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                                  THE

                              FISHER GIRL


                                   BY

                         BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON.



                     TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN


                                   BY

                     SIVERT AND ELIZABETH HJERLEID.


                       (_Translators of Ovind._)



                                LONDON:
                            TRÜBNER AND CO.

                                 1871.

[_Entered at Stationers' Hall._]




                         TRANSLATORS' PREFACE.


Encouraged by the general appreciation with which our former
translation "Ovind" was received last winter, we now offer to the
English reader what we believe to be a faithful re-production of Herr
Björnson's latest work. The poems are rendered in the metre of the
original, and as in "Ovind" we have taken the liberty of adding
headings to the chapters.

North Ormesby,

      Middlesbrough,

            December, 1870.




                               CONTENTS.


                                CHAP. I.
   PEER, PETER, AND PEDRO.

                               CHAP. II.
   "SOME OTHER BOYS."

                               CHAP. III.
   READY FOR CONFIRMATION.

                               CHAP. IV.
   ONE AND ANOTHER.

                                CHAP. V.
   A MISTAKE.

                               CHAP. VI.
   THE SOUND OF THE CLOCK.

                               CHAP. VII.
   THE FIRST ACT.

                              CHAP. VIII.
   AT THE RURAL DEAN'S.

                               CHAP. IX.
   APPREHENSIONS.

                                CHAP. X.
   IS MUSIC LAWFUL?

                               CHAP. XI.
   RECONCILIATION.

                               CHAP. XII.
   THE SCENE.




                               CHAPTER I.

                        PEER, PETER, AND PEDRO.


When the herring has for a long time frequented a coast, by degrees, if
other circumstances admit of it, there springs up a town. Not only of
such towns may it be said, that they are cast up out of the sea, but
from a distance they look like washed-up timber and wrecks, or like a
mass of upturned boats that the fishermen have drawn over for shelter
some stormy night; as one draws nearer, one sees how accidentally the
whole has been built, mountains rising in the midst of the
thoroughfare, or the hamlet separated by water into three, four
divisions, while the streets crook and crawl. One condition only is
common to them all, there is safety in the harbour for the largest
ship; there is shelter and calm, and the ships find these enclosures
grateful, when with torn sails and broken bulwarks, they come driving
in from the North Sea to seek for breathing space.

Such a little town is quiet; all the noise there is, is directed to the
quay, where the boats of the peasants are moored, and the ships are
loading and unloading. The only street in our little town lies along
the quay, the white and red painted, one and two-storied houses follow
this, yet not house to house, but with pretty gardens in between;
consequently it is a long broad street, which, when the wind is
landward, smells of that which is on the quay.

It is quiet here,--not from fear of the police, for, as a rule, there
is none,--but from fear of report, as everybody knows everybody. If you
go along the street, you must bow at every window, for there sits an
old lady ready to bow again. Besides you must bow to those you meet,
for all these quiet people are thinking what is becoming to the
inhabitants in general, and to themselves in particular. He who
oversteps the bounds where his standing or position is placed, loses
his good reputation; for you know not only him, but his father and
grandfather and you seek out where there has been a tendency in the
family before to that which is unbecoming.

Many years since to this quiet little town came the well esteemed man,
Peer Olsen; he came from the country, where he had lived as a small
stall keeper and by playing the violin. In this town he opened a little
shop for his old customers, where besides other wares he sold brandy
and bread. One could hear him going backwards and forwards in the room
behind the shop, playing spring dances and wedding marches; every time
he passed the door he peeped through the glass pane, when, if he saw a
customer, he finished up with a trill, and went in. Trade went well, he
married and got a son, whom he named after himself, yet not Peer but
Peter. Little Peter should be what Peer felt HE was not, an educated
man, so the lad was sent to the Latin school. Now when those who should
have been his companions, thrust him out of their play because he was
the son of Peer Olsen, Peer Olsen turned him out to them again, as that
was the only way for the boy to learn manners. Little Peter, therefore,
feeling himself forsaken at the school, grew idle, and gradually became
so indifferent to everything, that his father could neither thrash
smiles nor tears out of him, so the father gave up struggling with him
and put him in the shop. How astonished then--was he not? when he saw
the lad give to each customer what he asked for, without a grain too
much, never even touching so much as a raisin himself preferring not to
talk, but weighing, counting, entering, without any change of
countenance, very slowly, but with scrupulous exactness. His father's
hopes began to revive, and he sent him with a fishing smack to Hamburg,
to enter a Merchant's College, and to learn fine manners; he was away
eight months, that must surely be sufficient. When he came back he had
provided himself with six new suits of clothes, and on landing he put
one suit on the top of another, for "things in actual wear are exempt
from duty." But thickness excepted, he made about the same figure in
the street next day. He walked straight or stiff with his arms
perpendicular, shook hands with a sudden jerk, and bowed as if without
joints to be at once stiff again; he had become politeness itself, but
everything was done without uttering a word, and quickly, with a
certain shyness. He did not sign his name Olsen any more, but Ohlsen,
which led the wits of the town to ask, "How far did Peter Ohlsen get in
Hamburg?" Answer: "As far as the first letter." He even went so far as
to think of calling himself Pedro, but he had to brook so much
annoyance for the h's sake, that he gave it up and signed himself P.
Ohlsen. He extended the business, and though only twenty-two, he
married a red-handed shop girl, for his father had just become a
widower, and it was safer to have a wife than a housekeeper. That day
year he got a son, who that day week was named Pedro. When worthy Peer
Olsen became a grandfather, he felt an inward calling to grow old.
Therefore he left the business to his son, sat outside upon a bench,
and smoked twist tobacco from a short pipe; and when one day he began
to grow tired of sitting there, he wished he might soon die, and even
as all his wishes had quietly been fulfilled, so also was this.

If the son Peter had inherited exclusively the one feature of his
father's character, aptitude for business, the grandson Pedro seemed to
have inherited the other exclusively--talent for music. He was very
slow in learning to read, but quick in learning to sing, and he played
the flute so exquisitely that one might easily perceive he was of a
refined and susceptible nature. But this was only a trouble to the
father, as if the boy should be brought up to his own busy exactness.
Then, when he forgot anything, he was not scolded nor thrashed as the
father had been, but he was pinched. It was done very quietly, and with
a kindness one might almost call polite, but it was done on every
possible occasion. Every night when she undressed him, the mother
counted the blue and yellow marks, and kissed them, but she offered no
resistance, for she was pinched herself. For every tear in his clothes,
(the father's Hamburg suits made up again,) for every blot on his
copy-book she was to blame. So it was constantly: "Don't do that,
Pedro!" "Take care, Pedro!" "Remember, Pedro!" He was afraid of his
father, and his mother wearied him. He did not suffer much from his
companions, as he cried directly, and begged them not to spoil his
clothes, so they called him, "Withered stick!" and took no more notice
of him. He was like a weak featherless duckling, limping after the
rest, and waddling to one side with the little bit he could catch for
himself, nobody shared with him, and therefore he shared with nobody.

But he soon observed that it was different with the poorer children of
the town; for they bore with him because he was better dressed than
themselves. The leader of the flock was a tall powerful girl, who took
him under her special protection. He never tired of looking at her, she
had raven black hair, all in one curl that was never combed except with
the fingers; she had deep blue eyes, short brow; the expression of her
face acted simultaneously. She was full of activity, and excitable; in
the summer, bare-footed, bare-armed, and sunburnt; in the winter, clad
as others in summer. Her father was a pilot and fisherman, she flew
about and sold his fish; she rigged his boat, and when he was out as a
pilot she went fishing alone. Every one who saw her turned to look
again, she was so self-reliant. Her name was Gunlaug, but she was
called "The Fisher Girl," a title she accepted as if by rank. In games
she took the weaker side; it was a necessity of her nature to have
something to care for, and now she cared for this delicate boy.

In her boat he could play his flute, that had been banished at home
because they fancied it drew his thoughts from his lessons. She rowed
him out into the fiord; then she took him with her on her longer
fishing expeditions; and by-and-bye also on the night fishing. At
sunset they rowed out into the light summer stillness, when he would
play his flute, or listen to her as she told him all she knew about the
mermen, dragons, shipwrecks, strange lands and black people, as she had
heard it from the sailors. She shared her viands with him as she shared
her knowledge, and he received all without giving anything in return,
for he had no provisions with him from home, and no imagination from
the school. They rowed till the sun went down behind the snowcapped
mountains, then they drew to shore on some rocky island, and kindled a
fire, i.e. she gathered branches and sticks, while he looked on. She
had bundled along a sailor's jacket of her father's and a rug for him,
and in these he was wrapped. She kept up the fire, while he fell
asleep; she kept herself awake by singing snatches of psalms and songs;
she sang in a full clear voice until he slept--then softly. When the
sun rose again on the other side, and as a harbinger, cast his pale
yellow rays before him over the mountains, she awoke him. The forest
was still black, the fields were dark, but changing to a brown red and
shimmering, until the ridge top glowed, and all the colours came
rushing. Then they pushed the boat in the water again, cut through the
waves in the sharp morning breeze, and were soon aground with the
fishermen.

When winter came and the fishing tours were given up, he sought her in
her own home; he often came and watched her while she worked, but
neither of them spoke much; it was as if they sat together and waited
for the summer. When summer came, however, this new object in life was
unfortunately also gone; Gunlaug's father died; she left the town, and,
at the suggestion of the schoolmaster, the lad was placed in the shop.
There he stood together with his mother, for his father, who little by
little had taken the colour of the grains he weighed, had to keep his
bed in the back room. From there he must yet take part in everything,
must know what each especially had sold, then appeared not to hear,
till he got them so near that he could pinch them. And one night when
the wick had become quite dry in this little lamp, it went out. The
wife wept without exactly knowing why, but the son could not pinch a
tear. As they had sufficient to live on, they gave up the business,
swept away every reminder, and converted the shop into a parlour. There
the mother sat in the window and knitted stockings; Pedro sat in the
room on the other side of the passage, and played his flute. But as
soon as the summer came he bought a light little sailing-boat, drove
out to the rocky island and lay where Gunlaug had lain.

One day as he was resting among the ling, he saw a boat steering
directly towards him; it drew up by the side of his, and Gunlaug
stepped out. She was exactly the same, only full grown and taller than
other women. Just as she saw him, she drew to one side a little quite
slowly; she had not thought about his being grown up too.

This pale thin face she did not know; it was no longer delicate and
fine; it was inanimate. But, as he looked at her, his eye caught a
brightness from the dreams of the past; she went forward again; with
every step she took, a year seemed to fall from off him, and when she
stood beside him, where he had sprung up, then he laughed as a child
and spoke as a child; the old face seemed like a mask over the child;
he was certainly older, but he was not grown.

Yet, though it was the child she was seeking, now, when she had found
it, she knew not what further to do; she smiled and blushed.
Involuntarily he felt, as it were, a power within him; it was the first
time in his life, and in the same minute he grew handsome; it lasted,
perhaps, scarcely a moment, but in that moment she was caught.

She was one of those natures that can only love that which is weak,
that they have borne in their arms. She had intended to be in the town
two days; she stayed two months. During these two months he developed
more than in all the rest of his youth; he was lifted so far out of
dreams and drowsiness as to form plans; he would leave, he would learn
to play! But when one day he repeated this, she turned pale; "Yes,--"
she said, "but we must be married first." He looked at her, she looked
wistfully again, they both grew fiery red, and he said: "What would
people say?"

Gunlaug had never thought over the possibility of his doing other than
agree to what she wished because she acceded to every wish of his. But
now she saw that in the depths of his soul he had never for a moment
thought of sharing anything else with her than what she gave. In one
minute she became conscious that thus it had been the whole of their
lives. She had begun in pity, and ended in love to that which she
herself had tended. Had she been composed but for a single moment!
Seeing her gathering wrath, he was afraid, and exclaimed: "I
will!"----She heard it, but anger over her own folly and his
paltriness, over her own shame and his cowardice, boiled up in such
fervid heat towards the exploding point, that never had a love
beginning in childhood and evening sun, cradled by the waves and
moonlight, led by the flute and gentle song, ended more wretchedly. She
seized him with both her hands, lifted him, and from the very depths of
her heart gave him a good sound thrashing, then rowed straight back to
town, and went direct over the mountains.

He had sailed out like a youth in love about to win his manhood, and he
rowed back as an old man to whom that was a thing unknown. His life
held but one remembrance, and that he had miserably lost, but one spot
in the world had he to turn to, and thither he never dare come again.
In pondering over his own wretchedness, how all this had really come
about, his energy sank as in a morass never to rise again. The boys of
the town, observing his singularity, soon began to tease him, and as he
was an obscure person whom no one rightly knew, either what he lived on
or what he did,--it never occurred to any one to defend him, and soon
he durst no longer go out, at all events, not into the street. His
whole existence became a strife with the boys, who were perhaps of the
same use as gnats in the heat of summer, for without them he would have
sunk down into perpetual drowsiness.

Nine years after, Gunlaug came to the town, quite as unexpectedly as
she had left it. She had with her a girl of eight years, just like
herself formerly, only finer, and as if veiled by a dream. Gunlaug had
been married, it was said, and having had something left her, had now
come to the town to establish a boarding house for seamen. This she
conducted in such a way, that merchants and skippers came to her to
hire their men, and sailors to get hired; besides, the whole town
ordered fish there. She was called "Fish-Gunlaug," or "Gunlaug on the
Bank"; the appellation "Fisher Girl" passed over to the daughter, who
was everywhere at the head of the boys in the town.

Her history it is that shall here be related; she had something of her
mother's natural power, and she got opportunity to use it.




                              CHAPTER II.

                           "SOME OTHER BOYS."


The many lovely gardens of the town were fragrant after the rain in
their second and third flowering. The sun had gone down behind the
everlasting snow-capped mountains, the whole heavens there away were
fire and light, and the snow gave a subdued reflection. The nearer
mountains stood in shade, but were lightened by the forests in their
many coloured tints of autumn. The rocky islands, that in the midst of
the fiord followed one after another, just as though rowing to land,
gave in their dense forests a yet more marked display of colours,
because they lay nearer. The sea was perfectly calm, a large vessel was
heaving landward. The people sat upon their wooden doorsteps, half
covered with rose bushes on either side; they spoke to each other from
porch to porch, or stepped across, or they exchanged greetings with
those who were passing towards the long avenue. The tones of a piano
might fall from an open window, otherwise there was scarcely a sound to
be heard between the conversations; the feeling of stillness was
increased by the last ray of sunlight over the sea.

All at once there rose up such a tumult from the midst of the town as
though it were being stormed. Boys shouted, girls screamed, other boys
hurrahed, old women scolded and ordered, the policeman's great dog
howled, and all the curs of the town replied; they who were in-doors
must go out, out; the noise became so frightful that even the
magistrate himself turned on his door-step, and let fall these words:
"There must be something up."

"Whatever is that?" assailed the ears of those who stood on the
doorsteps from others who came from the avenue.--"Yes, what can it be!"
they replied.--"Whatever can that be?" they now all of them asked
anyone who was passing from the centre of the town. But as this town
lies in a crescent shape in an easy curve round the bay, it was long
before all at both ends had heard the reply: "It is only the Fisher
Girl."

This adventurous soul, protected by a mother of whom all stood in awe,
and certain of every sailor's defence, (for, for such they got always a
free dram from the mother,) had, at the head of her army of boys,
attacked a great apple tree in Pedro Ohlsen's orchard. The plan of
attack was as follows: some of the boys should attract Pedro's
attention to the front of the house by clashing the rose bushes against
the window; one should shake the tree, and the others toss the apples
in all directions over the hedge, not to steal them--far from it--but
only to have some fun. This ingenious plan had been laid that same
afternoon behind Pedro's garden; but as fortune would have it, Pedro
was sitting just at the other side of the hedge, and heard every word.
A little before the appointed time, therefore, he got the drunken
policeman of the town and his great dog into the back room, where both
were treated. When the Fisher Girl's curly pate was seen over the plank
fencing, and at the same time a number of small fry tittered from every
corner, Pedro suffered the scamps in front of the house to clash his
rose bushes at their pleasure,--he waited quietly in the back room. And
just as they were all standing round the tree in great stillness, and
the Fisher Girl barefooted, torn, and scratched, was up to shake it,
the side door suddenly flew open and Pedro and the Police rushed out
with sticks, the great dog following. A cry of terror arose from the
lads, while a number of little girls, who in all innocence were playing
at "Last Bat," outside the plank fencing, thinking some one was being
murdered within, began to shriek at the top of their voices; the boys
who had escaped shouted hurrah! those who were yet hanging on the fence
screamed under the play of the sticks, and to make the whole perfect,
some old women rose up out of the depths, as always when lads are
screaming, and screamed with them. Pedro and the policeman, getting
frightened themselves, tried to silence the women; but in the meantime
the boys ran off, the dog, of whom they were most afraid, after them
over the hedge,--for this was something for him--and now they flew like
wild ducks, boys, girls, the dog and screams all over the town.

All this time the Fisher Girl sat quite still in the tree, thinking
that no one had observed her. Crouched up in the topmost branch,
through the leaves she followed the course of the fray. But when the
policeman had gone out in a rage to the women, and Pedro Ohlsen was
left alone in the garden, he went straight under the tree, looked up
and cried: "Come down with you this minute, you rascal!"--Not a sound
from the tree.--"Will you come down with you, I say! I know you are
there!"--The most perfect stillness.--"I must go in for my gun, and
shoot up, must I?" He made pretence to go.--"Hu-hu-hu-hu!" it answered
in owlish tones, "I am so frightened!"--"Oh to be sure you are! You are
the worst young scamp in the whole lot, but now I have you!"--"Oh dear!
good kind sir, I won't do it any more," at the same time she flung a
rotten apple right on to his nose, and a rich peal of laughter followed
after. The apple caked all over, and while he was wiping it off, she
scrambled down; she was already hanging on the plank fence before he
could come after her, and she could have got over if she had not been
so terrified that he was behind, that she let go instead. But when he
caught her she began to shriek; the shrill and piercing yell she gave
frightened him so that he let go his hold. At her signal of alarm, the
people came flocking outside, and hearing them she gained courage. "Let
me go, or I'll tell mother!" she threatened, her whole face flashing
fire. Then he recognised the face, and cried: "Your mother? Who is your
mother?"--"Gunlaug on the Bank, Fisher Gunlaug," replied the youngster
triumphantly; she saw he was afraid. Being near sighted, Pedro had
never seen the girl before now; he was the only one in the place who
did not know who she was, and he was not even aware that Gunlaug
was in the town. As though possessed, he cried: "What do they call
you?"--"Petra," cried the other still louder.--"Petra!" howled Pedro,
turned and ran into the house as if he had been talking to the devil.
But as the palest fear and the palest wrath resemble each other, she
thought he was rushing in for his gun. She was terror-stricken, and
already she felt the shot in her back, but as, just at this moment,
they had broken the door open from outside, she made her escape; her
dark hair flew behind her like a terror, her eyes shot fire, the dog
which she just met, followed howling, and thus she fell on her mother,
who was coming from the kitchen with a tureen of soup, the girl into
the soup, the soup on the floor, and a "Go to the dogs!" after them
both. But as she laid there in the soup, she cried: "He'll shoot me,
mother, shoot me!"--"Who'll shoot you, you rascal?"--"He, Pedro
Ohlsen?"--"Who?" roared the mother.--"Pedro Ohlsen, we took apples from
him," she never dare say anything but the truth.--"Who are you talking
about, child?"--"About Pedro Ohlsen, he is after me with a great gun,
and he'll shoot me!"--"Pedro Ohlsen!" fumed the mother, and with an
enraged laugh she drew herself up.--The child began to cry and tried to
escape, but the mother sprang over her, her white teeth glistening, and
catching her by the shoulder, she pulled her up.--"Did you tell him who
you were?"--"Yes!" cried the child, but the mother heard not, saw not,
she only asked again twice, three times:--"Did you tell him who you
were?"--"Yes, yes, yes, yes!" and the child held up her hands
entreatingly. Then the mother rose up to her full height:--"So he got
to know!--What did he say?"--"He ran in after a gun to shoot me."--"He
shoot you!" she laughed in the utmost scorn. The child, scared and
bespattered with soup had crept into the chimney corner, she was drying
herself and crying, when the mother came to her again:--"If you go to
him," she said, and took and shook her, "or speak to him, or listen to
him. Heaven have mercy upon both him and you! Tell him so from me! Tell
him so from me!" she repeated threateningly, as the child did not
answer directly, "Yes, yes, yes, yes!" "Tell him so from me!" she
repeated yet once more, but slowly, and nodding at every word as she
went.

