there was a minister's family in Bergen's shire, whom he had met abroad.--She had travelled only in a circle, she had come just in his path. "Is he coming directly? Perhaps he is here now?" she would at once fly further.--"No, he is ill," said Signe.--"Yes, that is true, he is ill," said Petra, painfully, and sank down.

"But tell me," exclaimed Signe, "is it possible you can be----?" "The Fisher Girl!" put in the pastor. Petra looked up entreatingly at them. "Yes, I am the Fisher Girl," she said.

But her they knew quite well; for Odegaard had talked of nothing else. "That is another matter," said the dean,--he perceived there was something wrong, needing a little friendly help;--"stay here as long as you will, we shall help you!" Petra looked up in time to see the warm look Signe gave him in thanks; this did her so much good, that she went across, and took both Signe's hands, saying, though bashfully: "As soon as we two are alone, I will tell you all!"