The child washed herself, changed her dress, and sat out on the steps
in her Sunday clothes. But at the thought of the terror she had been
in, she began to sob again.--"What are you crying for, child?" asked a
voice more kindly than any she had heard before. She looked up; before
her stood a fine looking man, with high forehead and spectacles. She
stood up quickly, for it was Hans Odegaard, a young man whom the whole
town revered. "What are you crying for, my child?" She looked at him
and said that she had been going to take some apples from Pedro
Ohlsen's garden, together with "several other boys;" but then Pedro and
the policeman had come, and then--; she remembered that the mother had
made her uncertain about the shooting, so she durst not tell it; but
she gave a deep sigh instead.

"Is it possible," said he, "that a child of your age could think of
committing so great a sin?" Petra looked at him; she had known well
enough that it was sin, but she had always heard it denounced thus:
"You child of the devil, you black haired wretch!" Now, she felt
ashamed. "That you do not go to school and learn God's commandment to
us of what is good and evil!" She stood stroking her frock and
answered, that mother did not wish her to go to school.--"Perhaps you
cannot even read?" Yes, she could read. He took up a little book and
gave her. She looked in it, then turned it round to look at the
outside: "I cannot read such small print," she said. But she was
obliged to try, and she felt herself utterly stupid; her eyes and mouth
hung, all her limbs collapsed: "G-o-d, God the L-o-r-d, God the Lord
s-a-i-d, God the Lord said to M-M-M--"--"Dear me! Why you cannot even
read this! And a child of ten or twelve years? Would you not like to
learn to read?" By degrees she drawled out, that she would like it.
"Then come with me, we must begin at once." She rose, but only to look
in the house. "Yes, tell your mother," he said. The mother was just
passing, and seeing the child talking to a stranger, she came out upon
the doorstep. "He will teach me to read," said the child doubtfully,
with eyes fixed on the mother, who did not answer, but stood with
her arms on her side looking at Odegaard.--"Your child is an ignorant
one," he said, "you cannot answer to God or man, to let her go as she
does."--"Who are you?" asked Gunlaug sharply.--"Hans Odegaard, your
pastor's son." Her brow lightened a little, she had heard him highly
spoken of. He began again: "During the time I have been at home,
I have noticed this child, and to-day I have been again reminded
of her. She must not any longer be brought up only to that which
is useless."--What's that to you? the mother's face distinctly
expressed. Then he asked her quietly: "But you mean her to learn
something?"--"No."--He blushed slightly. "Why not?"--"People who have
learning are perhaps the better for it?" She had had but one experience
and this she held fast.--"I am astonished that any one can ask such a
thing!"--"Ah, but, I know they are not;" she went down the steps
to put an end to this nonsense. But he stepped in front of her:
"Here is a duty which you SHALL NOT pass by. You are a thoughtless
mother."--Gunlaug measured him from top to toe: "Who told you what I
am?" she said as she passed by him.--"You have just now done it
yourself, for otherwise you must have seen that the child is on the way
to be ruined."--Gunlaug turned, and her eye met his; she saw he meant
what he had said and she grew afraid. She had only had to do with
seamen and tradespeople; such language she had never heard before.
"What will you do with my child?" she asked.--"Teach her the things
belonging to her soul's salvation, and then see what she must be."--"My
child shall not be other than that I will she shall be."--"Yes she
shall; she shall be what God wills."--Gunlaug was silenced: "What is
that to say?" she said and came nearer.--"It is, that she must learn
what she is capable of by her natural abilities, for therefore has
God given them."--Gunlaug now drew quite near. "Then must not I direct
her, I, who am her mother?" she asked, as if she really wished to
learn.--"That you must, but you must respect the advice of those who
know better; you must listen to the will of God."--Gunlaug stood still
a moment. "But if she learnt too much," she said; "a poor man's child!"
she added and looked tenderly at her daughter.--"If she learns too much
for her station, she has thereby reached a higher one."--She quickly
saw his meaning, and said as if to herself, while she looked more and
more anxiously at the child: "But this is dangerous."--"The question is
not about that, he said mildly, but about what is right."--Her deep
eyes took a strange expression; she looked again piercingly at him; but
there lay so much of truth in his voice, words, countenance, that
Gunlaug felt herself defeated. She went across to the child, laid her
hand on her head, and could not speak.

"I shall read with her until she is confirmed," he said as if to help
her; "I wish to take this child in hand."--"And you will take her away
from me?"--He hesitated and looked at her inquiringly.--"You must
understand it better than I," she struggled to say; "but if it was not
that you named our Lord,"--she stopped; she had smoothed her daughter's
hair, and now she took a handkerchief and tied round her neck. She did
not say in any other way that the child should go with him, and she
hastened back into the house as if she wished not to see it.

This behaviour made him feel suddenly anxious at that which in his
youthful ardour he had taken upon himself. The child, too, was afraid
of the one who for the first time had overcome her mother, and so with
this natural fear they went to their first lesson.

From day to day, however, it seemed to him that she grew in wisdom and
knowledge, and at times his conversation with her, assumed of
themselves quite a peculiar tone. He often drew her attention to
characters in sacred and profane history in pointing out the CALLING
that God had given them. He would dwell upon Saul who was leading a
wild roving life, and upon a lad like David who was tending his
father's sheep, until Samuel came and laid the hand of the Lord upon
them. But the greatest calling of all, was when the Lord himself was
upon earth, when he stopped at the fishing village, and called, and the
poor fishermen arose and went--to poverty, as to death, but always
joyfully; for the feeling of a call carries through all adversities.

These thoughts followed her so, that at last she could bear these
things no longer, and asked him about her own calling. He looked at her
till she blushed, then answered her that we must reach our calling
through work; it may be modest and simple, but it is there for all.
Then she was seized with an eager zeal; it made her work with the power
of a grown person, it upset her play, she grew quite thin. She got
romantic longings; she would cut her hair, clothe herself like a boy,
and go out to battle. But as her teacher said one day that her hair was
beautiful if only it was nicely kept, she began to think much of it,
and for the sake of her long hair she sacrificed the name of a hero.

Afterwards it was more to her than before to be a girl, and her studies
went quietly on, canopied by changing dreams.




                              CHAPTER III.

                        READY FOR CONFIRMATION.


Hans Odegaard had gone out as a young man from the hamlet of Odegaard
in Bergen's shire; people had taken to him, and he was now a learned
man and a strict preacher. He was besides an influential man, not so
much in words as in deeds; for, as it was said, he "never forgot." This
man who by perseverance pushed everything through, was however stopped
in a way that he least expected, and where it was most painful.

He had three daughters and one son. Hans, the son, was the light of the
school, and it was his father's daily pleasure to prepare him himself.
Hans had a friend whom he helped to get the second place, and who
therefore, save his mother, loved him more than all the world. They
went together to school and to the university; they passed the two
first examinations together, and were then to study for the same
profession. One day as they were going joyfully down stairs after their
studies, Hans, in an outburst of high spirits and glee, threw himself
upon his companion's back, thereby causing him a fall, which some days
later ended in his death. When dying he begged his mother, who was a
widow, and now lost her only son, to fulfil his last request and take
Hans up in his place. Almost immediately after the mother died, but her
very considerable fortune was left to Hans Odegaard.

It was years before Hans could recover himself after this. A long tour
on the continent so far restored him, that he could resume his
theological studies; but on his return home, he could not be persuaded
to make use of his examinations.

The father's greatest hope had been to see him as his assistant in the
ministry, but he could not now be persuaded to enter the pulpit a
single time; he gave always the same reply: "he felt no calling:" this
was so bitter a disappointment to the father, that it made him several
years older. He had commenced late in life, and was already an old man;
he had worked hard, and always with this end in view. Now the son
occupied the largest part of the house, handsomely furnished, while
down below in his little study, by the lamp that lightened the night of
age, sat the hard-working old father.

After this disappointment, he neither could nor would take other help,
neither would he give in to his son, and relinquish altogether;
therefore, summer or winter, he knew no rest; but each year the son
took a longer tour abroad. When he was at home he associated with no
one, except that in silence, greater or less, he dined at his father's
table. If any began to converse with him, they were met by a superior
clearness and earnestness for the truth, that made them always feel the
conversation a little embarrassing. He never went to church, but he
gave more than half his income to benevolent objects, and always with
the most express injunctions as to its appropriation.

This beneficence was so different in its scale from the narrow customs
of the little town that it won the hearts of all. Add to this, his
reserve, his frequent journey abroad, the hesitation all felt in
conversing with him, and one can easily understand that he was regarded
as a mysterious being to which each added all possible qualities, and
his own best judgment. Therefore when he condescended to take the
Fisher Girl under his daily care, she was ennobled by it.

Every one, especially women, seemed anxious to show her some favour.
One day she came to him clad in all the colours of the rainbow; she had
put on her presents, thinking she would now be really to his taste, as
he always wished her to be neat. But he had scarcely glanced at her,
before he forbade her ever to receive presents; he called her vain,
foolish: her aims were shallow, she took pleasure in folly.

When she came next morning, with eyes that told a tale of weeping, he
took her with him a walk above the town. He told her about David in
such a manner that he took now this, now that incident, and made the
well-known story anew. First, he depicted him in his youth, beautiful
and rich in talent, and in child-like faith; how, while yet a boy, he
came with the triumphal procession. From a shepherd he was called to be
king, he dwelt in caves, but ended in building Jerusalem. When Saul was
ill, he came beautifully attired, and played and sang before him, but
when as king he himself was ill, he played and sang clad in the garb of
repentance. When he had achieved his great works, he took rest in sin,
then came the prophet and punishment, and he became a child again.
David, who could call the people of God to songs of praise, lay
contrite at the feet of the Lord. Was he most beautiful, when crowned
with victory he danced before the ark to his own songs, or when in his
private closet he begged for mercy from the punishing hand?

The night after this conversation Petra had a dream, which all her life
she never forgot. She sat upon a white horse and came in triumphal
procession, but, at the same time, in front of the horse, she saw
herself dancing in rags.

One evening some time after this, as she was sitting at the edge of the
forest above the town learning her lessons, Pedro Ohlsen, who since
that day in the garden had approached gradually nearer, passed close
by, and, with a singular smile, whispered: "Good evening!" Though more
than a year had passed by, her mother's injunction not to speak to him
was so strongly before her that she did not answer. But day after day
he went by in the same way, and always with the same greeting; at last
she missed him, when he did not come. Soon he asked a little question
in passing, by-and-bye it increased to two, and at last it was quite a
conversation. After such one day, he let a silver dollar slip down into
her lap, and then hastened away in delight. Now, if it was against the
mother's commands to talk to Pedro Ohlsen, it was against Odegaard's to
take gifts from any one. The first prohibition she had little by little
overstepped, but it came to her mind now, when it had led to her also
overstepping the second. To get rid of the money she got hold of some
one to treat; but, in spite of their best endeavours, they could not
eat more than the worth of four marks; and afterwards it troubled her
that she had misspent the dollar instead of giving it back. The mark
that still lay in her pocket felt so hot that it might have burned a
hole in her clothes; she took it and threw it into the sea. But she was
not rid of the dollar thereby; her thoughts were burnt by it. She felt
that, if she confessed, it might pass over, but her mother's fearful
rage before, and Odegaard's good faith in her, were each, in its own
way, alike alarming. Whilst the mother said nothing, Odegaard quickly
observed that there was something which made her unhappy.

One day he asked her tenderly what it was, and, as instead of
answering, she burst into tears, he thought they must be in want at
home and gave her ten specie dollars. It made a strong impression on
her that, although she had sinned against him, he yet gave her money,
and as into the bargain she could now give this openly to her mother,
she felt herself freed from her guilt, and gave herself up to the
greatest joy. She took his hand in both of hers, she thanked him, she
laughed, she jumped about, and smiled in ecstacy through her tears, as
she looked at him something in the way that a dog regards his master
when going out. He did not know her again; she who always sat wrapt in
what he was saying, now took all power from him; for the first time he
felt a strong, wild nature heaving within him, for the first time the
well of life sent her red streams over him, and he drew back all
crimson. Meanwhile Petra went out to run home over the hills behind the
town. Once there, she laid the money on the baking-stone before her
mother, throwing her arms round her neck. "Who has been giving you
money?" said the mother, vexed already.--"Odegaard, mother, he is
the greatest man upon earth."--"What am I to do with it?"--"I don't
know--heavens! mother, if you knew"--and she again threw her arms round
her neck; she could and she would now tell her all, but the mother
released herself impatiently: "Will you have me to take alms? Take the
money back at once. If you have made him believe I am in want, you have
lied!"--"But, mother?"--"Take the money to him, I say, or I shall go
myself and throw them at him, HIM who has taken my child from me!" The
mother's lips trembled after the last words. Petra turned back very
pale. She opened the door softly and glided out of the house. Before
she knew what she was about the ten specie notes were torn to pieces in
her fingers. When she found what she had done, she burst out in an
invective against the mother. But Odegaard must know nothing about it,
yes, he should know all! for to him she must not lie. A moment after
and she stood in his house, and told him that her mother would not take
the money, and that in her vexation at having to bring it back, she had
torn the notes in two. She would have told him more, but he received
her coldly, and told her to go home with the admonition to shew her
mother obedience, even where it felt hard to do so. This, however,
seemed strange to her, as she knew so much, that he did not do what the
father most desired! On her way home she was quite overcome, and just
then she met Pedro Ohlsen. She had shunned him all this time, and would
have done the same now, for from him came all this unhappiness, but he
followed her, and asked her, "Where have you been, has anything
happened to you?" The waves of her mind rose so high that they cast her
whithersoever they would, and, as she thought it over, she could not
understand why the mother should forbid her to have anything to do with
him; it could be only a fancy, the one as well as the other. "Do you
know what I have done?" he said, almost humbly, when she had stopped "I
have bought a sailing boat for you. I thought you might like to have a
sail," and he laughed. His kindness, which resembled a poor man's
entreaty, could touch her now; she nodded; he was in a great hurry and
whispered eagerly that she must go through the town, and down the
avenue to the right, till she came to the great yellow boat-house,
behind which he would come and fetch her; no one could see them there.
She went, and he came and took her in. They sailed along for some time
in the light breeze, then made for a rocky island, where they moored
the boat and got out. He had brought some nice things for her to eat,
and he took out his flute and played. In seeing his pleasure she forgot
her sorrows for a time, and the joy of weak people having a tendering
influence, she became attached to him.

After this day she had a new and continual secret from her mother, and
soon this had the effect of keeping everything from her. Gunlaug made
no inquiries, she believed everything till she doubted all.

But now Petra had also a secret from Odegaard, for she accepted many
gifts from Pedro Ohlsen; he likewise made no inquiries, but the lessons
were day by day conducted in a more distant manner. Petra was now
divided amongst three; she never spoke to any one of them about the
others, and she had something to hide from each in particular.

Under all this she had grown up without being aware of it herself, and
one day Odegaard communicated to her that she must now be confirmed.

This intimation filled her with uneasiness, for she knew that with the
confirmation her lessons were to cease, and what would then become of
her? The mother was having an attic chamber made for her, that after
the confirmation she might have a room of her own, and the constant
knocking and hammering was a painful reminder. Odegaard observed that
she grew more and more quiet, sometimes he saw also that she had been
weeping. Under these circumstances the religious instruction made a
great impression on her, although Odegaard with great care avoided all
that might excite or move her. For this reason a fortnight before the
confirmation, he gave up the lessons with the short intimation that
this was the last time. By this he meant the last with him; for he
would certainly watch over her still, though through others. She,
however, remained seated where she was, the blood left her veins, her
eyes remained fixed, and involuntarily moved, he hastened to give a
reason: "It is not all young girls that are grown up at their
confirmation; but you must be aware that it is so with you." If she had
stood in the glare of a great fire, she could not have been more fiery
red than she became at these words; her bosom heaved, her eyes took a
vague expression and filled with tears, and driven further he hastened
to say: "We may perhaps still go on?" He did not until after realise
what he had proposed; he was wrong, he must retract it; but her eyes
were already lifted towards him. She did not answer "yes" with her
lips, but more plainly it could not be said. To excuse himself in his
own eyes, by finding a pretext, he asked: "There will be something you
would especially like to do now, something you--" he bent down towards
her--"feel a calling to, Petra?"--"No," she replied so quickly that he
coloured, and as if chilled, fell back into the considerations which
for years had occupied his mind; her unexpected reply had recalled
them.

That she was possessed of some peculiar qualities, he had never doubted
from the time she was a child, and he saw her march singing at the head
of the street boys; but the longer he taught her, the less he felt to
understand her talent. It was present in every movement; what she
thought, what she wished, mind and body simultaneously made known in
the fulness of power, and the light of beauty, but put in words, and
especially in writing, it is only child-like simplicity. She appeared
all imagination, but he perceived in it especially a feeling of unrest.
She was very earnest, but she read more to go on than to learn; what
could be on the other side occupied her most. She had religious
feeling, but as the pastor expressed it, "no turn for a religious
life," and Odegaard was often anxious about her. Now that he was at the
closing point, his thoughts involuntarily reverted to the stone step
where he had received her; he heard the mother's sharp voice leaving
the responsibility with him, because he had used the name of Our Lord.
After pacing a few times up and down he collected himself: "I am going
abroad, now," he said with a certain shyness, "I have asked my sister
to care for you in my absence, and when I return we will try again.
Farewell! We shall meet again before I go!" he went so quickly into the
next room, that she could not even shake hands with him.

She saw him again where she had least expected it, in the pastor's pew
beside the choir, just in front of her as she stepped forth with the
others to be confirmed. This so affected her, that her thoughts flew
far away from the holy act, for which, in humility and prayer, she had
prepared herself. Yes, if that was Odegaard's old father, he stopped
and looked long at his son, as he stepped forth to begin. Soon Petra
was once more to be startled in church, for a little below sat Pedro
Ohlsen in prim new clothes; he was just stretching his neck to catch a
glimpse of her over the heads of the boys; he soon bobbed down, but she
saw him repeatedly stick up his thin-haired head to bob again. This
distracted her, she did not wish to look, but she did look, and
there,--just as the others were all deeply moved, many in tears,--she
was terrified to see him rise up with stiff open mouth and transfixed
eyes, without power to sit down or move, for opposite him, stretched to
her full height, stood Gunlaug; Petra shuddered to see her, she was
white as the altar cloth. Her black crimpy hair seemed to rise up,
while her eyes got suddenly a repulsive power, as though they said:
"Away from her, what have you to do with her?" Under this look he sank
down upon the form, and a minute after stole out of church.

After this Petra felt composed, and the further the rite proceeded the
more fully she entered into it. And when, after having given her
promise, she turned round and looked through her tears at Odegaard, as
the one who stood nearest to her good intentions, she resolved in her
heart that she would not put his hopes to shame. The steadfast eye that
looked expressively in return seemed to entreat her for the same, but
when she had taken her place and would find him again, he was gone. She
soon went home with her mother, who on the way let fall these words: "I
have done my part;--now may Our Lord do His!"

When they had dined together, they two alone, the mother said as she
rose: "Now we may as well go to him,--the pastor's son. Though I don't
know what it will lead to that he does, he surely means it well. Put on
your things again, child!"

The road to church which they two had so often trodden, lay above the
town, but through the street they had never before walked together;
indeed the mother had scarcely been there since she had come back to
the place, but she would now go the whole length with her grown up
daughter!

On the afternoon of a confirmation Sunday, such a little town is all on
the move, either going from house to house to congratulate, or in the
street to see and to be seen; there is a salutation and halting at
every step, a shaking of hands, and interchanging of good wishes: the
poor children appear in the cast-off clothes of the rich, and are
paraded forth to return their thanks. The sailors in their foreign
pageantry, with the hat upon three hairs; and the fops, the merchants,
clerks, walked in groups, bowing to all as they passed. The half-grown
up lads of the Latin school, each arm in arm with his best friend in
the world, sauntered after in rash criticism; but to-day every one in
his own mind must yield the palm to the lion of the place, the young
merchant, the wealthiest man in the town, Yngve Vold, just returned
from Spain, all in trim to take charge on the morrow of his mother's
extensive fish trade. With a light hat over his light hair, he strolled
through the streets; every one bade him welcome, he spoke to all,
smiled to all; so the young people who had just been confirmed were
almost forgotten;--backwards and forwards one might see the light hat
over the light hair, and hear the light laughter. When Petra and her
mother entered the street, he was the first they stumbled upon, and as
if they had in reality stumbled against him, he started back before
Petra, whom he did not recognise.

She had grown tall, not as tall as the mother but above the average
height, easy, elegant, and fearless, the mother and not the mother
inconstant interchange. The young merchant, who walked along behind
them, could no longer attract the attention of the passers-by; the two,
mother and daughter, were a more striking sight. They walked quickly,
without noticing any one, for they were seldom greeted except by
seamen; they soon returned more quickly still, for they had heard that
Odegaard had just left home for the steamer and would soon be gone.
Petra was in great haste; she must, she must indeed see him and thank
him before he went; it was wrong of him to leave her thus! She saw none
of all those who were looking at her; it was the smoke from the steamer
she saw over the roofs of the houses, and it seemed to be getting
further away. When they came to the quay, the boat had just left, and,
with sobs in her throat, she hastened further up the walk; indeed she
more sprang than walked, and the mother strode after. As the steamer
had taken some minutes to turn in the harbour, she was just in time to
spring down on the wharf, get up on a stone, and wave her pocket
handkerchief. The mother remained on the walk, and would not go down;
Petra waved--waved higher and higher, but there was no one who waved
again.

Then she could bear it no longer; she could not restrain her tears, and
was obliged to return home by the higher path; the mother followed, but
in silence. The attic which her mother had prepared for her, and where
she had slept for the first time the night before, and had that morning
put on her new dress with so much delight, now received her bathed in
tears, and without so much as a glance around; she would not go down
where the seamen and others were sitting;--she took off her
confirmation dress and sat on the bed till night came; to be grown up
seemed to her the most unhappy thing that could be.




                              CHAPTER 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.




                               CHAPTER V.

                               A MISTAKE.


When Odegaard rung for his coffee next morning, he was informed that
Yngve Vold, the merchant, had already called twice to see him. It
annoyed him to have to hold intercourse with a stranger just then, but
one who sought him so early must have an important errand. He was
scarcely dressed before Yngve Vold came again. "You are surprised, I
dare say? So am I. Good morning!"--They shook hands, and he laid his
light hat upon the table. "You rise late, I have been here twice
before; I have something important at heart, and I must speak
with you!"--"Take a seat if you please!" he seated himself in
an easy chair.--"Thank you, thank you, I would rather walk, I am
too excited to sit. I am quite beside myself since the day before
yesterday, stark mad, neither more nor less; and it is your doing,
partly!"--"Mine?"--"Yes, yours. You brought the girl forward, no one
thought about her, no one noticed her except you. But now I have never
seen, no, as true as I live, never seen anything so matchless, anything
so--well isn't it? No, over the whole of Europe I have never seen such
a cursedly curly-haired wonder,--have you? I got no peace, I was
bewitched, she was mixed up in everything, I went away, came back
again, impossible.--isn't it? Didn't know at first who she was ... the
Fisher Girl, they said,--the Senorita they should have called her, the
gipsy, the witch; all fire, eyes, bosom, hair,--what?--sparkling,
hopping, laughing, trilling, blushing,--something----! Ran after
her, you see, up among the trees in the forest, calm evening, ... she
stood, I stood, a few words, song, dance,--and then?... well then I
gave her my chain, as true as I live, a minute before, I had never
thought of it! Next time, same place, same chase, she was afraid, and
I;--well,--would you believe it? I could not say a single word, dare
not touch her; but when she came back again, would you think it? I
proposed to her, I had not thought about it a second before. Now
yesterday I was proving myself, stayed away from her, but then faith
and soul I'm mad, yes,--I CANNOT, I MUST be with her; if I don't get
her I shall shoot myself slap out, there, that's the history. I don't
care what my mother says, nor the town, it's no place, no place at
all,--she must go away, you see, away, far away from here, she must be
'comme il faut,' go abroad, to France, Paris, I pay, and you arrange. I
might go with her myself, live elsewhere, not stay any longer in this
little hole; but the fish you see! I'd like to make something out of
the place, but it's all in a torpor, no thought, no speculation, but
the fish? They don't know how to manage the fish; the Spaniards
complain, it must be done in a fresh way, new drying, new curing, the
town must rise, business make headway, the fish!--Where was it I left
off? the fish, the Fisher Girl,--that suits well: the fish, the Fisher
Girl, ha, ha, ha,--to be sure: I pay, you arrange, she shall be my
wife, and then----"

Further he did not get; during the conversation he had not observed
Odegaard, who had now risen, deathly pale, and stood over him with a
fine Spanish cane. The astonishment of the latter is not to be
described; he avoided the first strokes. "Take care," said he, "you may
hit me!"--"Yes, I may hit you! you see: Spanish, Spanish cane, that
suits too!" and the strokes fell over shoulders, arms, hands, face,
anywhere and everywhere; the other rushed about the room: "Are you mad,
have you lost your reason;--I will marry her!"--"Out!" cried Odegaard,
his strength failing him, and down went the light haired, away from
this madman, and was soon standing in the street calling up after his
light hat. It was thrown out of the window to him; a heavy fall was
heard, and when they went up, Odegaard lay unconscious upon the floor.

All this time Petra was sitting up in her bedroom half dressed, and
could not get further the whole day long. Every time she attempted it,
her hands sank down upon her lap. Her thoughts bent down as an ear of
corn fully ripe, as clustering campanulas in the fields. Calmness,
security, waving visions, lay over the airy castles in which she dwelt.
She recalled the meeting of yesterday, every word, every look, every
touch of the hand, every kiss; she would follow the whole way from the
meeting to the parting, but never get to the end; for every single
remembrance vanished away in a dream, and all dreams returned again
with fair promises. But sweet as were these thoughts, she turned from
them to think where she had left off; and as soon as she remembered,
she was again carried off into the land of the wonderful.

As she did not come down, the mother concluded that Odegaard having
returned, she had begun to study again; she had her meals sent up, and
was left alone the whole day. When evening came, she got up to make
herself ready to go to meet her beloved; she put on the best she
had,--the things she had worn at the confirmation; they were not much,
but that she had not felt until now. She had but little sense of the
elegant, but she was inspired with it to-day: one thing made another
look ugly till the right ones were selected, and even then the whole
was not beautiful! To-day she would have given worlds to have been the
most beautiful,--with the word a remembrance glided in, which she waved
away with her hand; nothing, no nothing should come near that might
disturb her. She went about quietly putting her room in order, as it
was not yet time to go. She opened the window and looked out; warm,
rosy clouds lay encamped over the mountains, but a cooling breeze was
wafted in with a message from the forest near by. "Yes, now I'm coming!
now I'm coming!" She went back once again to the looking-glass to study
her bride-like feelings.

Then she heard Odegaard's voice down stairs with the mother, heard that
he was being directed the way to her room; he had come to fetch her! A
feeling of bashful joy took hold of her, she looked round to see if all
was in order for him; then she went to the door. "Come in!" she
answered softly to the low tap, and stepped back a little.

As an icy shower over her, as if the earth gave way beneath her, was
the impression of the face that met her in the door! She staggered back
to get hold of the bed-post; her thoughts slipped from one abyss to
another; in less than a second she had fallen from earth's happiest
bride to its greatest sinner; she heard it thunder out of that face: in
time and eternity he could not forgive her!

In scarcely audible tones he whispered: "I see it, you are guilty!" He
leaned against the door and held fast to the lock, as if without that
he could not stand. His voice trembled; the tears rolled down his face,
though his countenance was perfectly calm.

"Do you know what you have done?" and his eyes crushed her to the
earth. She did not answer,--did not even weep; she was paralysed by a
complete and hopeless inability,--"Once before, I gave my heart away,
and he to whom I gave it, died through my fault. I could not rise above
this sorrow, unless one should reach over me and give me the wealth of
a whole heart again. This you have done,--and you have done it
hypocritically!" He stopped: two or three times he tried in vain to
begin again, then with a sudden pang of pain: "And all that I have
stored up during these years, thought upon thought, you have had the
heart to overturn as though it were an image of clay! Child, child,
could you not understand that I was building up myself in you? Now it
is past! Can you not now comprehend it: all that I have given, the very
warmest, the very depths of my heart, lost as flame in the winter air,
no token left?--Who are you, unhappy child?--I believed you to be my
most sacred treasure, but alas; you are more than profaned!"--He wept
in the bitterness of his grief.

"No, you are too young to comprehend it," he said again; "you know not
what you have done.--But yet you must understand," he exclaimed, "what
it is, when that which shines upon our lives, that which we believe can
yield the flowers and fruit we look for, proves nothing but an enormous
deception!--Tell me, what have I done to you that you COULD do anything
so cruel? Child, child, had you but told me it yesterday! Why, why, did
you lie so fearfully?--It must be my fault, mine, who have instructed
you,--have I then forgotten to speak about truth! No,--then where have
you thus learnt it?"

She heard him, and it was altogether true. He had tottered to a chair
in the window to lean his head against a table standing beside it. He
started up again, he wrung his hands, a sob of pain escaped him, then
he sank down and was still. "And I, who am not able to help my old
father," he said as if to himself, "I CANNOT, I have no calling, I also
am to have help from no one, all to be broken in pieces before me, all
and everybody forsake me." He was unable to speak more, his head lay in
his right hand; the left hung powerlessly down; he looked as though he
could not move,--and thus he remained sitting and said nothing. Then he
felt something warm against the hand that was hanging down, and
startled, he drew it away, it was Petra's breath; she was on her knees
beside him, her head bent down, now she folded her hands, and looked up
to him with an inexpressible entreaty for mercy. He looked down at her,
and neither of them turned away. Then he lifted his hand preventingly
against her, as if he felt within him a voice of persuasion that he
would not hear,--bent hastily down for his hat that had fallen on the
floor, and went quickly to the door; but still more quickly she stopped
the way before him, she cast herself down, grasped hold of his knees,
and nailed her eyes into him, but all without a sound; he both saw and
felt that she was struggling for life. Then his old love was too
strong, he bent down once more over her, and with an expressive look,
but one that was full of pain, he threw his arms round her and drew her
up to him. Yet once more she lay upon his breast, but it groaned and
sighed within, like an organ after the last stroke, when there is
still air, but no more tone. Again and again he pressed her to his
heart;--for the last time! He left her with a passionate cry; "No,
no!--you can abandon yourself, but you cannot love!" He was overwhelmed
with emotion: "Unhappy child, your future I cannot guide; may God
forgive you that you have ruined mine!" He went past her, she did not
move, he opened the door and shut it again, she did not speak;--she
heard him on the stairs, she heard his last step on the flagstone and
down the road,--then she was released, and gave one cry, a single one,
but with this came the mother.

When Petra came to herself again, she was lying in bed undressed and
well nursed; before her sat the mother with her arms upon her knees;
her head in both her hands, and eyes of fire fastened upon her
daughter. "Have you read enough with him now?" she asked:--"Have you
learnt something?--What is it you are going to be now?"--Petra answered
with an outburst of grief. The mother sat and listened to this for a
long time, then said with strange solemnity: "May the Lord heartily
curse him!"--The daughter started up: "Mother, mother! Not him, not
him, but me, me,--not him!"--"Oh; I know them! I know who should have
it!"--"No mother, he has been deceived, dreadfully deceived, and that
by me, me--it is I who have deceived him!"--She told the whole story
hurriedly and sobbing; he must not for a moment be misjudged; she told
about Gunnar, and what she had asked of him, how she had hardly
understood at the time, what she was doing; next about Yngve Vold's
unlucky gold chain, that had taught her so much, and got her so
fearfully entangled, and then about Odegaard, how on seeing him, she
had forgotten all else. She could not understand how it had all
happened, but this she did understand, that she had sinned deeply
against them all, and especially against him who had taken her up, and
given her all that one human being can give to another. After sitting
long silent, at last the mother said: "Then you have committed no sin
against ME? Where have I been all this time that you have never said a
word to me?"--"Oh! mother, help me, don't be hard on me now; I feel
that I shall suffer for it as long as I live; but I shall pray to God
that He will let me soon die!--Dear, dear God," she began, as she
folded her hands and looked up to Heaven, "dear, dear God, hear me, I
have already forfeited my life; there is nothing more for me, I am not
fit, I do not know how to live, then, dear God, I pray Thee suffer me
to die!"--But Gunlaug, who had hard words uppermost, stifled them, and
laid her hand on the daughter's arm, to take it down from such a
prayer: "Govern your feelings, child, do not tempt God;--we must live
even if it is painful." She drew several heavy sighs and rose up; she
had no consolation to offer. The daughter had no doubt now given her
entire confidence, but it was too late. Gunlaug never more set foot
within that little attic chamber.

Odegaard had taken an illness, that seemed likely to be a dangerous
one, so his old father had gone up, and made his study beside him,
saying to all who begged him to spare himself, that he could not do it;
his work was to watch over his son, each time he lost one of those whom
he loved better than his father.

It was thus that matters stood when Gunnar came home.

He frightened his mother by showing himself long before the ship he
sailed with,--she thought it was his ghost, and his acquaintances were
not much better. To all their curious inquiries, he could give but an
unsatisfactory reply. They, however, soon got a better one, for the
very day that he came, he was turned out of Gunlaug's house, and that
by Gunlaug herself. "Never let me see you here again," she called out,
to him on the doorstep, so that it could be heard far and near, "we
have had enough of this now!" He had not gone far, before a girl
overtook him with a parcel; she had another as well, and made a
mistake, and Gunnar found in his a heavy gold chain; he stood looking
at it a minute, and turning it over; he had not understood Gunlaug's
fury before, but he understood still less why she should send him a
gold chain. He called the girl back, she must have made a mistake, and
she asked as she gave him the other parcel if it was this. The parcel
proved to contain his gifts to Petra. Yes, that was it; but who was to
have the gold chain? "Yngve Vold, the Merchant," replied the girl, and
went her way. Gunnar stood musing: Yngve Vold the Merchant? Does he
give presents?--and Gunlaug has stumbled upon them! Then it is HE who
has stolen her from me,--Yngve Vold,--but he shall----his vexation and
excitement must have vent, some one must be thrashed, and it proved to
be Yngve Vold.

To relate shortly: the unhappy merchant was once again attacked quite
unexpectedly, and that upon his own door step. He ran into the office
to escape from the infuriated man, but Gunnar ran after him. The clerks
rose up "en masse" against him, but he kicked and struck on all sides;
chairs, tables, and desks were overthrown; letters, papers, and
journals flew about like dust; help came at last from Yngve's
warehouse, and after a hard fight, Gunnar was turned into the street.

But here the battle began again in earnest. There were two ships lying
on the quay, and one of them was from abroad; being about noon, when
the sailors were at liberty, they were glad to join in the fun; they
rushed into the fight, crew against crew, many others were sent for,
and came running at double quick pace; labouring people, women and
children drew up, till at last there was no one who knew why or against
whom they were fighting. In vain the captains cursed; in vain the
citizens commanded that the only policeman should be sent for: he was
just then out on the fiord, fishing. They ran to the magistrate, who
was also postmaster; but he had locked himself in with the post that
had just arrived, and answered out of the window, that he could not
come; his assistant was at a funeral, they must wait. But as they could
not wait, several shouted, and especially frightened women, that Arne
the blacksmith should be sent for. This being decided by the worthy
citizens, his own wife was despatched to seek him, "for the policeman
was not at home." He soon came, to the mirth of the school boys; he
made a few strokes among the crowd, picked out a burly Spaniard, and
struck him promiscuously against the rest.

When all was settled, there came the magistrate with a stick; he found
a few old women and children, talking on the field of battle; these he
sternly commanded to go home to dinner, which he also did himself.

But the next day he began to look into the matter, the investigation
was continued for a time, though no one had the slightest idea who had
been the aggrieving parties. One thing, however, all were agreed upon,
that Arne the blacksmith had been mingled in the fray, as they had seen
him striking on all sides with the Spaniard. For this Arne had to pay
one specie dollar fine, for which his wife, who had led him into it,
got sundry blows the second Sunday after trinity, which she might well
remember. That was the only judicial consequence of the fray.

But it had other consequences. The little town was no longer a quiet
town, the Fisher Girl had put it in commotion. The strangest rumours
were set afloat,--arising from angry jealousy at her having been able
to win to herself the best head in the place, and its two wealthiest
matches, besides having several in the background; for Gunnar had grown
by degrees into "several young men." Soon there arose a general moral
storm. The disgrace of a great street brawl, and sorrow in three of the
best families rested on the head of the young girl who had been but
half a year confirmed; three engagements at one time, and one of them
with her teacher,--her life's benefactor! Indignation might well boil
up. Had she not been, from a child, an annoyance to the town, and for
all that, had she not had its expectancy manifested in gifts when
Odegaard took her up, and had she not now scorned them all, crushed
him, and following the instincts of her nature, thrown herself
recklessly on a course that would lead to her being an outcast from
society, with the gaol for old age?

The mother must have been to blame too; in her sailors' house the child
had learnt to be giddy. They would no longer bear the yoke that Gunlaug
laid upon them, they would no longer tolerate them, neither mother nor
daughter, they would unite to drive them away.

One night a crowd gathered on the bank; there were sailors, who owed
Gunlaug money, drunken labourers, for whom she would not procure work,
young lads, to whom she would not give credit, and the better class in
the back ground. They whistled, they shouted, they called for The
Fisher Girl, for Fisher Gunlaug; by and bye a stone was thrown against
the door, then another in at the attic window. They did not go away
until after midnight. Behind the windows all was dark and still.

The next day not a soul looked in to Gunlaug, not even a child went
past, up the hill. But at night the same riot again, only that now all
were there without distinction. They broke all the windows, they tore
up the garden, and trampled down the shrubs, they threw the young fruit
trees about, and then they sang:--


            Mother, I've fished up a sailor, oh!
                   "Ah! have you so?"
            Mother, I've fished up a merchant, oh!
                   "Ah! have you so?"
            Mother, I've fished up a pastor's son
                   "The best you've won!"
                    Ah! ding dong,
                    The nose grows long.[1]
      Great fishes may bite, but what is the gain,
      If into the basket, they ne'er can be ta'en!

            Mother, he's gone, the sailor, oh!
                   "Ah! has he so!"
            Mother, he's gone, the merchant, oh!
                   "Ah! has he so?"
            Mother, the pastor's son's going they say!
                   "Then haul away!"--
                     Ah! ding dong,
                     The nose grows long,
      Great fishes may bite, but what is the gain,
      If into the basket, they ne'er can be ta'en!


They called especially for Gunlaug, they would have been mightily
pleased to have heard her matchless fury rage.

Gunlaug was sitting within, and heard every word; but she kept silence;
one must be able to bear something for the sake of one's child.




                              CHAPTER 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.




                              CHAPTER VII.

                             THE FIRST ACT.


It was evening and quite dusk when the vessel cast anchor in the
harbour of Bergen. Petra half stupified from sea-sickness, was led in
the captain's boat, through a multiplicity of ships large and small,
till at last they emerged at the quay, which was covered with ferrymen,
the narrow alleys leading to it swarming with peasants and street boys.

They stopped before a neat little house, where at the request of the
Captain, an old woman gave Petra a most kind reception. She stood in
need of rest and sleep, and both of these she obtained. Lively and
well, she awoke next day at noon, to new sounds and a new dialect, and
when the blind was drawn up, to a new landscape, new people, and a new
town. She had become new herself she thought, as she stood before the
looking glass,--that face was not the old one. True, she could not
define the difference, and did not understand that at her age, trouble
and sorrow have a refining, spiritualising influence; but seeing
herself in the glass, made her think of the last nights, and trembling
at the remembrance, she hastened to make herself ready to go down to
the new life awaiting her. There, she met her hostess, and several
ladies, who, after eyeing her profoundly, promised to do what they
could for her, and began by taking her round the town. Having several
things to buy, she ran up for her pocket book, but she felt ashamed to
take the thick clumsy old thing down stairs, so she opened it, to take
out the money there. Instead of 100 specie dollars she found 300! That
must be Pedro Ohlsen again, who against her mother's will and knowledge
had given her money. She had so little understanding about the worth of
things, that the greatness of the sum did not astonish her; neither did
it strike her therefore, to seek further for the cause of such great
benevolence. Instead of a glowing letter of thanks with questions
indicating a suspicion of the truth Pedro Ohlsen got a letter sent down
from Gunlaug, and addressed to herself, wherein the daughter with
undisguised annoyance, betrayed her benefactor, and asked what she was
to do with the gift thus clandestinely made her.

Petra's first impression of the town, was entirely ruled by the power
of the elements. She could not divest herself of the feeling that the
mountains stood so close over her, that she must take care. She felt
burdened every time she looked up to them, and then again, an
inclination prompted her to stretch out her hand and knock at them;
sometimes she felt as though there were no outlet at all. There stood
the mountains, sunless and dark, the clouds hung close over them, or
were chased hurriedly away; wind and rain vied incessantly with each
other. But on the people around her was no burden resting, she was soon
happy among them; for there was in their busy activity a freedom, ease
and gaiety, which, after what she had passed through, she felt to be as
smiles and welcome.

When the next day she remarked at the dinner table, that she liked to
be where there were a number of people, they told her that she should
go to the theatre, for there she would meet with many hundreds in one
house. Yes, she would like that; the ticket was taken, the theatre was
near at hand, and at the appointed time, she was taken there, and shewn
to a seat in the first tier of the gallery. There she sat among many
hundred happy people, in a dazzling light, surrounded by brilliant
colours, and conversation breaking in upon her from all corners, with
the noise of ocean.

Petra had not the slightest idea of what she was about to see. She knew
nothing but what Odegaard had told her, and what by chance she had
heard from others. But of the theatre Odegaard had never spoken; the
sailors had merely talked of one where there were wild animals and
horse-riders, and to the lads it never occurred to talk about the play,
even if those from the school knew a little about it; for the little
town had no theatre of its own, not even a house that was called such;
travelling menageries, rope-dancers, and harlequins used to exhibit
either in booths, or in the open field. She was so ignorant, that she
did not even ask any questions, but was sitting boldly expecting
something wonderful, e.g. camels or apes. Taken up by this idea, by
degrees she began to see animals in all the faces around her, horses,
dogs, foxes, cats, mice, and so amused herself. Meanwhile the orchestra
had assembled without her being aware of it. She jumped up in a fright,
for a short sharp burst from trombones, drums, trumpets, and horns,
opened the overture. She had never in her life heard more music at one
time, than a couple of violins and perhaps a flute. This pealing
grandeur turned her pale, it partook of the nature of a cold, dark,
heavy sea, she sat in dread for the next lest it should be still worse,
and yet she did not wish it to be over. By and bye softer harmonies
arose, vistas that she had never even dreamt of, opened before her;
melodies lulled her thither, life and merriment floated in the air, the
whole march rose upwards as on wings, it went softly down, it gathered
again powerfully, it parted quiveringly and sprightfully,--till a
sombre gloom fell over all; it was as if it were whirled away in a
crashing waterfall. Then arose a single tone like a bird on a wet
branch by the deep; sadly and timidly it began, but the air above it,
cleared as it sang, a gleam of sunshine came,--and again the long blue
vista was filled with that wonderful wave and fluttering behind the
rays of the sun; when this had lasted a moment, lo! it subsided in
gentle peace; the exultant host withdrew further and further, nothing
was to be seen but the rays of the sun oozing and fusing through the
air,--over the whole of the endless plain, only sun, over all light and
stillness,--and in this blessedness it died away. Involuntarily she
arose, for she felt it was over. Oh marvel! there went the beautiful
painted wall in front of her straight up through the roof! She was in a
church, a church with pillars and arches, beautifully decorated; the
organ was pealing, and people advancing towards her, in a strange garb,
and they were talking,--yes, talking in church, and in a language she
did not understand. What? They were talking also behind her: "Sit
down!" they said, but there was nothing there to sit upon, and the two
in church continued to stand too; as she looked at them, it came
clearly to her mind, that the dress was the same as that she had seen
in a picture of St. Olaf,--and there they were calling St. Olaf's
name!--"Sit down!" sounded again from behind her; "sit down!" cried a
great many voices,--"there is perhaps something behind as well,"
thought Petra, turning round. A sea of angry threatening faces met her
gaze;--"there's something wrong here," she thought, and wanted to get
away; but an old woman who sat next to her, pulled her gently by the
dress: "Come, sit down, child," she whispered, "you know they behind
cannot see!" She was in her place in a moment; for to be sure: that is
the theatre, and we are looking on,--the theatre! she repeated the
word, as if to recall herself. Then she was in the church again;
notwithstanding all her endeavours, she could not understand the
speaker; but when she fairly discovered that he was a young, handsome
man, she began to understand a word now and then, and when she heard
that he was in love, and love was his theme, she understood most of
all. Then a third came in, who, for an instant, drew her attention
away, for she knew from drawings that he must be a monk, and a monk she
had a great desire to see. He trod so softly, was so quiet, yes, he
must in truth be a godfearing man; he spoke slowly, distinctly, she
followed every word. But the next minute, he turned and said exactly
the opposite of what he had said before,--heavens! he's a scoundrel,
he's a scoundrel! he has the look of it! And this young handsome man
cannot see it! he might at all events hear it! "He is deceiving you!"
she whispered, half aloud. "Hush!" said the old lady. No, the young man
does not hear, he withdraws in good faith, they all go, and an old man
comes in alone. How is this? When the old man speaks, it is just as if
the young one was speaking, and yet it is the old man, ... oh! look
there! look there! a shining procession of girls, all in white, two and
two they pass silently through the church; she saw them long after they
had gone by,--and a similar impression from her childhood hovered in
her memory. One winter she had gone with her mother over the mountain;
making their way in the new fallen snow, they had startled a covey of
ptarmigans, that with one accord, flew up in front of them; they were
white, the snow was white, the forest white,--long after, all her
thoughts rose white before her, and now the same thing again. But one
of these maidens robed in white, steps forth alone, with a wreath in
her hand, and kneels, the old man has knelt also, and she talks to him,
he has brought messages and a letter for her from foreign lands, he
brings it out,--her face tells clearly, it is from one she loves, oh!
how delightful, they all seem to love here! She opens it,--it is not a
letter, it is full of music,--yes, see, yes, see! he himself is the
letter, the old man is the young one, and he is the one she loves! They
embrace, heavens, they kiss each other,--Petra felt she grew scarlet,
and hid her face with her hands, while she watched further;--listen, he
is telling her that they will soon get married; and she laughingly
pulls his beard, and says he has grown a barbarian, and he says she has
grown so lovely, and he gives her a ring, and promises her scarlet and
velvet, gold slippers, and a golden belt; he merrily takes his leave,
and goes to the king to arrange about their wedding. His betrothed
looks after him, and her eye glistens, but turning round without him,
all seems so empty!

There slides the wall down again. Over now? just as it began? Blushing,
she turned to the old lady: "Is it over?"--"No, no, child, it is the
first act. There are five such, yes indeed there are," she repeated
with a sigh: "There are five such."--"About the same?" asked
Petra. "What do you mean by that?"--"The same people come in
again, and it all goes on further?" "Then you have never been at a
comedy?"--"No."--"Well, in many places there is no theatre, it is so
expensive." "But whatever is this?" asked Petra anxiously, staring
as if she couldn't wait for a reply: "Who are these people?"--"A
company that Director Naso has, a first class company; he is very
clever."--"Does he invent it?--or what is it? Pray do tell me!"--"Dear
child, do you really not know what a play is? Where are you from?" But
when Petra thought of her native place, she thought also of her shame,
her flight, she did not speak and dare not ask any more questions.

The second act came, and with it the king, then she really got to see a
king too! She did not hear what he said, she did not see whom he talked
to, she was observing the king's dress, the king's manners, the king's
bearing; she was first recalled, when the young man came in again and
now they all withdrew to bring in the bride! So she must wait once
more.

Between the acts, the old lady bent over towards her: "Don't you think
they play beautifully?" she said. Petra looked up astonished at her.
"Play,--what do you mean?" She id not see that everybody round about
was looking at her, and that the old woman had been deputed to ask her,
nor did she hear that they sat and laughed at her. "But they don't
speak like we do?" she asked, as she did not get any reply. "They are
Danes of course," said the lady and began to laugh herself. Then Petra
understood that the good woman was laughing at her many questions, and
was silent; she looked stedfastly at the curtain.

When it went up again, she had the great pleasure of seeing an
archbishop. It was now the same as before; she was lost in the sight
and did not hear a word of what he said. But then came music, oh so
softly, so far away, but it was coming nearer; female voices were
singing, and the play of flutes and violins, and an instrument, it was
not a guitar, and yet like many guitars, but softer, fuller, loftier in
its tone, the entire harmony poured in in long waves,--and as if all
were a blending of colouring, came the procession, soldiers carrying
halberds, choristers bearing censors, monks holding candles, the king
wearing his crown, and the bridegroom arrayed in white, at his
side,--then the white robed maidens strewing flowers and music before
the bride, who was attired in white silk, and wore a red wreath: at her
side walked a tall lady with a purple train adorned with gold crowns,
and a little sparkling crown on her head, that must be the queen! The
whole church was filled with their song and colours, and all that now
happened, from the bridegroom leading the bride to the altar where they
knelt, the whole company kneeling with them,--to the archbishop coming
in pomp with his brethren, were only fresh links in the tinted music
chain.

But just as the ceremony was about to take place, the Archbishop waved
his staff, and forbade it; their marriage was against the holy
scriptures, here on earth they could never be united,--oh heavens have
mercy,--the bride sank down, and with a piercing cry, Petra, who had
risen, also fell!

"Water, bring water!" cried those around her.

"No," replied the old lady, "there is no need, she has not fainted!"
"No need," they repeated, "silence!"----"Silence!" they cried from
the parquet, "silence in the gallery!"--"Silence!" answered those
above.--"You must not take it so much to heart; it is only fiction and
nonsense altogether," whispered the old lady; "but Madame Naso plays
wonderfully."

"Silence!" now exclaimed Petra herself; she was already deep in the
acting, for the devilish monk had come forward with a sword, the two
lovers had to hold a handkerchief and he rent it asunder between
them,--as the church rent, as grief rent, as the sword over the gate of
paradise rent that first day. Weeping maidens took the red wreath from
the bride, and replaced it with a white one; thereby she was sealed to
the cloister for life. He to whom she belonged in time and eternity, he
should know her to be alive, yet lost to him, know her to be within,
yet never see her; now dilacerating the farewell they took, there was
no greater suffering upon earth than theirs!--

"Mercy," whispered the old lady, when the curtain fell: "don't be so
foolish; you know it is only Madame Naso, the director's wife." Petra
stared at the old lady, she thought she must be crazy and as the latter
had long thought the same of her, they continued to look a little
askance at each other, but did not speak any more.

Petra could not follow the scene when the curtain rose; the bride
within the convent, and the bridegroom day and night in doubt without
the walls, was what she saw, she suffered their suffering, she prayed
their prayers; but that which took place before her eyes, passed
unheeded by. An ominous silence fell over all, and this brought her to
herself; the church seemed to grow larger, the twelve strokes of the
clocks sounded in empty space; it rumbled under the arches, the walls
shook, St. Olaf had risen from his tomb, and wrapped in a winding
sheet, tall and awful, a spear in his hand, he strode along: the
sentinels flee, the thunder peels, the monk is pierced by the
outstretched lance; then all is darkness, and the apparition
disappears. But where the lightning struck, the monk lies as a heap of
ashes.

Without being aware of it, Petra had caught fast hold of the old lady,
and grasped her so tightly, that she alarmed her, and seeing Petra's
increasing paleness, she exclaimed: "Why my dear child, it is only
Knutsen; that is the only part he can play, he speaks so broad."--"No,
no, no," said Petra, "I saw flames round about him, and the whole
church shook beneath his tread!"--"Be quiet there!" was heard from
several quarters; "Out with those who can't be quiet!"--"Silence in the
gallery!" cried the parquet; "Silence!" replied the gallery.--Petra had
crept together as if to hide herself, but she soon forgot them
altogether; for see! there are the lovers again, the lightning has
opened their way, they will escape! They have found each other, they
embrace; Heaven protect them!

Then a tumult arises, a sound of voices and trumpets, the bridegroom is
torn from her side, they are fighting for their country, he is wounded,
and dying he greets his bride, ... Petra first understands what has
happened, when the bride enters softly, and sees him dead! It is as if
the clouds of grief would gather over a single spot, but a glance
dispels them: the bride looks up from the dead man's side, and prays
that she too may die! The heavens open at her glance, the lightning
flashes, the bridal hall is above; let the bride in! Yes,--already she
can see within; for her eyes shed a blessed peace, like that upon the
mountain tops. Then the eyelids close: the battle had a higher
solution, their constancy a brighter crowning; she was now with him.

Petra sat a long time still: her heart was lifted in faith, and the
strength of the Highest filled her soul. She rose up, above all that
was small, above fear and pain, rose with smiles to all,--were they not
brothers and sisters; the evil that separates was not present, it was
crushed under the thunder. They laughed at her in return, that was the
girl that had been half mad at the play;--but in their smiles, she saw
only a reflection of the victory she herself had gained. In this
confidence, that they were smiling in participation with her joy, her
face bore so radiant an expression, that they could not resist it, and
they smiled her smile in return; she passed down the broad stairs
between the people who made way for her on both sides, returning joy
for her joy, and beauty for the beauty which beamed upon them. There
are times when our souls shine forth in such resplendence, that we shed
a brightness on all about us, though we ourselves cannot see. The
greatest triumphal procession in the world, is this, to be led, upheld,
and followed by one's own refulgent thoughts.

When, without knowing how, she arrived at home, she asked what it had
all been. There were some present, who were able to understand her, and
give her a satisfactory reply; and when she had got a real appreciation
of what the drama was, and of what great actors had in their power, she
rose and said: "There is nothing greater than this upon earth, and this
I must be."

To their astonishment she put on her things and went out again; she
must be alone, and in the open air. She went away from the town, and
out to the adjacent promontory,--the wind was high, and the sea lashed
up beneath her;--the town on both sides of the bay lay enveloped in a
light mist, behind which the innumerable lights with all their
endeavours could do no more than lighten the fog they could not lift.

This was the image of her soul.

The great darkness, in its damp surge beneath her feet, gave warning of
an impenetrable deep; it behoved her to sink down thither, or rise in
the attempt to lighten it. She asked herself why she had never before
felt these thoughts, and she answered, because it was the moments only
that had power over her, but then she felt that she had also power over
them. She saw it now: as many moments would be given her, as there were
flickering lights yonder, and she prayed God that she might perfect
them all, that so His love might have kindled no light in vain.

She rose, for the wind was icy told; she had not been long away, but as
she went home again, she knew whither she was going.

                               *   *   *

The next day she stood at the director's door. Hot words were heard
from within; one of the voices seemed to her like the bride's of
yesterday; in another key, to-day, to be sure, but still it made Petra
tremble. She waited a long time, but as it would not stop, at last she
knocked. "Come in," said a man's voice angrily. "Oh!" screamed a lady,
and as Petra entered, she saw a flying terror in a night dress, and
with dishevelled hair, disappearing through a side door. The director,
a tall man with blear eyes (which he hastened to hide with a pair of
gold spectacles), was pacing backwards and forwards in agitation. His
long nose so ruled his face, that all the rest was there for the nose's
sake, the eyes stuck out like two gun barrels behind this rampart, the
mouth was a trench before it, and the forehead, a light bridge over to
the forest, or barricade of felled trees.--"What is it you want?" he
stopped short; "is it you that wishes to join the chorus?" he asked
hurriedly. "'The chorus,' what is that?"--"Ha! so you don't know that;
what is it you want then?"--"I wish to be an actress."--"An actress
indeed,--and don't know what a chorister is! But you speak the
dialect?"--"'Dialect,' what is that?" "Eh! so you don't know that
either, and will yet be an actress, well, well; yes, that's like the
Norsemen. Dialect means, that you don't talk like we do."--"Yes,
but I've been practising all the morning."--"Have you, indeed? Come,
come, let me hear!" Petra took an attitude, and said with exactly the
same accent as the bride of yesterday: "I greet you my love. Good
morning!"--"I say, you are possessed, are you come here to make a fool
of my wife!" A peal of laughter was heard in the adjoining room, the
director opened the door, and without a trace of remembrance that but a
moment since they had been fighting for life and death: "Here is a
Norwegian hussy," he said, "caricaturing you, pray come and see her!" A
lady's head with untidy, refractory black hair, dark eyes, and large
mouth, peeped in and laughed. And yet Petra hastened towards her; for
it must be the bride,--no, her mother, she thought as she drew nearer.
She looked at the lady, and said: "I am not sure if it is you, or if it
is your mother!" whereupon the director also laughed. The head had
retreated, but laughed in the side room. Petra's embarrassment was
clearly depicted in her face and attitude; it attracted the director's
attention, he looked at her, and taking a book, said as though nothing
in the world had happened: "Take this, my girl, and read, but read as
you talk yourself."--She did so. "No, no, that is not right, read
Norwegian,--Norwegian, I say!"--and Petra read, but the same as before.
"No, I tell you, it is altogether wrong. Do you understand what I mean?
Are you stupid?"--He tried her again and again, then took the book from
her and gave her another: "See, that is the opposite, it is comic, read
that!"--"Yes, Petra read, but with the same result till she wearied him
out."--"No, no!" he cried, "for heavens sake give over,--what do you
want with the stage, what the deuce is it you want to act?"--"The play
I saw yesterday."--"Aha! To be sure! well, and then?"--"Yes," said she,
feeling a little bashful, "I thought it was so delightful, yesterday,
but I have been thinking today it would be still more delightful if it
had a good ending, and I would give it that."--"Eh, that is it? Well,
to be sure! There's nothing to hinder; the author is dead. Of course,
he is no longer correct, and you, who can neither speak, nor read, will
improve his works;--yes, that is Norwegian!" Petra did not understand
the words, she understood only that they went against her, and she
began to fear. "Will you let me?" she asked softly.--"Certainly, Lord
preserve us, there's nothing to hinder, be so good!--Listen," he said
in a different tone, as he went close up to her, "you have no more idea
of the drama than a cat; and you have no talent for either the comedy
or the tragedy; I have tried you in both. Because you have a pretty
face, and a fine figure, I suppose people have put it into your head
that you could play much better than my wife, and so you will take
the first part in my 'répertoire,' and make alterations to begin
with;--yes, that is the Norwegians, they are the people that can do
it."--Petra could hardly breathe, she struggled and struggled; at last
she ventured to say: "Will you really not allow me?" He had been
standing looking out of the window, and was certain she had gone; he
now turned round in surprise, and was struck with her emotion, and the
wonderful strength with which it was pourtrayed in her whole being; he
looked at her a moment, then suddenly seizing the book, he said with a
voice and manner as if nothing had happened before: "See, take this
piece here, and read it slowly, let me hear your voice. Come now!" But
she could not read, for she could not see the letters. "Don't be
afraid!" At last she began, but coldly, without any spirit; he bade her
read it over again with more feeling; but it was still worse, so he
quietly took the book from her: "I have tried you in all ways," he said
"so I have no responsibility. I assure you, my good girl, if I were to
send my boots upon the stage, or I were to send you, the impression
would be just the same--viz., a very remarkable one. So that must end
the matter!" But as a last endeavour, Petra ventured entreatingly:
"I believe though I understand it, if only I get----" "Yes, to be
sure,--every fishing village understands it a great deal better than
we; the Norwegian public is the most enlightened in the world."--"Come
now, if you won't disappear, I must!" She turned to the door, and burst
into tears. "I say," this violent outburst had thrown a new light on
the subject; "I say, I suppose it isn't you that made such a
disturbance in the theatre last night?"--She turned round, fiery red;
"Yes, to be sure, I know you now, Fisher Girl! I was in company with a
gentleman from your town after the play, he 'knew you well.' Ha! so
that is why you wanted to get on the stage; you would try your tricks
there,--I understand!--Listen: My theatre is a respectable
establishment, and I defy all attempts to transform it. Go! Will you
go, I say!"--and Petra went, sobbing fearfully, down the steps, and out
into the street. She ran crying past all the people, and a lady at
mid-day, running and crying in the street created, as may be imagined,
a great sensation. People stopped, the dogs ran after her, and more
followed. The whirr behind her reminded her of those awful nights in
the attic chamber, she remembered the faces in the air and ran faster.
But the remembrance grew more vivid with every step, the noise behind
her increased, and when she arrived at the house and shut the street
door, reached her room and locked herself in, she threw herself down in
a corner to defend herself from the faces; she struck them off with her
hands, and threatened them, then sinking down exhausted, she wept more
quietly,--and was saved.

                               *   *   *

The same day towards evening, she left Bergen and started for the
country; she did not know where to, but she would go where she was not
known. She went in a carriole, the driver boy sitting on her trunk
strapped on behind. It rained fast, she sat crouched together under a
great rain hat, and looked uneasily at the mountain above her, and then
at the precipice below. The forest before her was a dense mass of fog,
teeming with spectres; the next moment she would enter it, but the fog
was parting at every step she took towards it. A mighty rumbling that
grew stronger and stronger increased the feeling that she was entering
upon an unknown region, where everything had its own meaning and some
dark and mysterious connection, where man was only a nervous traveller,
who had yet to discover whether or not he could get further. The
rumbling came from several waterfalls, that in the wet weather had
grown up to battle, and now hurled themselves precipitately from rock
to rock with a terrific crash. Now and then they passed over narrow
bridges; she could see the water boiling and seething in the hollows
below. Soon the road began to bend and wind down the mountain; here and
there lay a cultivated field, and a few turf houses stood together;
then again it turned up towards the forest and rumbling. She was wet
through, and shivered, but still she would go further, as long as the
day lasted,--further also the next day, ever deeper in, till she came
to a place she dare trust herself to. Thereto He Himself would help
her, the Almighty, who now led them through the darkness and the storm.




                             CHAPTER VIII.

                          AT THE RURAL DEAN'S.


Quite late in autumn, among the mountains in Bergen's shire, where the
land is sheltered and fruitful, there are occasionally days almost like
summer. On such afternoons, the cattle, even if they have already begun
with the winter feeding, are again let out into the pasture; they are
well fed and frisky, and when they are driven home at night, the scene
is lively. Thus they came down over the mountain track, cows, sheep,
and goats, bellowing, butting, and skipping, their bells merrily
ringing, and were just approaching the farm as Petra was driving by. It
was a beautiful day, the window panes in the long white wooden
buildings glittered in the sun, and above the houses, towered the
mountains, so thickly covered with firs, birch, ash, bird cherry, rowan
trees, and the projecting rocks with juniper bushes, that the houses
seemed quite sheltered by them. Facing the road, in front of the house,
was a garden, apples, cherry, and plum trees flourished in abundance;
red and black currant, and gooseberry bushes grew along the walks and
fences, and above all, towered some grand old ash trees with their
broad and stately crowns. The house looked like a nest half hidden
among the branches, out of reach for everything but the sun. But just
this seclusion awakened a longing in Petra, and when she heard it was
the deanery, she exclaimed: "I must go in here!" and pulling in the
reins, she turned along the garden.

A couple of Finnish dogs rushed out upon her as she drove into the farm
yard, a large square, enclosed with buildings, the cattle stall
opposite the house, another wing of the house to the right, and to the
left the brewery, wash house, and labourers' room. The farm yard was
now full of cattle, and in the midst of them stood a lady, tall and
elegant; she wore a tight fitting dress, and a little silk handkerchief
over her head; round about and above her[2] were goats, white, black,
brown, and parti-coloured, all with their little bells sounding in
harmony; she had a name for each of her goats, and now she had
something nice for them in a dish, which the milkmaid continually
replenished. Upon the low step leading from the house to the farm yard,
the rural dean was standing with a plate of salt, and in front of him
were the cows licking the salt out of his hand and off the step where
he strewed it. The dean was not a tall man, but compact, with short
neck and short forehead; the bushy eyebrows lay over eyes that did not
often look straight before them, but now and then cast a flashing
glance aside. His thick grey hair was cut short, and stood up on all
sides, it grew down over his neck nearly as much as on his head; he
wore no neckerchief, but a shirt stud; in the front the shirt was
open,--one could see his hairy bosom; neither was it buttoned at the
wrists, so the shirt cuffs came down over the small, powerful hands,
now all licked over by the cows; both hands and arms were shaggy. He
glanced sharply from the side, at the stranger lady who had alighted,
and made her way between the goats to where his daughter was standing.
It was impossible, for the noise of the cattle, dogs, and bells, to
hear what they were saying, but now both the ladies were looking at
him, and with the goats around them they came towards the step. The
herdsman, on a sign from the dean, began to drive the cattle away.
Signe, his daughter, called out: (Petra was struck with the harmony of
her voice,) "Father, here is a lady travelling, who would like to rest
a day with us."--"She shall be welcome!" cried the dean in reply, gave
the dish to the lad, and went into his study, in the right wing of the
house, apparently to tidy himself. Petra followed the young lady into
the passage, which was more properly a hall, it was so light and broad;
the driver boy was dismissed, her things carried in, and she herself
shewn into a side room opposite the study, where she took off her
things, and went out again into the passage, to be further shewn into
the dining room.

What a large light room! Nearly the whole wall fronting the garden was
windows, the middle one opened as a door to the garden. The windows
were broad and high, reaching almost to the floor, and they were full
of flowers, plants stood upon stands here and there in the room, and
instead of curtains was interwoven ivy, hanging from two small hedges
of flowers up in the frame above. As there were bushes and flowers on
every side, growing up the walls, and on the greensward before her, it
seemed like a conservatory in the midst of the garden; and yet one had
not been a minute in the room, before the flowers were no longer seen;
for the church standing by itself on a hill to the right was what one
saw,--the blue waters reflecting its image, coursed sparkling on so far
away between the mountains that one could not tell whether it was a
lake, or an arm of the sea curving in. And then the mountains
themselves! Not single, but chains of mountains, each one rearing its
mighty front behind the other, as if the boundary of the world.

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!"

One hour after, Signe knew Petra's whole history, which she at once
communicated to her father. On his advice, Signe wrote the same day to
Odegaard, and continued to do so; as long as Petra was in their house.

When that evening Petra laid down to rest, in the soft eider down, in a
warm room with crackling birch wood in the stove, and the New Testament
laid between the two lights on the white toilet table,--she thanked her
God, as she took the book, for all, the evil as well as the good.

                               *   *   *

As a young man, the dean with an ardent temperament and talent for
oratory, had wished to study for the ministry; his parents, people of
wealth, had been against it; they would have preferred to see him
choose what they called an independent position; but their opposition
served only to increase his zeal, and when he had graduated, he went
abroad to study further. During a preliminary stay in Denmark, he used
often to meet a lady, who belonged to a religious sect not sufficiently
strict for him, and to whom he was therefore opposed: he sought
continually to influence her, but the way in which she looked at him,
thereby bringing him to silence, he could never forget during the whole
of his sojourn on the continent. When he returned, he at once visited
her. They had a good deal of intercourse, and grew in intimacy, till at
last they became engaged, and were soon after married. And now it was
evident that each of them had their own private thoughts; he had
purposed to draw her over with all her simple grace, to his gloomy
teaching, and she had been so innocently certain of being able to win
his power and eloquence over to the service of her church. His first
most cautious attempt was met by her first most cautious:--he drew
back, disappointed, mistrustful. She saw it at once, and from that day
he watched for her next attempt, while she did the same for his. But
neither of them tried it again, for both had become afraid: he was
afraid of his own passionate nature, and she, lest by a vain attempt,
she might spoil her opportunity of influencing him; for she never gave
up hope,--she had made it the aim of her life. But it never came to a
conflict; for where she was, such could not be; yet to his active will,
his repressed emotions, he must give vent, and so it happened every
time he entered the pulpit and saw her seated below. The members of his
church were drawn in with him as in a whirlwind, he excited them, and
soon they him. She saw it, and sought to give rest to her foreboding
heart in deeds of benevolence,----and later, when she became a mother,
in the daughter, on whom she lavished her tenderness, physical and
mental, and bore her to her quiet hours. There she gave, there she
took, there in the child's innocence, she watched over her own great
child, there she held the feast of love, and from there she returned to
him in his strictness, with the united mildness of a woman and a
Christian;--it was impossible for him to say anything that could wound
her then. He might indeed love her above all else on earth, but he grew
more sorrowful, the more he became convinced that he could not help her
in the matter of her salvation. With a mother's quiet right, she
withdrew the child also from his religious instruction; the child's
songs, the child's questions soon became a new and deep source of pain
to him,--and now when his violent agitation had excited him to hardness
in the pulpit, his wife only received him with the greater mildness as
they walked home together. The eyes spoke, but the mouth not a single
word. And the daughter clung to his hand, and looked at him with eyes
that were the mother's.

All sorts of subjects were discussed in this house, only not that which
was the root of all their thoughts. But at length this strain could be
born no longer; she smiled still, it is true; but only because she did
not venture to weep. When the time drew near that the daughter must be
prepared for confirmation, and consequently by the right of his office,
he could draw her as quietly over to his instruction, as hitherto the
mother had held her in hers, the anxiety rose to its height, and after
the Sunday when the noting down of the candidates for confirmation was
announced, the mother became ill, like we are when wearied out. She
said smilingly, that she could not walk any more, and a few days later,
also smilingly, that how she could not sit. Though she could not speak
to the daughter she would yet have her always beside her, for she could
see her. And the daughter knew what she would most like; she read to
her out of The Book of Life, and sang to her the hymns of her
childhood, the new and peaceful hymns of her fellow believers. It was
long before the dean realised what was here preparing; but when he did
realise it, he lost the threads, he could only keep his thoughts to one
point,--to hear her say something to him, just a few words, but she was
not able to do it; she could no longer speak. He stood at the foot of
the bed, and watched, and prayed; she smiled upon him, till he fell on
his knees, took the daughter's hand and laid it in the mother's, as if
he said: "Here, you take her,--with you she shall ever remain!" Then
she smiled as never before,--and in that smile she passed away.

After this, it was long before the dean could be led into conversation;
another was appointed to perform his duties,--he himself wandered from
room to room, from place to place, as though seeking something. He went
about quietly; when he spoke it was in a subdued tone, and it was only
by adopting the whole of this silent method, that little by little, the
daughter could share his society. But now she helped him in his search,
every word of the mother's was recalled,--what she would have wished,
became their guide for the future. The daughter's communion with her,
that to which he himself had been a stranger, was now lived over
again;--all was gone over afresh from the first hour the child could
remember; the mother's hymns were sung, her prayers were prayed, the
sermons she had thought most of, were read over one by one, and her
explanations and observations upon them, lovingly remembered in faith.
Thus roused to activity, he felt a desire to visit the place where he
had found her, there, in the same manner, to follow in her footsteps.
They went, and in making her life entirely his own, he partly
recovered. Himself a new beginner, he took an interest in every new
effort around him, the great, the small, national, political,--which
gave him back much of his own young life. His powers streamed in again,
and with them his longings,--now he would preach the Word so that it
would prepare for life, and not alone for death!

Before he again shut himself in with his beloved work in his mountain
home, he felt a desire to take an enlarged view of the world elsewhere.
They therefore continued their journey further, and had now many
pleasing remembrances.

Among these people lived Petra.




                              CHAPTER IX.

                             APPREHENSIONS.


One Friday, a few days before the Christmas of the third year, the two
girls were sitting together in the evening twilight, and the dean had
just come in with his pipe. The day had passed as most others during
these two years; a walk began the mornings, after breakfast an hour's
practising, next languages or other studies, and then a little
occupation in household duties. In the afternoon, each in her own room,
Signe busy to-day in writing to Odegaard, after whom Petra never
enquired, even as she never would speak of the past. Towards dusk, a
sledge drive, and now they were in, to converse or sing, or later to
read aloud. For this the dean always joined them. He read remarkably
well, and his daughter not less so; Petra learnt the style of both, and
especially their pronunciation. The tone of Signe's voice and accent
was so pleasing to her, that it rang in her ears when she was alone.
Petra held Signe in such high estimation, that the fourth part a man
would have taken for ardent love; she often made Signe blush. By the
dean or Signe reading aloud every evening, (Petra was not to be
persuaded to do it;) they had gone through the chief poets of
Scandinavia, and besides had read many of the best works in foreign
literature; the drama was preferred. Just as they were about to light
the lamps this evening to begin, the kitchen maid came in and said,
that there was some one outside who had a message for Petra. It proved
to be a sailor from her native place; her mother had enjoined him to
seek her, as he was going in that direction, he had now come seven
miles out of his way, and must hasten back, as the vessel would be
sailing. As Petra wanted to talk with him, she went part of the way
along the road, for he was a dependable man whom she knew. The evening
was rather dark, and there was no light from the windows except in the
wash house, where they were having a great wash; there was no light on
the road, and the road itself could scarcely be seen, till the moon
rose over the mountains; but Petra went boldly on into the forest,
though there were weird shadows cast among the branches. One piece of
intelligence especially had enticed her to go with him: the sailor had
told her that Pedro Ohlsen's mother was dead, whereupon he had sold the
house, and moved up to Gunlaug, where he occupied Petra's room. This
was about two years ago, yet the mother had never named a word about
it. Now, however, Petra could judge who it was that had written the
letters for her mother, a question she had often asked, but always in
vain; for every letter concluded with these words: "and a greeting from
the one that writes this letter." The sailor had it in charge to ask
her, how long she was going to stay at the deanery, and what she
intended to do afterwards. Petra replied to the first that she did not
know, and to the second that he must tell the mother, there was only
one thing she wished in the world, and if she did not get it, she would
be unhappy all her life; but just now she could not say what it was.

While Petra was talking to the sailor, the dean and Signe were sitting
in the dining room, talking about her to whom they were both very much
attached. Then the steward came up, and after giving in his report for
the day, he asked, if either of them knew, that the young lady living
with them went up and down from her room by a rope-ladder at nights. He
had to repeat it three times before either of them could conceive what
he meant; for he might as well have told them that she went up and down
on the moonbeams. It was dark in the room, and now it became perfectly
still; not even the sound of the dean's pipe. At length, with a certain
dull clink in his voice, he asked: "Who has seen it?"--"I have; I was
up attending to the horses, it would be about one o'clock."--"She went
down by a rope ladder?"--"And up again."--Again a long silence. Petra
occupied the room above, that looked on to the farm yard; she was alone
there, no one except her had a room on that side of the house, so there
could be no mistake who it was.--"It may have been in her sleep," said
the steward about to withdraw.--"She could not make the rope-ladder in
her sleep," said the dean.--"No, that was what I thought too,
therefore I judged it was best to tell it to him, father; I have not
mentioned it to any one else."--"Is there any one that has seen it
besides you?"--"No,--but if he, father, doubts the matter, let the
rope-ladder itself be the witness; if it is not there, I must have been
wrong."--The dean rose up quickly. "Father!" begged Signe.--"Bring a
light," said the dean in a way that did not allow of any opposition.
Signe lit it herself. "Father!" she begged once more, as she gave it
him.--"Yes, I am her father too, as long as she is in my house; it is
my duty to look into it,"--he went before with the light, Signe and the
steward after.

Everything was in order in the little room; only a whole row of books
lay open on the table in front of the bed, one on the top of the other.
"Does she read at night?"--"I don't know, but she never puts her light
out BEFORE one o'clock." The dean and Signe looked at each other,--they
separated at the deanery about ten or half-past, and they re-assembled
again in the morning at six or seven.--"Do YOU know anything about
it?" Signe did not reply. But the steward who was down on his knees in
the corner, seeking, answered from there: "She certainly is not
alone."--"What is that you are saying?"--"No, there is always some one
with her, talking to her; they often speak very loud; I have heard her
both plead for herself and threaten. She must be in the hand of some
evil power, poor thing!" Signe turned away; the dean had grown deathly
pale.--"And here is the ladder," said the steward, he pulled it out,
and got up. Two clothes lines were fastened together by a third, tied
in a hard knot, then carried across and fastened in a knot about half a
foot below, then back, and so on till the ladder was long enough. They
examined it carefully.--"Was she long away?" asked the dean.--The
steward looked at him, "How, away?"--"Was she long away, when she came
down?"--Signe stood and shivered from fear and cold.--"She did not go
anywhere, she went up again."--"Up again? Then who went away?"--Signe
turned, and burst into tears. "There was not any one with her that
evening, it was yesterday."--"Then there was no one on the ladder
except her?"--"No."--"And she went down and up again directly?"--"Yes."

"She has been proving it then," said the dean, and drew a long breath
as if relieved.--"Yes, before she let any one else go," added the
steward. The dean looked at him: "Then do you mean this is not the
first she has made?"--"No, otherwise how could people have got up to
her?"--"Have you known a long time that some one came to her?"--"Not
before this winter, when she began to burn her lamp at night. It never
struck me before to go down there."--"Then you have known it the whole
winter," said the dean severely; "why have you not told me before?"--"I
thought it was some one belonging to the house that was with her;--but
when I saw her on the ladder last night, it struck me it might be some
one else. If it had struck me before, I should have mentioned it
before."--"Yes,--it is clear enough she has deceived us all!" Signe
looked up imploringly. "She should not have a room so far away from the
others," observed the steward, rolling up the ladder. "She should not
have a room beneath my roof," said the dean, and went; the others
followed.

When he had gone down, and set the light away from him on the table,
Signe came and threw herself into his arms,----"Yes, my child, this is
a fearful disappointment." Shortly after, Signe was sitting in the sofa
corner, with a pocket handkerchief before her eyes, the dean had lit
his pipe, and walked quickly up and down. Suddenly there was a scream
from the kitchen, and they heard the servants run up stairs, and rush
along the passages overhead; they both hastened out: Petra's room was
on fire! A spark must have fallen from the light in the corner, for the
fire had sprung from there, and in a moment blazed along the wall-paper,
and reached the wood work of the window, when it had been observed by
some one passing by, who had run into the wash house and told them about
it. The fire was soon put out; but in the country, where everything has
its even routine from one year's end to another, any sudden interruption
causes great excitement. The fire is their worst, most dangerous enemy,
never out of their thoughts, and when he thus comes in the night,
thrusting his head up over the precipice, and licking greedily after his
prey, they tremble, and do not regain composure for weeks, some not even
for life.

When after this, the dean and his daughter again stood together in the
dining room, the lamps having been lit, they both felt there was
something ominous in the thought, that Petra's room had thus been
destroyed, and all traces of her burnt out. At the same moment, they
heard her clear voice, calling and questioning; she sprang up and down
stairs, ran from the attic to the passage, from the passage to the
kitchen, and finally came rushing in with her things on: "Heavens! my
room is burnt!" No one answered, and in the same breath, she asked:
"Who has been there? When did it happen? How did the fire break out?"
The dean now replied, that it was they who had been there: they had
been looking for something; he gave her a penetrating look. But Petra
did not give the slightest sign of finding this anything wonderful, nor
did she betray any fear for what they could have found. She did not
even suspect anything wrong when Signe did not look up from the sofa;
she attributed it to her fright from the fire, and she never ceased
asking, how it had been discovered, put out, who had got there first,
&c., and as she got no answer quickly, she ran out as she had come in.
But she soon came rushing in again, having partly taken off her things,
and told them how she had seen the light herself, and run so fearfully,
but was so glad now to find it was no worse. So saying, she took off
the rest of her things, carried them out, and coming in again, she
seated herself at the table, talking incessantly, of what this and that
one had said and done, the whole place indeed was turned upside down,
and it was very amusing. As the others continued silent, she expressed
her regret that it had spoilt the evening for them; for she had been
looking forward with so much pleasure to "Romeo and Juliet," which they
were then reading aloud; she was going to ask Signe that very evening
to read that scene over again, that she thought the finest of all: the
parting of Romeo and Juliet on the balcony. In the midst of her
chattering, one of the girls from the wash house came and said that
they were short of clothes lines, there was one bundle missing. Petra
grew suddenly red and got up; "I know where it is, I will go for it,"
she went a few steps, then remembering the fire, she stopped:
"Goodness, it will be burnt! it was in my room!" Signe had turned
towards her, the dean took a full view from the side: "What do you do
with clothes lines?" He breathed heavily, he could scarcely speak.
Petra looked at him, his fearfully grave look made her half afraid, but
the next moment it made her laugh, she strove a minute against it, but
looking at him again, she burst into such a hearty fit of laughter that
she could not stop;--there was no more of a troubled conscience in it,
than in a rippling brook. Signe heard it in her voice and sprang up
from the sofa: "What is it, what is it?"--Petra turned round, laughed
and hopped about, she ran to the door, but Signe stopped the way: "What
is it, Petra, tell me?" Petra ran behind her as if to hide, but
continued to laugh immoderately. No, guilt does not behave so, now the
dean could see that too;--he who stood on the point of bursting into a
rage, hopped down into laughter instead, and Signe after him; nothing
in the world is more catching than laughter, and especially laughter
that is entirely incomprehensible. The vain attempts which now the
dean, now Signe made to get to know what they were laughing at, only
made them laugh the more; the maid, who was standing waiting, at last
could resist it no longer, and began to roar; she had that
extraordinary laughter as though it came from a pit with hoisting and
heaving; she felt, herself, that it did not suit to fine furniture and
people, so she hastened to the door to give free vent to it in the
kitchen. Of course she took the contagion with her there; soon a whole
volley of laughter poured in from the kitchen, where they knew still
less what they were laughing at, and this made the laughter in the
dining room break out anew.

When at last they were almost done up, Signe made a last attempt to get
to know the cause: "Now you must tell me!" she exclaimed, holding
Petra's hands.--"No, not for the world!"--"Yes, but I know what it is!"
she said: "and my father knows as well!" Petra screamed and slipped
loose, but on reaching the door, Signe caught her again, then Petra
turned to free herself, she would get away at any price, she laughed
while she struggled, but there were tears in her eyes; then Signe left
loose,--Petra ran, and Signe after her, till they reached the room of
the latter. There they embraced each other, "Mercy! do you really
know?" whispered Petra.--"Yes, we were up in your room with the
steward, who had seen you,--and we found the ladder!"--Fresh screams,
and fresh flight, but this time only to the sofa corner, where she hid
herself Signe came, and bending over her, she whispered in her ear, all
about their journey of discovery, with its pleasing consequences;--that
which an hour ago had cost her both tears and fears, seemed now so
amusing that she told it with humour! Petra listened and stopped her
ears, looked up and hid herself by turns. When Signe had finished, and
they were sitting together in the darkness, Petra whispered: "Do you
know how it is? It is impossible to sleep at ten o'clock, when we go to
our rooms, that which we have read has far too much power over me. So I
learn it by heart, all the best pieces,--I know several scenes, and
read them aloud to myself. When we came to Romeo and Juliet, it seemed
the most delightful thing upon earth; I grew wild, I must try that with
the rope ladder, I had never thought anyone could go up and down on a
rope ladder.... I got hold of some ropes,--and there that fellow was
standing below and watching me!--Yes, but it is nothing to laugh at,
Signe, it is so boyish, I shall never be anything else than a boy,--and
now to-morrow I shall be a laughing stock for the whole neighbourhood."
But Signe, who had begun to laugh again, kissed her, gave her a
clap, and ran out, saying: "No, I must tell father!"--"Are you mad,
Signe!"--and away they rushed. The dean was just coming out to see what
had become of them, and they nearly knocked him over; Signe told him
the whole story.

After tea where she was duly teased by the dean, Petra, by way of
punishment, was to recite what she knew by heart. It proved to be a
fact that she knew all the most celebrated scenes and not only one part
in them, but all. She recited as if she were reading, now and then she
was almost on fire, but then she would suddenly check herself. The dean
had hardly observed this, before he would have a little more
expression, but it only made her more shy. The recitation continued
several hours; she knew the comic scenes as well as the tragic, the
playful as well as the serious;--her memory both astonished and amused
them, she laughed, and told them only to try her.

"I wish the poor actors had but the eighth part of the memory you
have!" said Signe.--"God preserve her from ever being an actress," said
the dean, at once becoming earnest.--"But father, you don't suppose
Petra has any idea of such a thing?" said Signe laughing: "I have
always observed that any one educated from youth up in the poetry of
his language, has no longing at all to go upon the stage, while those
who do not know much about poetry till they are grown up, revel in the
thought of it, it is the longing of poetry, a longing all at once
awakened in them that impels them."--"That is very true; it is not often
that a really educated person will go upon the stage."--"And still more
seldom one poetically educated," said Signe--"Yes, if it occurs there
is a want in the character, which allows vanity and levity to get the
upper hand. In my travels abroad, and also when studying, I became
acquainted with many actors, but I have never known, and I have never
heard of any one knowing an actor, who led a really Christian life. I
have seen that they have felt themselves called, but there is something
restless and unsatisfying in their occupation; they have found it
impossible to collect themselves--even long after they have left it. If
I have spoken with them about it, they have admitted and lamented it,
but yet they have at once added: 'But we may console ourselves with the
thought that we are not worse than so many others.' But this is what I
call poor consolation. A life that does not in any way build up our
spiritual manhood, is a sinful life. The Lord help them, and may He
keep pure hearts away from it!"

                               *   *   *

The next day, Saturday, the dean as usual was up before seven, went his
morning round among the labourers, and then going further, he returned
in daylight. As he was going past the house to the farm yard, he saw an
open exercise book, or something of the sort, which must have been
thrown out of Petra's window the evening before, and not found, because
it was the colour of the snow. He took up the book, and carried it in
with him to his study; in opening the leaves to dry them, he saw it was
an old French exercise book, in which verses were now written. He never
thought of reading the verses, but he caught sight of the word,
"Actress," written all over,--even in the verses themselves ... He sat
down to examine it.

After repeated erasures and corrections, he came at last to the
following rhyme, which though not copied, could still be read:


           "Come listen my love, and hear me say,
            The longing that fills me from day to day,
            An actress I'll be, and I'll picture true,
            To the world a woman from every view,--
              How she suffers, and how she laughs,
              How she prays, and loves, and chaffs,
              How she is when she is sinful,
              How she is when she is peaceful,
            Oh God, I pray Thee, help Thou me,
            To be the one that I aim to be!"


And a little below the following:


             "May not I be Thy servant, Lord?
              Wilt Thou not Thy help afford?"


Under this, was a verse, in imitation no doubt, of a poem they had read
a few months before:


           "Oh, a river nymph to be,
                        Nymph to be,
            Moonbeams shining full and free,
                        Full and free,
            Glide along, and turn in glee,
                        Turn in glee,
            Death to him who in will see,
                        In will see,
            --No, that would be sin, lirum, larum, ba!--"


And after repeated corrections, marks and notes:


           "Hop, sa, sa,--hop, sa, sa,
            I'll dance with every one, but they'll never catch me, ha!
            Tra, la, la,--tra, la, la,
            Be always number one, but keep them all afar!"


Then distinctly and clearly, the following letter:


"Dearest Henrich,

Don't you think you and I are the best in the whole comedy? It gives us
a great deal of annoyance, but that is nothing; I engrasserer thee to
go to the masquerade with me to-morrow night; for I have never been,
and I long for some real fun; here at home, it is so quiet and lonely.
Du est a great rascal, Henrich,--wherever are you keeping yourself? for
here sits

                                    Your Pernille."


Finally in large letters, written distinctly and several times over,
the following verse; she might have found it somewhere, and wanted to
learn it by heart:


           "In my heart, an inward burning,
            'Tis the Great within me yearning,--
            From the hidden springs to draw,--
            Loki bind in Baldur's law,
            Power to speak with power imbibe,
            High and noble thoughts describe,--
            Thereto help in mercy, Thou
            Who the need awakens now!"


There was a great deal more, but the dean did not read it.

Then it was to be an actress that she had entered his house, and taken
instruction from his daughter. It was with this secret aim, she was so
eager to hear them read aloud, and then afterwards learn by heart. She
had been deceiving them the whole time; even yesterday, when she seemed
to be telling them everything, she was hiding something: when she
seemed to laugh so innocently, she was lying.

O this secret purpose! That which the dean had so often condemned in
her presence, SHE embellished with the calling of God, and dared to ask
His blessing upon it! A life of appulance and frivolity, of jealousy
and passion, of idleness and sensuality, of lies and growing
unprincipledness, a life over which the vultures gather, as over a
carcase, was that to which she longed to attach herself, and prayed God
to consecrate! And it was to this life, that the dean and his daughter
had helped her forward in the quiet parsonage, under the watchful eyes
of the awakened church.

When Signe, bright and cheerful as the winter morning, came in to greet
her father, she found the study entirely filled with tobacco smoke.
This was always a sign of trouble, but especially so early in the
morning. He did not speak a word to her, but gave her the book,--she
saw directly it was Petra's; a shadow of the mistrust and pain of
yesterday, came over her, she dared not look at it; her heart beat so
violently that she was obliged to sit down. But the same word that had
attracted the dean's attention, caught hers too; she must see more, so
she read on. Her first feeling was one of shame--not for Petra,--but
because her father had seen it too.

But she soon experienced the deep mortification, that comes when we
find ourselves deceived by one we love. For a moment, the one who has
been able to do it, seems greater, more ingenious, wiser than we, yea,
he may even glide into the mysterious. But soon the mind is aroused in
indignation; integrity is strengthened by the powers which are not
secret, though they are unseen: we feel able to defy a hundred cunning
devices; we DESPISE, what at first caused us mortification.

Petra had seated herself at the piano in the dining room, and now they
heard her singing:


           "The morning has dawned, and joy to awaken,
            --The forts of despondency stormed and taken,--
            Over the glowing mountain tops,
            The host of the king of daylight drops.
              'Up, up, up,' little birds of the wood,
              'Up, up, up,' little children good,
            And up, my hope with the sun!"


And then a storm swept over the instrument, and out of it burst the
following song:


           "In vain you may plead,
            For my boat I must lead,
            Through the breakers rough,
            To the tempest tough.
   And should it be proved the last push from the shore,
   I must venture what never I ventured before.

            Not for fancy or boast
            Do I leave your coast;--
            I must reach the deep sea,
            And the waves ride free.
   I must e'en see the keel, as she cuts through the wave,
   And thus prove if my vessel knows how to behave!"


No, this was too much for the dean, he snatched the book from Signe's
hand, and rushed to the door; this time she did not hold him back. He
went straight to Petra, threw the book on the piano before her, turned,
and strode across the room; when he came back, she had risen, and
pressing the book to her heart, she looked all round with a confused
expression. He stopped to give her his full mind, but his anger at the
thought that for more than two years he had been made use of by this
wily girl, and especially that his warm-hearted, affectionate daughter
had been duped by her, came so forcibly before him, that he did not at
once find words,--and when he did find them, he felt they were too
hard. After striding once more across the floor, and once more coming
opposite to her, his face scarlet, he turned his back, and without a
word walked into his study. When he came there, Signe was gone.

All that day they kept to their own rooms. The dean dined alone,
neither of the girls appeared. Petra was in the housekeeper's room,
which had been alloted to her since the fire; she sought all over for
Signe to explain to her, but in vain: she could not be at home.

Petra felt this to be a decisive moment in her life. Her most secret
thoughts had slipped from her, and they would try to exert an influence
over them, which she could not bear. She knew best herself, that if she
relinquished this object, she would be driven at the mercy of the
winds. She could be light-hearted with the light-hearted, and
confidential with the confidential, hopeful in everything, but it was
in the strength of that secret purpose,--that some time she would be
able to secure that after which her powers were yearning. To confide in
any one, after that first baulking attempt at Bergen,--no, she could
not do it, not even in Odegaard himself! She must be alone in it, until
her aim had grown so strong, that it could bear to hear the doubts that
would be breathed upon it.

But now it had happened otherwise: the dean's fiery red face
looked continually down upon her scared conscience.--She must save
herself!--She sought for Signe more earnestly and hurriedly in the
afternoon, but still she was not to be found. The longer one whom we
seek hides from us, the greater we depict the cause of separation, and
thus it was, that at last she made herself believe it had been
treachery against Signe, secretly to use her friendship for that which
Signe thought to be a sin. The omniscient God must be her witness, that
this view of her conduct had never struck her before; she felt herself
a great sinner.

Just as before at home, she now stood with the feeling of a great sin
upon her conscience, of which a moment before, she had no suspicion.
That that terrible experience might be repeated, augmented her vague
fear to terror; she saw before her a future of unhappiness. But in
proportion as her own guilt increased, Signe's image stood forth in
purity and disinterested attachment.

It had grown dark, wherever Signe had been she must have got home. She
ran down the passage leading to the wing where Signe's room was; the
door was locked,--a sign that she was there. Her heart beat as she
took hold of the handle, and begged again: "Signe, let me speak to
you!--Signe, I cannot bear it!"--Not a sound; Petra bent down to
listen, and knocked again: "Signe, oh Signe, you don't know how unhappy
I am." No reply; long listening, still none. If one gets no answer, one
doubts at last if anyone is there, even if one knows there is someone,
and if it is dark, one gets afraid. "Signe,--Signe! if you are there,
be merciful,--answer me,--Signe!" All was silence; a cold shiver came
over her. The kitchen door opened, and quick steps were heard in the
court yard below. This gave her a thought, she would go out herself,
get up on the ledge on the wall of the wing, and go round the whole
building to get to the other side where it was very high. She would see
Signe.

It was a bright starlight night, the mountains stood in sharp outline,
the snow sparkled, the dark footpaths only increased the sharpness of
the light; from the road the sledge bells were sounding, she felt
inspirited, and sprang up on the ledge. She tried to hold fast by the
outside boarding of the house, but she lost her balance and fell. Then
she rolled an empty cask against the wall and got up from it on to the
ledge. By moving hands and feet together, she could get about half a
foot at a time; it required a strong hand to keep fast; she could not
get well hold for the boards were scarcely an inch thick. She was
afraid lest any one should see her, for they would naturally connect it
with the rope ladder. If she could but get away from this side that
faced the farm, and out on to the cross wall; but when at last she did
get there, a new danger awaited her; there was nothing before the
windows, and she had to stoop down, in great fear of falling, every
time she passed them. The long wall was very high, but there was a
gooseberry hedge to receive her if she fell; she was not afraid. Her
fingers tingled, her muscles quivered, but on she went. A few steps
more and she would reach the window. There was no light in Signe's
room, and the blind was not drawn down; the moon was shining full in,
so she would be able to see into the farthest corners. This gave her
fresh courage, she reached the window ledge, and at last could get a
full hold and rest; as she got near, her heart began to beat so that it
almost took her breath, but as it only grew worse by waiting, she must
make haste--so she suddenly leaned right against the window. A sharp
cry answered from the room. Signe had been sitting in the sofa corner,
she sprang on to the floor, and with both arms warding off the fearful
apparition, she rushed out of the room.

In a moment Petra realised what her unfortunate freak had done;--this
figure against the window, this thoughtless repulsive boldness--; her
image henceforth would be a constant terror to Signe; she lost
consciousness, and fell with a piercing shriek.

The people in the house had run out on hearing Signe's scream, but
found nothing,--another scream,--the whole farm was astir; they sought,
they called, but in vain; it was purely accidental that the dean came
to look out of the window in Signe's room, and in the moonlight saw
Petra buried in the bushes. It was with great difficulty they could get
her extricated and carried up; she was taken into Signe's room, as the
housekeeper's was cold, she was undressed and put to bed. Some of them
bathed her hands and neck, while others made the room warm, light and
comfortable. When she came to herself, and looked about, she begged to
be left alone.

The quiet comfort of the room, the fine white dimity that draped the
window, dressing table, chairs and bed, reminded her at once of Signe.
She thought of her pure loveliness, her mild voice that flowed milk
white, her delicate feeling for the thoughts of others, her gentle
benevolence. She had shut herself out from all this; she must soon
leave the room, and probably the house. And where to then? She could
not expect a third time to be taken up from the highway, and if she
could, she would not; for it would end only in the same way. No human
being could have confidence in her; whatever the cause, she felt that
it was so. She had not got a step further, she never could get further;
for without the confidence of her fellow creatures, she could not
succeed. How she prayed, how she wept! She fell back and wrung her
hands in an agony of mind, till she was fairly exhausted and slept.

In her sleep, everything became snow white, and by-and-by lofty; she
had never before seen so high and so brilliant a glitter of millions of
stars.




                               CHAPTER X.

                            IS MUSIC LAWFUL?


On awaking she was still in the skies. The thoughts that day poured in
upon her would follow, but were caught and carried away by something
which filled the whole air,--it was the Sabbath bells. She sprang up
and dressed herself, got something to eat in the breakfast room,
wrapped herself warmly up, and hastened away;--never before had she
been so thirsty for the Word of God!

When she arrived, they had just begun, and the door was shut. The dean
was standing in front of the altar, she waited by the door till he had
concluded, and the assistant had removed his gown; she then went up to
the so-called bishop's pew, that stood in the choir, hung with
curtains. The special pew for the minister's family was higher up; but
if there was any one who felt a desire for seclusion, they retired to
the bishop's pew. As Petra reached it, and glided in, she saw Signe
seated at the farthest corner. She retreated a step out, but just then
the dean turned to go from the altar to the vestry; she hastened back
into the pew, and sat as near the door as possible; Signe had put down
her veil. This grieved Petra. She looked over the congregation, crowded
together in the high wooden pews, the men on the right hand, the women
on the left; their breath lay above them like mist in the air; the ice
was inches thick upon the windows, the rudely carved wooden images, the
heavy drawling singing, the people muffled up,--it was all in unison,
harsh and distant,--she thought of the impression nature made upon her
that afternoon she left Bergen; here she was also only a timid
wayfarer.

The dean ascended the pulpit, he too looked severe. His prayer was:
"Lead us not into temptation." We knew that the talents God had given
us, contained in themselves the elements of temptation; but He would be
merciful and not suffer us to be tempted above that we were able to
bear, for this we should always remember to pray;--for only by laying
our talents at His feet, could they be of any real service to us. The
minister enlarged upon the theme, setting forth our double duty--on the
one hand to work out our life's calling according to our talents and
position, and on the other to develope the spiritual life in ourselves,
and in those committed to our care. One must be careful in the choice
of a vocation, for there may be a vocation sinful in itself, and there
may be one that would become so for us,--either because it did not suit
us, or because it suited our lusts and passions. Again: as surely as
everyone should choose a vocation according to his talents, so truly
may a choice both right and good in itself, become a snare to us, if we
allow it to take up all our time and thoughts. Our spiritual life must
not be neglected any more than our duty as parents to our children. We
must be collected in ourselves, that the Holy Spirit may have its
constant work in us; we must plant and guard the good seeds of
Christian life in our children. There is no duty, no pretext, that can
liberate us from this, though the opportunities may vary. And now he
went further--into THEIR calling that sat there, their houses, their
conduct, their opinions. Then he drew examples from other conditions
and nobler occupations, that cast their side rays down upon us.

From the moment the dean waxed warm in the pulpit, he was an entirely
new man to those who knew him only in daily life. Even in appearance,
he was changed; his reserved and powerful face had opened, revealing
the play of thought within; his glance was full, and he looked
earnestly as he set forth the glad tidings of salvation. The shaggy
head stretched itself up like a lion. His voice rolled in thunder, or
struck in short earnest variations, sometimes falling to a gentle tone,
but only again to take new heights. Indeed he could never speak except
in a great room, and with eternity over his thoughts; for his voice had
no harmony till it rose, his countenance no clearness, his thoughts no
striking perspicuity, till they burned with enthusiasm. Not that the
material was first found then, no, if affliction had enriched his soul,
reflection had done so too; he was a diligent worker. But he was not
adapted to general conversation, he must have it to himself, at all
events he must be able to inflect his voice. To open a discussion with
him, was almost like attacking a defenceless man, but dangerous
nevertheless; for his convictions were quickly expressed and with such
force that reasons were left in the back ground; if at last he was
pressed to give them, one of two things happened, either he completely
overset the opposing party, or he became suddenly silent, because he
was afraid of himself. No one could more easily be brought to silence
than this powerful, eloquent man.

Petra had trembled as soon as the dean began his prayer; she felt
whereto it tended. The further he got in his sermon, the more she felt
he was true to himself; she crept together, and she saw Signe do the
same. But he proceeded unrelentingly; the lion was out after his prey,
she felt herself pursued from all quarters, shut in, and captured;--but
that which was seized so vigourously was gently held in the hand of
mercy. It was as if without a word of condemnation, she was simply
folded in the embrace of Divine love. And there she prayed and wept;
Signe did the same,--and she loved her for it!

As the dean descended from the pulpit, to go past into the vestry, the
reflection of his communion with the Most High still overspread his
countenance. His gaze fell directly and inquiringly upon Petra; and as
she looked right up to meet it, a ray of mildness shone forth: he
glanced quickly into the corner at his daughter as he passed on.

Signe rose soon after; her veil was down, so Petra did not venture to
go with her; she therefore waited longer. But at dinner they all three
met together; the dean spoke a little, but Signe was reserved. If the
dean--who was evidently about to bring the recent events into
conversation,--gave the slightest allusion to it, Signe turned his
remarks in a shy delicate way, reminding him at once of her mother;--he
became silent, and by degrees sorrowful.

There is nothing more painful than an unsuccessful attempt at
reconciliation. They rose without being able to look at each other, to
return thanks for the meal. In the dining room it became at last so
oppressive, that all three would willingly have left the room, but no
one wished to go first. Petra for her part, felt that if she went, it
would be for ever. She could not see Signe again, if she might not love
her, she could not bear to see the dean sorrowful for her sake. But if
she was to go away, she must go without taking leave; for how could she
take leave of these people? The mere thought of it agitated her so,
that she could with the greatest difficulty suppress it.

An oppressive silence like this, when each is waiting for the other,
becomes more insupportable every moment. We cannot move, because we
feel it will be noticed, every sigh is heard, and if we are quite still
it is heard too, for it is heard as harshness. We are kept in suspense
because no one says anything, and we tremble lest any one should
begin.--They all felt this to be a moment that would never return.--The
walls that we build up between each other rise higher, our own guilt
and that of the others increases with every breath; now we are in
desperation, now in wroth; for the one that behaves so to us is
unmerciful, wicked, we don't tolerate THAT, we don't forgive THAT!
Petra could not bear it longer, she must either escape or scream.

But just then sledge bells were heard on the road, a man with a wolf
skin coat dashed by, and turned in at the farm.--All breathed easier,
and listened for the liberation. They heard the stranger in the hall,
he put off his travelling coat and boots, and talked with the servant
who assisted him; the dean rose to meet him, but turned so as not to
leave the two girls alone,--they heard the stranger talking again, and
this time nearer, so that his voice made all three look up, and Petra
rose, fixing her eyes on the door,--there was a knock,--"Come in!" said
the dean in an agitated tone; a tall gentleman with a light complexion
and spectacles appeared in the doorway, Petra gave a scream, and
fainted--it was Odegaard. He was expected at the deanery at Christmas,
although no one had told Petra, but that he should come just at this
juncture, must have been in the ordering of Providence; this was felt
at once, and by them all.

When Petra recovered consciousness, he was standing beside her, and
held her hand. He continued to hold it, but said nothing, nor did she;
she was powerless even to rise. But while she continued looking at him,
two tears rolled down her cheeks. He was very pale, but quite calm and
kind; he withdrew his hand, and walked across the floor; then he went
to Signe, who had crouched down among her mother's flowers in the
furthest window.

Petra longed to be alone, and so withdrew. Domestic matters required
Signe's attention, so the dean and Odegaard repaired to the study, to
take a glass of wine, of which the traveller stood in need. Here he was
briefly told the events of the last few days, it made him very
thoughtful but he said nothing. They were interrupted in a singular
way.

Two women and three men came past the windows, following one after the
other; as soon as the dean caught sight of them, he sprang up: "There
they are again!--now for a trial of patience."--In they came, first the
women, then the men, slowly, silently. They placed themselves along the
wall under the book shelves, opposite the sofa where Odegaard was
seated. The dean set chairs, and brought others from the next room;
they all took seats with the exception of a young man in a modern suit
who declined, and leaned against the door post, not without a defiant
expression and with both hands in his pockets.

After a long silence, during which the dean filled his pipe, and
Odegaard who did not smoke surveyed the visitors, the conversation was
at length opened by a pale light-haired woman of about forty. Her
forehead was rather narrow, her eyes large, but shy; they did not
know exactly which way to turn. "The father gave an excellent sermon
to-day," she said, "it touched upon what we were just thinking
about;--for up at Oygarene we have been talking much about temptation
lately."--She sighed; a man with a small face and large forehead sighed
also: "'Take away mine eyes from beholding vanity, O Lord, and quicken
thou me in thy way.'" Then Else, she who had first spoken, sighed again
and said: "Lord, wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way? by
taking heed thereto according to Thy word."--It seemed rather strange,
for she was no longer young. But a middle aged man who sat with his
head to one side, rocking backwards and forwards, his eyelids never
really lifted, said as if half asleep:


           "Temptation, Satan's fiery dart,
            None is exempt from sharing--
            Who taketh part in Jesu's death,
              The name of Christ thus bearing."


The dean knew them too well not to be aware that this was only the
introduction, so he waited as if nothing had been said, although there
was again a long silence with repeated sighs.

A little woman, who became still less by stooping, and was enveloped in
such a manifold number of shawls that she looked like a parcel,--her
face almost lost,--now began to move uneasily in her chair, and at last
a "hm, hm!" was heard. The light-haired woman was at once frightened
up, and said: "There is an end to all music and dancing in Oygarene
now;----but----" She stopped again, whereupon Lars, he with the great
forehead and the short face, continued:--"But there is one man, Hans
the musician, who WILL NOT give it up."--While Lars was thinking of the
rest, the young man came out with it: "Because he knows that the dean
has an instrument to which they both dance and sing at the deanery
here."--"It certainly cannot be greater sin for him than it is for the
dean," said Lars.--"And the music must be a temptation at the deanery
too," said Else cautiously, as if to help the matter forward. But the
young man added more strongly: "It is a stumbling block to the young,
as it is written: 'And whosoever shall offend one of these little ones,
it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and
he were cast into the sea.'" And Lars continued: "We request therefore
that you will send away the instrument, or burn it up, that it may
cease to be a stumbling block--" "To your parishioners," added the
young man. The dean smoked vigorously, and at last with an evident
struggle for self command, he said: "To me music is not a temptation,
it is refreshing and elevating. Now you know that that which can make
our spirits free, makes us better able to receive and understand high
things; therefore I believe most assuredly that music is of service to
me."--"And I know there are pastors," said the young man, "who
following the words of Paul, will nevertheless give it up for the sake
of their parishioners."--"It may be that I understood his words so
once," replied the dean, "but I do not now. One may well give up a
custom or a pleasure; but one must with reluctance make oneself
narrow-minded or foolish with those that are such. I should not be
acting wrongly towards myself only, but also towards those to whom I
should be a guide; for I should be giving an example against my
convictions." It was seldom that the dean gave so long an explanation
out of the pulpit. He added: "I will neither send away my piano, nor
burn it; I will hear it often for I often feel the need of it,--and I
wish that in all innocence you also could now and then refresh your
spirits by song, and music and dancing; for I believe these things to
be right and proper."

The young man bent his head to one side: "Twi!" spat he.

The dean's face grew scarlet, and deep silence ensued. Then the man
rocking, with a loud voice struck in:


            "O Lord, my God, I can testify,
              His cross in patience bearing,
            With poor and rich, with women and men,
              'Tis a cause of anxious wearing;
            For flesh and blood as frail and weak,
              We all alike are sharing.----"


Then Lars said in a mild tone: "So you say that music and singing and
dancing are right, do you? then it is right to rouse Satan through the
senses; hm!--so that is what our pastor says; very well then, we know
it now!--that all these things connected with idleness and sensuality
are elevating and helpful, ... that that which is a temptation is
right!" But now Odegaard,--who saw by the dean's face that things were
going wrong,--hastened to interpose: "Tell me, my good man, what there
is, that is NOT a temptation?"

All looked at him from whom these pointed and terse words came. The
question was in itself so unexpected, that Lars could not at once tell
what to reply; nor could the others. Then it sounded up as from a well,
or out of a cellar: "Labour is not."--The voice came from the bundle of
shawls, it was Randi, who spoke for the first time. An exulting smile
came over Lars' face, the light-haired woman looked at her with a
satisfied air, even the young man leaning against the door post for a
moment lost the sneering curl of his lip. Odegaard understood that this
was the head, although it was not to be seen. He therefore turned
himself to her: "What can that labour be, that is without temptation?"
She would not answer this, but the young man replied: "The curse says:
'In the sweat of thy brow, shalt thou eat thy bread;' labour then that
brings us toil and trouble." "And nothing but toil and trouble? No
profit for example?"--To this neither would he reply; but the short
face felt a calling: "Yes, as much profit as one can get!"--"Then there
must be temptation in work also, temptation to too much gain." In this
strait, succour came again from the depths: "Then the gain is the
temptation and not the work."--"Well, but how is it when the work is
carried to excess for the sake of the gain?" She crept in again;
but Lars went on: "What do you mean by the work being carried to
excess?"--"Why, when it makes you like animals and binds you in
thraldom."--"Thraldom it has to be!" said the advocate of the
toil.--"But can it as thraldom lead to God?"--"Labour IS the worship
of God!" shouted Lars.--"Dare you say that of ALL your labour?" Lars
was silent. "No, be reasonable and admit that for the sake of gain,
labour may be carried to excess, as if we lived only for it. Therefore
labour also has its temptation."--"Yes, there is temptation in
everything, children,--there is temptation in everything!" said the
dean as he rose, and put out his pipe as if in conclusion! Sighs issued
from the bundle of shawls, but no reply.

"Listen," began Odegaard again,--and the dean filled himself a new
pipe--"now if labour yields fruit, i.e. profit, then we have certainly
liberty to enjoy that fruit? If it should become riches, have we then
liberty to enjoy these riches?"--This set them thinking, they looked
from one to the other. "I shall answer, while you are thinking," said
he; "God must have permitted us to try to make a blessing of his curse,
for HE HIMSELF led the patriarchs, led His people to the enjoyment of
riches."--"The apostles were to possess nothing," exclaimed the young
man triumphantly.--"Yes, that is true; for God would place them
beyond and above all human conditions, that they should look only to
Him;--they were called!"--"We are all called!"--"But not in the same
way;--are YOU called to be an apostle?"--The young man turned deadly
pale, his eyes retreated under the wall of forehead above them: he must
have his reasons for taking it so to heart.

"But the rich must also work," observed Lars; for work is God's
command.--"Certainly he must, although his aim and method may be
different, each one has his own task. But tell me: shall a man be
ALWAYS at work?"--"He must also pray!" chimed in Else, and folded her
hands, as if she remembered that she had too long neglected it.--"Then
whenever a man is not working; he must pray? Is any man able to do
this? What kind of prayer would it be, and what kind of work? Shall he
not also rest?"--"We must rest only when we can do no more; for then we
shall not be tempted by evil thoughts,--ah! then we shall not be
tempted!" said Else again,--and Erik joined in:


           "If ye are weary seek and find
            In Jesu's name a peaceful mind,
              How sweet is rest!
            There comes a time when also ye
            To the last resting place will flee,
              An earthy nest!----"


"Be quiet, Erik, and listen to this," said the dean. And Odegaard
knitted his eyebrows: "See here: labour has its fruit, and requires its
rest: and it is my opinion respecting society, music, singing, and the
rest, that they are not only the sweet fruit of our labours, but they
also give rest and strength to the soul."

Here there was restlessness in the camp; all looked at Randi; she
rocked and rocked, and at last it sounded slowly and quietly: "Worldly
song, and music and dancing, afford no rest, for such excite the lust
and desires of the flesh. THAT certainly cannot be the fruit of labour,
which wastes and enervates."--"Ah! such things are full of temptation!"
said Else with a sigh. This put Erik in mind of the verse of a hymn:--


           "We see with shame and sorrow,
            From virtue fain to borrow
            The vices that abound
            Increasingly are found;
            They craftily ensnare
            And with a pompous air----"


"Be quiet Erik!" said the dean; "you are only rambling."--"Oh well,
that may be," said Erik--and began again:--


           "If one will work upon you so
            With ticing words that you shall go
            In the broad, cursed way of sin,
            Be strong, permit him not to win--"


"No, do give over Erik! The hymn is nice enough, but everything in its
own time."--"Yes, yes, father, that is true,--everything in its own
time:--


           "Oh I every minute, every hour
            Is Thine, it is Thy due,
            Our hearts must beat to own Thy power,
            And call to prayer anew--"


"No, no, Erik, or prayer itself would lead into temptation; you might
become a Catholic, and go into the monastery--"--"God forbid!" said
Erik, and opened his eyes wide, then shutting them, he began:


           "As earth and dust to pure gold,
              Are Catholics--"


"Now Erik if you can't be quiet, you must go out with the rest of it.
Where was it we left off?" But Odegaard, much to his amusement had been
following Erik, and could not remember. Then it came peacefully from
the shawls: "I was saying that THAT cannot give rest or be the fruit
of our labours, that--"--"Now I remember: that there was temptation
in,--and then Erik came and proved that there may also be temptation in
prayer. Let us therefore see, what these things may lead to. Have you
ever observed that cheerful men work better than the dejected? Why?"

Lars caught the drift of this: "It is religion that makes us cheerful,"
he said.--"Yes, when it is not desponding; but have you never seen that
there is a religion that makes everything so gloomy, that the world
itself is like a prison?"

Else was sighing so, that the shawls began to move, Lars also looked
sharply at her, and she gave over.--Odegaard continued: "Always the
same, whether it is work, prayer, or play, makes you stupid and gloomy.
You may grovel in the earth till you become an animal, pray till habit
makes you a monk, and play till you are nothing better than a doll. But
combine them and the mind is strengthened; work prospers, and religion
becomes more cheerful."--"Then we have to be cheerful now!" said the
young man, and smiled.--"Yes, and then you too would win sympathy: for
it is only when we are cheerful, that we can see and admire the good in
others, and only by loving others that we can love God."

As no one at once contradicted this, Odegaard made a second attempt to
bring the bundle to the point; "Those things that disenthral, so that
the Holy Spirit can work in us, (for in bondage He cannot work) those
things that assist us, must have a blessing in them,--and that this
does." The dean rose, he had again a pipe to put out.

In the silence which followed, unbroken by sighs, one could see the
shawls working, and at last there issued softly: "It is written:
'Whatsoever thou doest, do all to the glory of God,'---but is worldly
song, and music and dancing to the glory of God?" "Directly, no;--but
may we not ask the same when we eat and sleep and dress? And yet these
MUST be done. The meaning therefore can only be, that we shall do
nothing that is sinful."--"Yes, but is not this sinful?"

For the first time Odegaard grew a little impatient, and he merely
replied: "We see in the bible, that both singing and music and dancing
were used."--"Yes, to the glory of God."--"Very well,--to the glory of
God. But the reason why the Jews named GOD in everything, was because,
like children, they had not learnt to make distinctions. To children,
every man they do not know is 'the man,'--to the child's question,
'Where does, this come from, where that?' we answer always: 'from God';
but as men to men we name the intermediate as well, and not God the
giver alone. So, for example, a beautiful song may relate to God, or
lead to Him, even if His name never occurs in it; for there is much
that points thither, although not directly. Our dancing, when it is the
pure healthful enjoyment of the innocent, is, even if not directly, to
the praise of Him who has given us health, and loveth the child in our
hearts."

"Hear that, hear that!" said the dean; he knew that he himself had long
misunderstood these things, and misrepresented them to others.

All this time, Lars had been sitting and thinking, now he was ready;
the corn had fallen from the high forehead, to the short peevish face;
there it had been crushed and ground, and now fell out: "Then all sorts
of stories, tales, and nonsense,--all the fiction and invention that
they fill the books with now-a-days, are they also allowable? Is it not
written: 'Every word that proceedeth out of thy mouth shall be truth?'"

"I really thank you for this. You see it is with the mind as with the
house you dwell in. If it was so narrow that you could scarcely get
your head in and your legs stretched out, you would be obliged to widen
it. And fiction elevates the mind and enlarges it. If those ideas were
falsehood that are above absolute necessity, then those which ARE
absolute necessity would surely become falsehood too. They would thus
press you down in your house of clay that you would never reach
eternity, and yet it was just there you wished to be, and it was these
very same thoughts, that in faith should bear you thitherward."--"But
fiction is something that has verily never been, and so it must surely
be falsehood?" said Randi thoughtfully.--"No, it has often greater
truths for us than that which we see," answered Odegaard. Here they all
looked at him doubtfully, and the young man threw out: "I never knew
before that the story of Askeladden was truer than that which I see
before my eyes."--They all tittered.--"Then tell me if you always
understand that which you see before your eyes?"--"I am not learned
enough for that!"--"Oh, the learned certainly understand it still less!
I mean those things in daily life that give us sorrow and trouble, and
that 'worry us sore,' as the saying is. Are there not such things?"
He did not reply, but from the bundle it sounded earnestly: "Yes,
often."--"But if you heard a fictitious history, that resembled
your own in such a way, that as you heard it, you understood your
own,--would you not say of this story,--which gave you the comfort and
encouragement that understanding gives--would you not say that it had
greater truth for you than your own?"--"I once read a story," said
Else, "that helped me so in a great sorrow, that that which had long
been a trouble seemed almost a joy." It coughed from the bundle;--"Yes,
that is true," she added timidly.

But the young man would not agree to this; "Can the story of Askeladden
be a comfort to any one?"--"Everything has its own use. The amusing has
great power, and this story proves in an amusing way, that that which
the world thinks the least of may often be the best,--that everything
assists him who is of good cheer, and that that man gets on, who
makes up his mind to do so. Do you not think that it does many children
good to remember it;--and many grown people with them?"--"But to
believe in hobgoblins and trolls is surely superstitious?"--"Who said
you must believe in them? They are figures of speech."--"But we are
forbidden to use figures and images; for they are the wiles of the
devil"--"Indeed;--where do you find that?"--"In the Bible."--Here the
dean interposed: "No, that is a mistake, for the Bible itself uses
imagery."--All looked at him, "It employs imagery on all sides, as the
Eastern people abound in such. We ourselves use it in our churches, in
wood, on canvas, in stone, and we cannot conceive of the Godhead except
through imagery. And not this alone: Jesus uses figures, and did not
the Lord Himself appear in varied forms, when He made Himself known
unto the prophets; was it not in the form of a traveller that he came
to Abraham in Mamre, and ate at his table? Now if GOD HIMSELF appears
in varied forms, and uses imagery, surely man may do the same," They
were about to assent, but Odegaard rose and gently tapping the dean on
the shoulder: "Thank you! you have shewn most conclusively from the
Bible, that the drama is allowable!"--The dean started in surprise; the
smoke which he had in his mouth coursed slowly out of itself.

Odegaard went across to the bundle of shawls, and bent over to try to
catch a glimpse of her face, but in vain, "Is there anything more you
would like to ask," said he, "for you seem to have thought over several
things?"--"Oh, the Lord help me, I do not think always right."--"Well;
at first after the grace of conversion, one is so absorbed by its
wonders, that other things appear useless and wrong; one is like a
lover, desiring only the beloved."--"Yes, but look at the early
Christians, we must still follow their example."--"No, their difficult
position among the heathen is no longer ours; we have other duties; we
must bring Christianity into the life that now is."--"But there is so
much in the Old Testament against the whole spirit of what you say,"
said the young man, for the first time without bitterness.--"Yes, but
those commands are now dead, they are 'done away,' as Paul says: 'We
are the ministers of the New Testament; not of the letter, but of the
spirit':--again: 'Where the spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.'
And:----'All things are needful unto me,' says Paul further, 'but,' he
adds, 'all things are not expedient.'--Now we are fortunate in having a
man's life before us, that shows us what Paul meant. That is Luther's.
Of course you believe that Luther was a good enlightened Christian?"
Yes, they believed that.--"Luther's religion was cheerful, IT was the
religion of the new testament. His idea of a gloomy faith was, that the
devil was always on the watch behind it; and as for fear of temptation,
those that fear the least are the least tempted. He used all the powers
God had given, the powers of enjoyment too. Shall I give you a few
examples? The pious Melancthon once sat so closely at a defence of the
true doctrines, that he did not take time to eat; Luther snatched the
pen from his hand: 'One does not serve God by work alone,' said he,
'but also in rest and quietness; therefore God gave us the third
commandment and instituted the Sabbath.'--Again, Luther used figures of
speech, the facetious as well as the serious, and he was full of good,
often merry ideas. He also translated some excellent old popular tales
into his mother tongue, and said in the preface, that next to the
Bible, he scarcely knew any better admonitions than these. He played
the lute, as perhaps you may know, and sang with his children and
friends,--not psalms only, no, but lively old songs too; he was fond of
social games, played at chess, let the young people dance at his house;
he desired only that all should be modestly and well conducted.--A
simple old disciple of Luther's, pastor Johan Mathesius wrote this
down, and gave it to his parishioners from the pulpit. He prayed that
it might be a guide to them,--and let us pray for the same."

The dean rose: "Dear friends, now we will conclude for to day." All
rose up. "Many words have been spoken for our edification; may God
grant His grace upon the seed sown! Dear friends, your homes are in
remote parts; you live high up, where the frost more often cuts down
the corn than the sickle. Such desolate mountain places ought not to be
cultivated, and ought now to be left to tradition, and the grazing
cattle. Spiritual life can scarcely flourish up there, it becomes
gloomy like the surrounding vegetation. Life is overshadowed by
prejudice,--as by the mountains under which they grow up. The Lord
gather, the Lord enlighten!--I thank you for this day my friends, it
has been a day of enlightenment for me also." He shook hands with each
of them, and even the young man gave his cordially, yet without raising
his eyes.

"You go over the mountain,--when will you reach home?" asked the dean
when they were ready to go.--"Oh, to-night sometime," said Lars; "a
good deal of snow has fallen now, and where it has blown off, there are
ice-banks."--"Well, my friends, it is worthy of all honour to come to
church under such difficulties.--I trust you will get home safely now!"
Erik answered in a low tone:


           "Is God for me, whate'er there is
              That will against me fall,
            I can with prayer, and joyfully,
              Tread under foot it all!"


"That is true, Erik, this time you have hit the mark!"--"Yes, but wait
a moment," said Odegaard just as they were going; "it is not strange
that you do not know me;--but I should have relations up at
Odegardene." They all turned to him, even the dean, who had known,
it is true, but quite forgotten it. "My name is Hans Odegaard,
son of Pastor Knud Hansen Odegaard, who once left you, long ago, with
his knapsack on his back."--Then it sounded from the shawls:
"Goodness,--that is my brother, that."--

They had all gathered round him, but no one was able to say anything.
At last Odegaard asked: "Then it was with you I was staying when I was
once up there with my father?"--"Yes, it was with me."--"And a little
while with me," said Lars; "your father is my cousin."--But Randi
said sorrowfully: "So this is little Hans;--yes, time goes."--"How is
Else?" asked Odegaard.--"This is Else," said Randi, pointing to the
fair-haired woman.--"Are YOU Else!" he exclaimed; "you were in trouble
about a love affair then; you wanted to have the musician; did you get
him?" No one replied. Although it was beginning to darken, he could see
that Else turned very red, and the men looked either away or down--with
the exception of the young man, who looked fixedly at Else. Odegaard
saw that he had put an unfortunate question, the dean came to his
assistance, "No, Hans the musician is unmarried; Else married Lars'
son, but now she is free again, she is a widow."--Again she blushed
scarlet, the young man saw it, and smiled haughtily.

Then Randi said: "Well, I suppose you have travelled far? you have
learnt a good deal I can hear."--"Yes, hitherto I have been either
reading or travelling; but now I mean to settle down to work."--"Well,
well; that is the way:--some go out and get light and wisdom; others
remain at home." And Lars added: "It is often hard to make a living at
home; if we help one forward, whom we hope may be of service to us, he
goes and leaves us."--"There are different callings; each must follow
his own," said the dean.--"And the Lord sums up our work," said
Odegaard; "my father's labours will yet tend hither again, if God
will."--"Well, I suppose they will;" said Randi sadly; "but it is often
hard to wait."

They departed; the dean placed himself in one window, and Odegaard in
the other to look after them, as they went over the mountain; the young
man went last. Odegaard learnt that he was from the town, where he had
begun with several things, but had always some misunderstanding with
the people. He thought himself called to be something great, an apostle
in sooth; but strangely enough he remained up at the hamlet of
Odegaard,--some thought from love to Else. He was a passionate soul,
who had passed through many disappointments, and had many more to come.

They were now to be seen on the mountain; the roof of the barn hid them
no longer. They laboured on, the trees hid them, they came forth again,
ever higher and higher. There was no track in the deep snow, the trees
were the way-marks in the waste, and far away to the side the snow
mountains indicated the direction of their home.

In from the dining room sounded a lively prelude, and then:


           "My song I give to the spring,
            Though she scarce is on the wing,
            My song I give to the spring,
            As longing on longing laid.
            So the two unite their aid
            To lure and tice the sun,
            That old winter overcome,
            May slip a choir of brooks;--
            Then with their merry looks
            They'll chase him out of the air
            With the perfume of flowers rare,--
            My song I give to the spring."




                              CHAPTER 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.




                              CHAPTER XII.

                               THE SCENE.


One evening just before Christmas the theatre of the metropolis was
sold out; a new actress was to appear, about whom there were the
greatest expectations. Sprung from the people--her mother was a poor
fisherwoman--she had reached her present position by the help of others
who had discovered her talents, and she gave great promise. In the time
before the curtain rose, all sorts of things were whispered about her;
she was said to have been a strange unruly child, and later when grown
up, to have been betrothed to six at one time, and to have kept it
going for half a year. The town was in such an uproar on her account,
that she had had to be conducted out of it by a guard of police; it was
remarkable that the director should allow such a character to appear.
Others affirmed there was not the slightest truth in the statement; she
had been educated in a clergyman's family in Bergen's shire, from the
time she was ten years old; she was a cultivated and amiable girl, they
knew her well, she must have wonderful talent; she was so handsome.

Others were there who were better authority. First the well-known fish
merchant, Yngve Vold. He had come here accidentally on a business
journey; it was said that the brilliant Spanish lady, to whom he was
married, made the house at home so hot, that he travelled merely to
cool himself. He had taken the largest box in the house, and invited
his hotel acquaintances to go with him to see "something, devilish
something!" He was in remarkable spirits, till he suddenly caught sight
of----could it be he?----in a box in the second tier and with a whole
ship's company round him?----no! yes!----verily it was Gunnar Ask!
Gunnar Ask who through his mother's money had become owner and captain
of "The Norwegian Constitution," had in cruising out of the fiord come
to sail side by side with a ship bearing the name: "The Danish
Constitution," and as Gunnar thought he observed it trying to pass him,
such certainly could not be permitted; he put out all the sail he
possessed, the old Constitution creaked, and the consequence was, that
in his endeavour to scud before the wind as long and as far as
possible, he ran the ship aground in a most preposterous place, and was
now reluctantly detained in the town while the vessel was being patched
up. One day he met Petra in the street, and she was so thoroughly kind
both then and afterwards, that he not only forgot his grudge, but
called himself the greatest fool that ever sailed from their native
place, that he could ever have imagined himself worthy of such a girl
as Petra. To-day he had taken tickets at a premium for the whole of his
crew, and mentally resolved to treat them between each act, and the
seamen, all from Petra's native place, and familiar with the mother's
tavern, that earthly paradise, felt Petra's honour to be their own, and
sat and promised each other that they would applaud as had never been
heard before.

Down below in the parquet one could see the dean's thick bristly hair.
He looked calm, he had entrusted her cause to a Higher Power. By his
side sat Signe, now Signe Odegaard. Her husband, herself and Petra, had
just returned from a three month's tour on the continent; she looked
happy, as she sat and smiled over to Odegaard, for between them sat an
old woman with snow-white hair, that rose above her brown face like a
crown; sitting higher than everybody, she could be seen from the whole
house, and soon every opera glass was directed towards her, for it was
said she was the young actress's mother. She who bore a man's name, now
also produced so powerful an impression, that she shed peace over the
daughter. A youthful people is full of expectancy, it possesses faith
in the inner power of its nature, and the faith was roused by the sight
of this mother? She herself saw neither anything nor anybody; she was
indifferent as to what was coming; she was there only to see whether
people were kind to her daughter or not.

The time was almost up; conversation died away in the suspense that by
degrees pervaded all, and did them good.

A flourish of drums, trumpets and horns, suddenly opened the overture;
Oehlenschläger's "Axel and Valborg" was to be played, and Petra had
herself chosen this. She was sitting behind the scenes and listening.

Before the curtain, the small number of her countrymen that the house
could muster, were trembling on her account, as one always does when
expecting anything personally dear of one's own to be brought forward.
It was as if each were about to appear on the stage himself; at such
moments many prayers arise, even from hearts that otherwise seldom
pray.

The overture grew softer, peace fell over the harmonies, they melted
gradually away as in sunlight. It was over,--anxious silence ensued.

                           The curtain rose.



                               FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Norwegian idiom, to get a long nose--to be
disappointed.--Tr.]

[Footnote 2: The farms are often built on a steep mountain side.--Tr.]



                           *   *   *   *   *
                    BURNETT AND HOOD, MIDDLESBROUGH.





                                 OVIND:

                   A STORY OF COUNTRY LIFE IN NORWAY,

                                   BY

                         BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON,

                             TRANSLATED BY

                          S. AND E. HJERLEID.

                     _Elegantly bound, Crown 8vo_.

                    LONDON: SIMPKIN MARSHALL AND CO.

                   MIDDLESBROUGH: BURNETT AND HOOD.

                               *   *   *

                         NOTICES OF THE PRESS.

"We drop from fairy land to one almost as attractive in _Ovind_....
There is about it a delightful freshness."--_Athenæum_, Nov. 20, 1869.

"_Ovind_ is thoroughly simple and genuine, a word-painting wonderfully
like those Scandinavian pictures which most of us saw for the first
time in the Exhibition of 1862.... Its subdued harmonious tones have a
singular charm about them, and leave a very distinct impression."--_The
Spectator_, Dec. 25, 1869.

"The tale is told in simple language with many quaint touches of
humour."--_Daily Telegraph_, Dec, 24, 1869.

"The story relates simply, but very beautifully, the young loves of a
peasant boy and a landowners grand-daughter, and introduces in the
course of the narrative very many Norwegian customs."--_Public
Opinion_, Dec. 11, 1869.

"The great merits of Björnson's literary style are his intense
originality and unfaltering simplicity. All his writings are thoroughly
true to nature, while the sombre scenery of his native land inspires
him with a diction which we meet with in no other books, and is
entirely his own."--_The Examiner and London Review_, Jan. 1, 1870.

"One of the most winning little stories we have ever read."--_The
Literary Churchman_, Nov. 29, 1869.

"The translators are to be congratulated upon their successful
rendering of the story, the publishers have also got up the book in a
highly creditable manner. Altogether the translation is well worthy of
all who are interested in Scandinavian literature."--_Iron and Coal
Trades Review_, Dec. 22, 1869.

"Opens to us a field of freshness and beauty which never loses its
charm for readers of all ages."--_Standard_, Jan. 26, 1870.

"It is not for the novelty of the story so much as for the fresh vivid
picture it presents of peasant life in Norway that we commend the book
to the English reader."--_Trubner's American and Oriental Literary
Record_, Dec. 24, 1869.

"This is a charmingly simple and beautiful story ... It is as real as
actual life, and as poetical as Milton's Paradise, not great with
ponderous thoughts, but running over with exquisite poetry, suggesting
new worlds of beauty lying under every day things.... A pure spiritual
beauty, which the author has drawn from the simplest outward things in
peasant life, lies over all the story, and bathes everything in the
cool calm light of heaven."--_The Border Advertiser_, Dec. 19, 1869.

"The book is indeed redolent of country pastures, of sweet smelling
pine woods, of happy, glad, unsophisticated Northern life.... It
touches chords lying hidden in the depths of the mysteries of race and
language, and moves us as, perhaps, no book of the warm but alien south
could succeed in doing."--_Northern Daily Express_.

"The story has enough of originality, and of the foreign element, to
make it quite worthy of translation and of general acceptance."--_The
Illustrated London News_, July 23, 1870.

"We cannot speak too highly of the excellence of this translation. It
reads as if it had been originally written in English."--_The
Manchester Weekly Times_, June 11, 1870.




                       THE NEWLY-MARRIED COUPLE:

                                   BY

                         BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON.

                     TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN

                         BY S. AND E. HJERLEID.

                      _Price 1s; Cloth bound 2s_.

                        LONDON: TRÜBNER AND CO.

                               *   *   *

                                 MUSIC.

                       THE WEDDING IN HARDANGER.

                         (Arranged as a Solo.)

Words by Munch. Translated from the Norwegian, by S. and E. Hjerleid.
Music by Kjerulf.

(The Song by which the Swedish Singers won the Prize at the Paris
Exhibition of 1867.)

_1s. 6d. post free from the Translators, North Ormesby, Middlesbrough_.

                LONDON: F. PITMAN, 20, PATERNOSTER ROW.




                               *   *   *
                  BURNETT AND HOOD, PRINTERS, MIDDLESBROUGH.










End of Project Gutenberg's The Fisher Girl, by Björnstjerne Björnson